#no references used we die like harrow

[hhhhleb]

Not so long ago this little plot came into my head: little Jake is an absolute car genius HAHAHA he can completely take apart a whole car and put it back together correctly! He knows the names of every single detail, and he's extremely skilled in mechanics in general! The ultimate car nerd.. Imagine the surprise when MK system have a badly broken car in the middle of nowhere and Jake’s just: oh u idiotas give me the body And just fixes everything in seconds Marc&Steven’s honest reaction:😮😮

also! it's Marc's car, but it's still working ONLY because of Jake HAHA every time Mark destroyed this poor machine, Jake just stepped in and did mechanic miracles to it.. Marc always thought that it's just a really good car that's it……

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 5: Turn Off The Lights And Turn Off The Shyness]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, Otto being the worst (per usual), violence, serious injury, cryptic Helaena prophecies, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), dragons, demented flirting, a late-night surprise, Larys Strong returns. 😞

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Of All The Gin Joints In All The World” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.3k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

The sun would burn him, but moonlight is kind. You’re on the balcony of Aegon’s bedchamber, two chairs, two cups of wine, another full pitcher on the table between you, a glass bottle of warm rose oil like amber, like gold, freckled with curled ruby petals. You’re dressed in your usual attire, simple designs and neutral colors, greys and creams and dusky pinks; tonight your gown is a flat, inky blue that matches the night sky. Aegon is wearing his unpretentious cotton trousers—stained with splotches of pomegranate juice, his recompense before you allowed him the wine—and a tiny braid in his shaggy, silver hair.

“I look like your house’s sigil,” Aegon says as he massages rose oil onto his forearms, his palms moving in large sloppy circles over a patchwork of scar tissue; you would do a better job, but he says he wants to learn how to care for his wounds on his own. His dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—gleams in the cool, ghostly moonshine. His words are teasing, but his tone is dark, troubled, weary. “Some red, some white. All ugly.”

You smile. You aren’t agreeing, just playing along. “Our motto is better than our flag.”

“I might have been inebriated during that lesson.”

“Perpetual Resurrection.”

Aegon looks at you, confounded. “Quite the mouthful.”

“Crabs molt throughout their lifetime. They crack their own skins open and climb out. If they get stuck, they die. If they get attacked before their new shell hardens, they die. But if they live…they’re a brand new version of themselves. Larger, wiser, more powerful.”

“Spiders,” Aegon says. “You’re trying to placate me with some rousing metaphor about what are essentially aquatic spiders.”

“They’re tasty too,” you say, grinning. “Especially when their shells are still soft. The cooks would serve them fried and us kids would sit around the table ripping the legs free and throwing them at each other.”

“What, you can eat the crab whole?!”

“Yes. Once the faces are cut off and the organs scooped out.”

He pretends to be repulsed by you. “Harrowing. Revolting. This is why Targaryens have always refused to breed with your kind.”

It’s funny, but it isn’t, because it’s a little too close to what you’re both thinking. Under the moonlight, you watch Aegon with the words caged behind your teeth: What do you want most? Who are you in your bones? Where would we be if the world wasn’t crashing down around us?

He slathers rose oil on his scarred right cheek—carelessly, distractedly—and accidentally pokes himself in the eye. “Ow.”

You ask: “Why do you want to do that yourself now?”

“To prove I can. To feel ever so slightly less like an invalid.” He takes a swig of his wine and gazes out over the nightscape ocean, stars in the sky, stars reflected on waves. “I am a study in irony. I spent my whole life waiting for it to be over. I poisoned myself, wasted years, resisted any semblance of usefulness. And now I finally have things I want to accomplish, I finally have reasons to live…and I’m trapped in the flesh of some pathetic, deformed, calamitously weak stranger.” He shakes his head, despondent, still not looking at you. “I can have a body that works. I can have a soul. But I can’t have both at the same time. It’s so fucking unfair.”

“I like you exactly as you are. Body and soul.”

“Everything I own, everything I’m given…” He stares down at his palms, open and empty. “It is destroyed, gets killed, goes mad. I ruin causes. I ruin people. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“I think I’m going to be ruined either way. I’d rather you be the one responsible.”

“Angel,” he says, low and serious. And now his gaze comes back to meet yours. “Who are you supposed to marry?”

You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want it to be true. Your voice is a whisper, almost lost in the night wind. “Cregan Stark.”

His eyes shoot wide, not just startled but terrified. “Stark?!”

You nod miserably. “My father took me and my sisters to Winterfell as part of a trade mission. Cregan decided he wanted me. I never encouraged it, I never desired it, I swear I didn’t—”

“No, I believe you,” Aegon says. He swallows a gulp of wine noisily, his hand shaking. “You were right. I can’t touch him. I can’t stop it. Not unless I win.”

“You don’t want the Iron Throne,” you tell Aegon, already knowing it’s true.

He snorts, a harsh derisive sound. “Who would?”

“Lots of people, I think. But not you or Rhaenyra.”

This intrigues him. “She doesn’t want it either?”

“Not from what I’ve seen and heard. Or, at least, she didn’t until Luke was killed. It changed her. I’m still not convinced she wants to be the queen, but she wants vengeance. And absolute power is a sure path to it.” And so the suffering continues, it goes around and around like a wheel, it is a debt that is never satisfied but only spread like plague.

“I don’t understand why Aemond did that,” Aegon says. His words are hushed, like he’s never spoken them to anyone but you and never will. “When he returned from Storm’s End, I held a feast for him. I had to, someone had to, someone had to pretend it was a victory instead of a murder. But it didn’t make any sense. Arrax was an inconvenience, not a threat. Luke was far more valuable as a hostage than a corpse. Aemond has always been the disciplined brother, the strategic one. I won’t claim to be clever. But I can’t find any strategy in what happened there.”

“Aemond has a temper. He is haunted, I believe. He is not above reckless fury.”

“No, evidently not.” Aegon sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair; again, his dragon ring glints under the moonlight, silver reflected off gold. “I’ll try to win,” he says. “For my family. For you.” Then he smirks, a grim attempt at humor. “Though I pity Cregan Stark for the paradise I will deprive him of.”

You do not return Aegon’s smile. “Don’t have too much pity for him. I have no expertise and I’m scared to death of it. I’d probably end up hiding under his bed, gripping the legs for dear life. He’d have to drag me out and tie me down.”

Aegon is alarmed; his storm-blue eyes are now focused, seeking. He is aware that he has wandered into a quagmire. He treads carefully. “When you say no expertise, you mean…none at all?”

“None.”

“But what about all of those anatomically-correct cock illustrations in your medical books?”

Another joke you can’t bring yourself to laugh at. You drink your wine to stop your lips from quivering, smooth the silk of your gown with a trembling hand. You see it no matter where you look: the pool of red on Theodora’s bedsheets, the dawning and inescapable realization on her face. This is her life now. This will always be her life.

Aegon says gently: “You have no expectation of pleasure.”

“It seems…inherently violent. For the woman. Even if it isn’t meant to be. Being overpowered, being invaded. The man decides when and how it happens. The woman endures.”

Aegon stares at you—biting his full lower lip, deeply somber—but doesn’t speak. He gives you the impression of someone with so many thoughts swimming around in his skull he is struggling to choose just one.

You smile dimly. “I’m sorry. I’ve made you sad.”

“I’m, um…” Aegon pauses to collect himself; he drains his wine cup and sets it back on the table. He is uncharacteristically cautious, like he thinks one unwise word will break the spell of whatever exists between you, this temptation, this need. “I’m saddened by the fact that you think of it that way. Because it doesn’t have to be…distasteful. Frightening. Coerced. It shouldn’t be, in fact.”

“I suppose I’ll find out if the Blacks win this war and Cregan Stark comes to claim me.”

Again, Aegon is exceptionally circumspect. “You’ve never wanted any man?”

“No. Never. Not in that way. Until…” You look at him, willing him to understand. I want you, but I’m so goddamn afraid to. I’m afraid of this world, I’m afraid there’s no hope left in it.

Slowly, Aegon smiles, soft and warm. And without any grasping, animalistic greed, he reaches over to rest a palm on your thigh, night-dark silk draped over skin that doesn’t flinch away from him, doesn’t even have to fight the instinct to. You place a hand on his. Your fingertips trace the gold wings of the green-eyed dragon ring he never takes off. And it is sealed like a covenant under the stars, this allegiance that neither of you could begin to explain to anyone else.

Footsteps are coming through Aegon’s bedchamber, heavy and purposeful. Otto Hightower appears in the balcony doorway. He fills the space like storm clouds flood a clear sky, like blood saturates linen. “You’re getting fat,” he tells Aegon gruffly.

“You’re getting ever more wrinkly and close to the afterlife.”

Otto glances to where Aegon’s hand still rests on your thigh and snaps: “If you’re well enough for that, perhaps you would deign to join us in the council chamber. You could shock everyone by actually acting like a king.”

Then he’s gone, taking those last echoes of the moment with him.

~~~~~~~~~~

“They know she’s here,” Larys Strong says. His audience is gathered around the table: Otto, Criston, Daeron, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, the knights of the Kingsguard, Aegon slumped way down in his seat and you beside him feeling his forehead worriedly for fever. Because Aegon and Daeron are in attendance, the council chamber is one chair short. Aemond has elected to be the person to stand; he lurks, severe and silent, in a corner of the room half-lit by torchlight. Daeron is dressed in a vibrant teal, Aegon in black; Aemond wears green, dark and brooding like envy.

Criston Cole asks: “How is that possible?”

Otto sighs irritably, rubbing his forehead. “We have spies. I’m sure Rhaenyra does as well.”

“Someone apparently glimpsed the prince regent…um…” Larys searches for the diplomatic word. “Escorting her through the streets of King’s Landing.”

“Dragging is what he did,” Aegon says, glaring at Aemond. “Abducting. Attacking. Imprisoning.” Aemond, arms crossed over his chest, studies his boots and pretends not to have heard him.

Larys continues: “The Blacks don’t believe that she is here of her own volition.”

Otto’s eyes narrow. “What, they think we’ve detained her as some sort of…healer? Hostage?”

“No, my lord,” Larys says, hesitantly, awkwardly. “They don’t imagine the king’s motivations to be that honorable.”

Otto is losing his patience. “Meaning?”

Larys toys with his restless, rodentlike hands. “They think she is being…violated.”

A stilted, scandalized hush falls over the table. “Good,” Aegon says, invoking gasps and gapes. “If Green supporters believe her to be my captive, they won’t harm her. And if the Blacks think she is being held here against her will, she would be safe with them as well. No matter who wins, she is not in danger.”

“That is hardly beneficial for your own reputation, Your Grace,” Tyland Lannister says.

Aegon grins beneath cold eyes; he shows his teeth like a wolf, like a dragon. “Was my reputation so pristine to begin with, Lord Lannister?”

“No, perhaps not,” Tyland mumbles. Still, he should not have said it aloud. Otto huffs another sigh and rolls his eyes.

“So you intend to keep a Celtigar daughter in your service?” Otto says to Aegon.

“I have no doubts concerning her loyalty.”

Larys adds: “My lord, I must say, I cannot see a tactical advantage in her saving the king’s life if she retains any loyalty to Rhaenyra’s cause.”

“Then why save him at all? Why bother? He was lying there half-dead, soon to be properly dead, and she brought him back practically singlehandedly. Why?”

“Mercy,” Aemond says quietly from the corner, and everyone turns to look at him. “Many people have none of it. She perhaps has too much. And now they have grown…” He gestures vaguely, perhaps bashfully. “Attached to each other.”

Jasper Wylde is dismayed. “But the king has a wife.”

Daeron snickers. “Yes, and that has always proved to be such a deterrent in the past.”

“Daeron,” Aegon cautions mildly.

The youngest Targaryen brother obediently sobers and shows the palms of his hands in contrition. “My apologies.” He hides his face with a slurp of his wine cup.

“And what about Cregan Stark?!” Otto exclaims. “You’d encourage his outrage, his Northerner savagery? Seven hells, he thinks you’re spending your days raping his betrothed, do you imagine that will not invoke fiercer wrath, put all of us at greater risk?!”

“Lord Stark was never a reachable ally to our cause, in my estimation,” Larys says calmly.

“That’s not the point, Larys! The point is—!”

“I can offer you something in return for the heightened danger you have assumed,” you interrupt, and these men stare at you as if suddenly remembering that you are here in the room with them, not a phantom or a myth or a cautionary tale but someone real. Aegon glances over, one eyebrow raised on his drawn, perspiring face. He doesn’t know what you’re going to say either.

Otto peers menacingly across the table. “What could you possibly have to barter with? The king is well enough now. He will live with or without you.”

“I have information. I know the workings of Rhaenyra’s council in the leadup to Rook’s Rest.”

“You attended her council meetings?”

“No, but I spent evenings with my father and brothers as they discussed them.”

Otto sits back in his chair, pondering you. After a moment, he nods. “Go on then.”

“I want one concession before I reveal what I know.”

“Besides being permitted indefinite room and board in the Red Keep, which you are in no way entitled to?”

“Not negotiable,” Aegon says.

Otto chuckles, humorless, incredulous, shaking his head. “Fucking insane. Alright. What is it you want, girl?”

“If any member of House Celtigar is taken captive, I want them to be given the opportunity to swear fealty to King Aegon and receive a full pardon for their sins. If they refuse, they are to go to the Night’s Watch, not the scaffold.”

“That’s your price? That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Otto is amused. “Nothing for you? No gold, no land?”

“No.” The prospect hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Not very self-serving. So unlike a Celtigar.” Otto grins, not kindly at all. “Your terms are accepted.”

You begin. “The Greens possess great wealth, now split for safekeeping between Oldtown, Casterly Rock, and the Iron Bank of Braavos. But Rhaenyra’s funds are far more finite. My father has enriched her coffers in part with taxes placed upon houses of the Crownlands. You are always seeking new allies, people you can turn from her side to yours, Corlys Velaryon, the Dragonseeds. Thus far, you have been unsuccessful.” Otto frowns, but he is listening. “I know there are families who have compelling grievances concerning my father’s taxes. Families who have become disenchanted with Rhaenyra’s leadership…or lack thereof, they might say. Rosby, Stokeworth, Cave, Langward, Bourney, Boggs, Hardy, Chyttering. Probably others as well now. They occupy a tactically significant position, being so near to Dragonstone and Driftmark. And I believe if you wrote to them, they would answer.”

“I’ll send ravens,” Otto says. He marvels at you, like a puzzlingly strange creature, a luminescent fang-toothed fish from the depths of the ocean, a direwolf from beyond the Wall. “You don’t want your side to win this war?”

“I want the killing to stop. For both sides.”

“Well, you won’t get that. The bitch will never surrender. That hope died with little Luke Strong.” Otto glowers bitterly at where Aemond stands in the shadowy corner, but he addresses you. “That is your impression as well? She was entertaining the possibility of a truce before he died at Storm’s End?”

You steal a glimpse of Aemond, and you are struck by an unexpected stab of sympathy for him, compassion that feels like a betrayal of your knowledge of the torture he had planned for you. But what is there to say but the truth? “Rhaenyra was considering it very seriously. She and Daemon quarreled over the subject.”

“Of course they did.” Otto looks at Criston, then back to Aemond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” Criston answers for the prince regent. “Very soon.”

“Not soon enough,” Otto spits like venom, and everyone else averts their eyes.

“My lord,” Larys intercedes. “There is one more matter to discuss, and I believe it will be of great interest to His Grace the king.”

Aegon is struggling to concentrate. He blinks groggily at the Master of Whisperers, his brow creased with pain. You smooth his damp, white-blond hair back from his face, threading his braid through your fingertips; you refill his wine cup and give it to him. When Aegon lifts it to his lips, his hands shake so badly he spills scarlet beads like blood down his chin. He wipes them away with his sleeve. Grand Maester Orwyle offers him a small glass bottle of milk of the poppy, but Aegon refuses it.

“Is he alright?” Daeron mutters to you.

“He’s fine. He’s tired, that’s all.”

“Waste no time, Lord Larys,” Aegon says. “I fear Grandsire’s ire has exhausted me. He’s more ferocious than a dragon. We should find a saddle that fits, perhaps Criston could ride him to the Riverlands.”

“Keep guzzling wine, I’m sure that will improve your condition,” Otto bites back.

Larys continues: “It concerns Rook’s Rest.”

Now he has everyone’s attention. “What about Rook’s Rest?” Aegon says. Instinctively, he’s begun twisting the golden dragon ring on his left hand.

“I received word one hour ago that the Blacks have retaken it.”

“What?!” Otto shouts; the rest of the table is in uproar. Criston stands and goes to conspire with Aemond in the corner of the council chamber, urgent indecipherable whispers.

“Sunfyre,” Aegon says frantically. “I have to go to him, I have to get him out—”

“He is already gone, Your Grace,” Larys replies.

“Gone…?”

“Lord Walys Mooton went down to the beach to slay the dragon once his men had taken the castle. He was burned alive.”

“Perfect,” Daeron says, beaming radiantly.

“Lord Mooton’s men fled for their lives, and when they returned, Sunfyre had disappeared. He could not be found anywhere in the vicinity of Rook’s Rest. Moreover, his footprints in the sand stopped abruptly. Which means he must have departed—”

“Into the water…?” Tyland Lannister says, perplexed.

“No,” Larys corrects him. “Into the sky.”

“Sunfyre is flying again?” Aegon asks, his face childlike, astonished.

“That’s impossible,” Criston says. “His wing was broken, I saw it.”

Larys drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I cannot conceive of any other explanation.”

“Then he’ll find me.” Aegon smiles. Sweat snakes down his temples; his face is white, bloodless, barren like the moon. “When Sunfyre is ready, he’ll find me and we’ll be together again.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” Otto exhales. “The Old, the New, that ghastly Drowned one…” He waves a hand at you. “And do you have any to add, Lady Celtigar? Some crab deity your traitorous people worship?”

“I regret to disappoint you, my lord. To my knowledge we have none.”

“Three useable dragons,” Otto says, mostly to himself. “Three is good. With three, we have a chance. And if I can recruit Vermithor or Silverwing…”

“I should go with you when you and Criston march north,” Daeron tells Aemond.

“No,” Aemond returns immediately.

“If you’re going after Daemon, you could use me,” Daeron insists. “Tessarion and I can help.”

“You are needed in the Reach with Lord Ormund Hightower.”

“You just want him all to yourself,” Daeron realizes, exasperated. “You want to be able to say that you were the person to neutralize the Blacks’ greatest asset, that you won the war—!”

Criston says: “He’s not going on some suicide mission chasing Daemon and Caraxes all over the Riverlands. He’s staying with me and the army. He’s using Vhagar logically, responsibly. Right, Aemond?”

“Of course,” Aemond answers, entirely toneless.

Otto whirls to Aegon. “And when will you be able to fight again? Soon, I hope. Surely the culmination of your existence is not one single instance of utility before lapsing back into being some drunken, idiot degenerate.”

In reply, Aegon moans and crumples to the floor. Grand Maester Orwyle and the men of the Kingsguard rush to him, but Criston gets there first; when you cannot rouse the king, Criston throws him over one shoulder—increasingly difficult with each pound Aegon gains, softness and health that you consider a great victory—and ferries him back to bed. As you follow after them, you hesitate in the doorway of the council chamber. Now that Criston is gone, Otto has crossed the room and pinned Aemond to the wall. His large hands, heavy with rings, are pressed to Aemond’s chest; his face is snarling, wicked, callous.

“You have to fix this. You have to end it.”

“I know,” Aemond replies softly.

“Everything that’s happened is your fault.”

“I know,” Aemond says again, then rips free from Otto’s grasp and flees the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, Criston leads his army out of the city. They will meet reinforcements on the road between the capital and the Riverlands. There is infantry on foot and cavalry on horses; above them in a blue sky cluttered with vast, cottony clouds are Aemond and Vhagar. As they head north, Daeron and Tessarion fly south towards the Reach to rejoin Ormund Hightower and his men. In Winterfell, Cregan Stark is receiving word of where (and with whom) his betrothed currently resides. At Harrenhal, Daemon and Nettles are kindling rumors like dry wood in a fire. On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra is nursing her rage and paranoia like a hungry child, like a wounded man who has milk of the poppy poured down his throat. And you remain static here in King’s Landing, anchored, steadfast, something immoveable like the ocean or the shore it meets.

You can see Aegon’s bedchamber windows from the beach. You keep glancing up at them, though you know he won’t be there; the sunlight is too harsh today, the potential damage to his skin too great. In a month, he may be able to venture outside as he used to. In two or three, he might be able to fight again. He might be able to kill more than just one errant Norcross boy who dared to touch you.

“Helaena wouldn’t come down to join us?” you ask Autumn. You’re walking with her in the surf, the hems of your held aloft so the froth of the waves can wash over your ankles. Perhaps ten yards away and out of earshot, Alicent is kneeling in the sand and playing with Jaehaera and Maelor. They are her great comfort now; they are not the only purpose she has left, but they are the kindest. Their tiny hands are preoccupied with building a sandcastle and adorning it with seashells, pebbles, shards of driftwood, strings of seaweed like green ribbons. You’ve started to notice how much Jaehaera resembles Aegon, his murky blue eyes and his high cheekbones and his gentleness that no one else seems to recognize. You’ve started to see him everywhere you look.

Autumn shrugs, her face apologetic. Her hair is more than just copper in the afternoon daylight; it is fire, it is blood. “I really tried. You know how she is.”

“I’ll visit her afterwards.”

“She unnerves me,” Autumn says, stroking her round belly and shuddering. She earns her keep here by helping to look after Helaena, Jaehaera, and Maelor. Aegon treats Autumn the same way he treats his wife and children, which is to say he generally ignores her; on the rare occasion he is subjected to her presence for more than a fleeting moment, he becomes uneasy, irritable. Autumn does not appear to be offended. She says this is the best job she’s ever had. “She’s always muttering the strangest things. Caterpillars and crabs and dragons and only the gods know what else. Yesterday she told me not to dance with the half-year queen. What the fuck does that mean?”

“Helaena’s a bit different,” you admit.

“She’s inbred, that’s what she is. I can’t imagine what those kids are going to grow up to be like. A brother and sister for parents? It’s a wonder they don’t have feathers or tails.” Autumn taps the swell of her belly. “At least this one—if it’s a Targaryen after all—has had its bloodline thoroughly diluted.”

You watch her standing there in the fiery late-afternoon light, this body that has comforted, consoled, satisfied, suffered, known so many men. “What does it feel like?” you ask quietly.

“What? Being with child?”

“No, the…um…the act that led to it.”

“Oh, yes.” Autumn stretches with her hands on the small of her back and smiles vaguely, nostalgically. “That’s the strange thing. It can feel like heaven or hell or nothing at all. If the man knows what he’s doing, and cares enough to try, he can make it better for you.”

“Better how?”

She furrows her brow, shoots you a skeptical sideways glance. She is aware that you are inexperienced, but the extent of your blind spots continuously shock her. It occurs to you that perhaps naivety is a privilege; some cannot recall a time before they were acquainted with truths of the world that others consider forbidden. “You know. He’ll use his hands or his mouth to get you ready. Or better yet, both at once.”

“Ready,” you repeat, not understanding.

“Well, you see…” Autumn takes a moment to decide how best to explain. “Men change when they are aroused, yes? Women do the same. It takes longer, and it is not always so obvious. But it is vital. The more ready you are, the more comfortably he will fit inside you.”

“And what if he doesn’t get you ready? If he doesn’t have the skill, or he doesn’t believe it’s necessary, or he doesn’t even know that’s something women require?” Or he just wants to hurt you. He just wants to watch you bleed like something he goes into the woods to kill and gut and devour.

Autumn smirks cynically. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“The sizes involved. Some men are bigger than others, and women have different dimensions as well. Couples can be well-matched or not. Sometimes it isn’t too bad. Sometimes it feels like you’re being ripped apart. And that doesn’t necessarily stop after the first time either.”

“And you can’t say no.”

“You can say no all you want. But he doesn’t have to listen.”

You peer out over Blackwater Bay, sunbeams flashing on wave crests and gulls swooping in the reddening sky. But you don’t really see it. What you see are fingerprints of dirt or ash on your thighs, snow in your hair, books laden with dust, fur coats and evergreen trees, rust-stains of blood on bedsheets.

“I’ve heard that Lord Stark is a very large man,” Autumn nudges. She knows, everyone knows.

“He’s massive,” you say forlornly. “He’s taller than Aemond and twice as broad.”

“The king isn’t so big,” she says, pretending that the thought has just popped into her mind, as if she hasn’t noticed the way you and Aegon look at each other, speak to each other, find excuses to touch each other.

“No,” you agree in a whisper.

“And he’s not a brute. I can’t fairly speak to his skill, I never had him anywhere close to sober. But he has no appetite for women’s pain. That’s a valuable gem in a man, it’s like stumbling across a ruby or a pearl.”

You nod; but you don’t want to think about Autumn lying with Aegon. You don’t want to think about the child they might share. In a world so dark, it seems cruel to begrudge people creating life where none existed before. But when you picture Aegon touching someone else, that darkness seeps in through your skin like rain soaks the earth and can’t find its way out. “We’re going to the library together tomorrow, aren’t we?”

Autumn groans. “Did I agree to that? I don’t believe I did.”

She did not, this is true; you badgered, she deflected. “You’ll enjoy it.”

“I am illiterate.”

“I told you. I’ll teach you how to read.”

“Why would I want to stare at ink marks in a book all day when I could be outside in the sunshine listening to the ocean and herding inbred little freaks like sheep?”

“Because books can take you anywhere,” you say.

“I like where I am. I’ve never seen anyplace better.”

“Okay, Autumn,” you concede, smiling. “I’ll ask again tomorrow. Hopefully you’ll change your mind.”

“Say hello to Helaena for me,” she says, meandering back towards Alicent and the children. Her footprints in the sand are erased when the gurgling waves roll over them. “Maybe one of those fancy books can help you translate lunacy into the Common Tongue.”

Upstairs in her bedchamber, Helaena is standing in front of an open window. It doesn’t offer a view of the ocean; it is positioned over a courtyard of sandstone and chatting courtiers. Helaena does not seem to hear them. She gazes out into the sunset, celestial rage on her impassive face.

“He’s leaving soon,” she says, not turning to look at you.

“Who, Helaena? Aemond? He left days ago. He’s already gone, he’s on his way to the Riverlands. But he’ll be back soon.” You don’t know if that’s true—it probably isn’t, in fact—but you’re certain that Helaena misses him. Her children do too; he is more of a father to them than Aegon has ever been, not in body but in soul.

She only repeats: “He’s leaving soon.”

“Helaena, what—?”

“He’ll leave you. Then you’ll leave him. He’ll make you.”

At last, and very slowly, she revolves like the stripe of shadow across a sundial. In her cupped palms is a butterfly, shimmering gold wings and spiderlike black legs. It takes flight, flutters aimlessly through the vermillion air, escapes out the open window.

~~~~~~~~~~

A peculiar twist of fate: his palm on your forehead, his whispers through your hair. Now he is the one who has stolen into your bed when the moon and stars hang high in the darkness outside. There is a noise somewhere beyond him, disembodied and hazy, that reminds you of torrential rain: omnipresent, thunderous.

“Angel,” Aegon is saying. “Wake up. Please wake up. I have to go.”

Go? Go where? You murmur, still half-asleep: “You can’t leave.” He isn’t strong enough yet. He can’t fight, he can’t run.

“I have to. They’re here.”

“Who…?”

The answer comes from the sounds that you are only now awake enough to understand: screaming, pounding boots, slamming doors, the ravenous crackling of fire, the shrieking of dragons. You have learned all of their unearthly voices. That’s not Vhagar or Tessarion or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre… It flashes by your windows, a comet of gold and flames.

You bolt out of bed. “Rhaenyra—?!”

“Rhaenyra, Syrax, Daemon, Caraxes.”

Daemon shouldn’t be here. He should be losing battles to Aemond and Criston. “But he’s at Harrenhal!”

“Not anymore.” Aegon takes your hand and pulls you out into the hallway, the hem of your nightgown billowing around your legs, his short silver hair flying behind him. There are servants and guards rushing by you, weeping, shouting, searching for places to hide. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles towards the rookery to send out ravens. Several rooms away, you can hear Helaena wailing and Autumn trying to soothe her. Larys Strong intercepts Aegon and gives him a hooded cloak; Aegon yanks it over his bare, mutilated chest, whimpering as the rapid movement strains the red-and-ivory disarray of scar tissue that used to be his skin. “You have everything?” he asks Larys hoarsely. You notice now that the Master of Whisperers has a satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Yes, Your Grace. Milk of the poppy, rose oil, the crown.”

“Wine?”

Larys produces a bottle. Aegon gulps down half of it, then passes the rest to you. You hesitate before finishing the wine, red like the sigil of House Celtigar, like fire, like blood. “They are closing all roads out of the city,” Larys tells Aegon, speaking swiftly. “King’s Landing will be taken. We will surrender. We cannot fight a dragon, let alone two.”

“Aemond and Criston—?”

“Daemon must have outflanked them.”

Aegon grabs your hand again and does not let go as he trails Larys through corridors and down claustrophobically tight spiral staircases. “The roads are blocked,” Aegon explains to you breathlessly. “But there are secret passageways beneath the castle. I know them. Larys knows them. Daemon probably knows them too, but he has other places to be.”

And through a window of a staircase, you see him: Caraxes spiraled around the apex of the Tower of the Hand, screaming fire into the sky before descending the length of the tower towards the hoards of hysterical courtiers fleeing below, his claws jostling loose bricks that rain down on them.

The bottom of the stairwell opens up into a large, dusty, dirt-floored chamber with stone tunnels leading in every direction like spokes of a wheel. Alicent is there, sobbing wildly, and so is Otto. Otto is telling Jaehaera that she must be a brave little girl and go with Sir Willis Fell. Alicent is giving little Maelor over to Sir Rickard Thorne, your once-alleged-kinfolk. The child is panicked and crying, flushed face and white hair. Aegon glances at the scene and then keeps moving, towing you along with him.

“Princess Jaehaera will go to Storm’s End,” Larys says. “Prince Maelor will go to Oldtown. They face execution if they stay. We must risk smuggling them out of the city.”

“What about Aegon?” you ask as the three of you hasten into a corridor thick with cobwebs and illuminated by torchlight. The stone ceiling is arched and perhaps seven feet tall; faintly, you can still hear the muffled turmoil of King’s Landing falling to Rhaenyra and Daemon.

“I’m going Dragonstone.” And it does not elude you that he didn’t say we. “If Rhaenyra is here, that likely means Dragonstone is vacant. I will go to the Crownlands families that you believe to be willing to betray her and beg them for support. I will take Dragonstone and prepare a counterassault from there. Hopefully Sunfyre will find me. Hopefully I’m not killed on the way.”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m going too.”

“You’re staying in King’s Landing.”

“No.” You stop dead, wrenching your hand out of Aegon’s. “No, what if you get hurt, or sick, or what if you get really bad again—?!”

“Listen!” he shouts with dire intensity, his eyes wide and pleading in the torchlight. “I can’t protect you. I can’t even protect myself. There could be bandits on the road, there could be Black soldiers, there could be animals, there could be fucking anything. I can’t take you with me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get to Dragonstone. But I know if I stay here Rhaenyra will murder me. I don’t have a choice. I have one option, and it’s not good. But you’ll be safe in King’s Landing.”

“Aegon, no—”

“The Blacks don’t think you’re here by choice. They think I’ve imprisoned you. Tell them that’s what happened and they will welcome you back. Your family will protect you.”

“Aegon, please don’t—”

His palm on your cheek, his braid coming unraveled in his hair. “You will wait out the war with them. And when it’s over I’ll find you.” Tears glistening in his eyes, his voice going soft and tender. “If I’m still alive, I’ll find you. I swear to all the gods I will.”

He’s leaving. He’s really leaving. “What can I do?” you ask, your words strangled; your throat is burning, your eyes wet. “What can I do to help you?”

And you expect him to say things you already know: Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve heard in the Greens’ council meetings. Instead, Aegon grins as he says: “Try to get one of your three superfluous sisters to seduce Cregan Stark.”

You laugh, the sound echoing off ancient, filthy stones.

“My mother and Otto are waiting for you. You will be with them when they are taken to Rhaenyra. They are high-ranking prisoners of war, they will be spared the brutality of the Black soldiers and so will you. They will corroborate that you were my captive.”

“I understand.”

“I have to go now,” Aegon says like an apology, swiping tears from your face with his thumbs. He breaks away from you and follows Larys Strong down the tunnel. They are shadows under the torchlight, cloaks and whispers.

“Aegon,” you call after him, and he stops. I never told you what I wanted. I never told you what I feel for you. “What if I never see you again?”

You don’t know what you want him to do or say. There’s nothing that could make this right. But he soars back to you, takes you roughly and desperately, buries his hands in your hair and kisses you deeply, tasting like wine and heat and the smoke filling the world outside. He means for it to be quick, but he can’t stop. His tongue darts between your lips, his hips press to yours, you arch into him wanting more, infinitely more.

What was I so afraid of? you think dizzily. How could I be afraid of anything with him?

“Your Grace,” Larys appeals regretfully. “Please. We don’t have much time.”

Aegon twists off his dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—and slips it onto your left hand. And you’re still staring down at it, mystified, as Aegon disentangles himself from you and vanishes into the darkness.

[mrghostrat]

Hello and good morning/day/night :]

I was wondering, in BNF, we’ve gotten tiny little bits of information about the ‘Nice and Accurate Prophecies’ (not sure if that’s the correct title, sorry) book and TV series, if there was anything else you could tell us about it?

Character names, storylines, plots, any fun details you may have made up or otherwise, etc, etc.

I just think it’s sweet how interested both Aziraphale and Crowley are in the series, and if you might be as interested, if not more, in it too.

Thank you, and have a lovely Sunday. 🫶

this is it, my leash has snapped, i'm wild in the streets, thank u for asking; i'm gonna go be insufferable now

(hi @neil-gaiman if you see this, i think it's safe to read, but it does border on being fan fic. i'm writing a fic where crowley and aziraphale are an artist + writer in an online fandom, much like we are for good omens, and this is the fake story i've made for them to be fans of 💛)

The Nice and Accurate Prophecy

info dump of the fake 5 book series by Agnes Nutter (1985-1992) and its fake fandom:

The Nice and Accurate Prophecy

The Strange and Improbable Prophecy

The Vague and Perfidious Prophecy

The Tense and Harrowing Prophecy

The Faint and Ineffable Prophecy

a dramatic, layered story with a bizarre and unexpectedly lovable cast of characters, humour that hits you out of nowhere, and a lot of attitude from the narrator. a la Good Omens, A Series of Unfortunate Events, Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

fantasy/historical fantasy and mildly action & romance

a la good omens, a witch and a witchfinder become friends and help each other throughout history, despite being on opposite sides. they get closer as they fight against the immoral plays from their prospective sides (the witchfinder army and a demonic cult the witch was born into) that each lose sight of their core values in a bid to hold more power over the world.

the story is set primarily in a medieval fantasy era, but suddenly jumps to the present in the later books, catching everyone off guard and giving a whole new context to enjoy the story. the challenges they face parallel the earlier story but in a modern take with modern technological twists. the modern era is the late 80s, since that's when it was written.

the witch reincarnates, similar to doctor who, due to a high class black magic ritual they performed in their arrogant youth (which they were NOT supposed to have access to). they've had long lifetimes where they die of old age, and others where they've barely managed to live a year. their reincarnations aren't entirely random; they will reincarnate according to their growth and preferences as a person (a la Magical Boy's magical outfit generations), which includes fluctuation in gender identity. their pronouns fluctuate depending on each "face" they wear, but have canonically been a "they" before. the good side of the fandom (crowley & aziraphale) default to they/them as an overall rule. they do have a name, but they like to change that too, so the fandom almost exclusively calls them witch, or witchy.

the witchfinder also has a name, but the fandom have taken to calling him witchfinder to match the fact that witchy is called by their role. it also helps that a lot of the witchfinder narration refers to him by role instead of name. he is human, 30ish in appearance, but at the end of the first book, the witch fears to lose him and curses him with immortality against his knowledge to try and keep him safe.

witch is crowley-coded, witchfinder is aziraphale-coded. my to-do list includes an illustration of the two of them played by michael and david :') but i picture them being kind of like newt and anathema for the most part.

ship names include witch/finder, witchwitch, w² or witch², and witchfound.

at the start of the first book, they meet and become friends without knowing each other is a witch & finder. the witchfinder is a bit bumbly, like newt, and the witch is cool and suave but neurotic and insecure like many human au variations of crowley (major overcompensation vibes). witch is male at the start of the first book. their friendship is secure when witch finds out he's a witchfinder, so there's less "oh my god i'm friends with the enemy, is he going to kill me in my sleep?" and more "ah fuck, Lets Drink About This"

there's battles, horseback riding, camping out in dark woods, disappearing and losing each other for months at a time, and many missed connections as they try to work together against two common enemies, whilst keeping up the facade that they're on their respective team's sides.

there's charged chemistry in the first book, but it's more plot heavy. there's hints of shippy moments in the 2nd book that fall in between the plot. there's a Moment of almost confession in the 3rd book, and a non romantic kiss towards the end (we gotta, for neil). they're pretty much married in the 4th book, securely at each other's side, but never actually talk about it until the end, and there's a more explicitly stated shippy connection in the 5th book.

agnes herself is a total recluse who drops books out of nowhere then goes back to existing somewhere in the english countryside (people presume). she's happy to supply signed copies to fundraisers and conventions, and sometimes random bookshops across the country will be vandalised with genuine autographs on the inside covers. she's notoriously pedantic about being involved with adaptions behind the scenes, but she has no social media and isn't ~around~. she once did a talk when she was presented with an honorary doctorate, and did a single book signing when the first Prophecy book came out, but beyond that she keeps to herself.

there are a small handful of quotes from her in behind-the-scenes footage talking vaguely about character intensions and clarifying world building, but she likes to leave things up to interpretation like neil does. it's in these few snippets of interaction we've seen from her that she's steadfastly supportive of intersectionality and lgbt rights, like staring dead-eyed at an interviewer when they ask her a ridiculously heteronormative question about the characters (like "have you read my books?")

adaptions include:

(most adaptions start like the book, with a male witch at the beginning that turns into a female witch when they first regenerate. the early ones usually change the pacing by switching to a female actor by the time they realise witchfinder is a witchfinder, unlike in the book where he's male for this scene, and there's way less Charged™ chemistry between the m/m witch/finder.)

Feature Film: late 90s, kind of cheesy, but good spirited fantasy (a la Indiana Jones). focuses on the first book alone, with hints to a sequel that never happened.

Abandoned TV Pilot: early 2000s, a little too dramatic but still a good time (a la the Dungeons and Dragons 2000, ASOUE 2004). good source of gifs and Moments™ but the fandom is generally Fine with it being abandoned.

Stage Performance: late 2000s-early 2010s, a stellar stage adaption of the first book with elements of the 90s movie. f/m witch/finder the whole way through. one cast used m/m actors but it was a short run and only a handful of fans were lucky enough to catch or remember it. crowley would give his left arm (or someone's, anyway) to have experienced it, so a fan sent him some flip phone camera footage of it that he keeps on a harddrive in his safe.

HBO Streaming Series: late 2010s-present, high quality, highly revered, resurged the fandom's popularity and spread the series further overseas. made in america, but doesn't try to americanise the series. extremely respectful to the books, with easter eggs to the film, and is working its way through the entire book series (a la The Witcher netflix series). f/m witch/finder, but has had one episode that included some flash backs/montages of different witch faces. probably like 15 minutes total screentime of a male witch played by a ncuti gatwa level/style of actor, which the fandom has giffed, edited, and screencapped to oblivion.

Several bonus books: Agnes has written a few extra books (a la The Unauthorized Autobiography of Lemony Snicket and The Beatrice Letters), as well as curated some anthologies from other authors (a la A Study In Sherlock). there are a total of 3 anthologies so far, in which other authors have written stories about the characters in their own tellings. basically like canonised, published fan fiction, curated and authorised by agnes herself. There's also an unfinished graphic novel that retells the book series (a la The Adventure Zone comic), but has been WIP/unheard of since the 3rd book.

[ivystoryweaver]

With You part 5

<-prev next-> || Fic Masterlist || My Masterlist

Summary: Jake tries to fall asleep beside you, Steven is there to adore you in the morning and Marc is still struggling. What happens when Jake breaks his lifelong silence?

Pairings: Jake Lockley x reader, Steven Grant x reader, Marc Spector x reader. Gender neutral reader. No use of Y/N. Reader is engaged to Marc and Steven.

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings/notables: Fluff, longing, complicated relationship stuff. Angst. References to past abuse. Struggles with addiction/alcoholism and its effects. Probably inaccurate description of addiction. self-worth probs. Violence is mentioned. kissing and touching, implied sex but no smut, nothing explicit or gender-specific. Let me know if I missed a warning. inaccurate DID, based on the show. Not beta'd we die like arthur harrow in the back of jake's car

Dividers by saradika

PREVIOUSLY, on “With You”...

Oh, he liked the idea of getting under your skin. He liked it a lot. 

“Really?” He teased. “You mean you don’t scare the shit out them in the middle of the night? Follow them around? Drive them crazy...wearing that?” He threw your words back at you. 

What a little shit. 

“No,” you steadily answered him, your gaze open and honest. “I guess I’m just here to drive you crazy.” 

With little convincing, Jake got ready for bed, so he could join you in finally getting some rest. Your 3am alarm went off as he was washing up, so you silenced the one for 4:00.

Conveniently it was your day off, so no other alarm was set. Steven did have one class mid-day, but otherwise, also had the day off.

As Jake slid under the covers, you reached to turn off the bedside lamp. Then you were left in the same position you found yourself in that first night.

The night he held your hand.

Remembering what you'd whispered to him in the dark that night, you softly uttered, "I'm glad you came back to me, Jake."

"I'll always come back to you," he swiftly replied, his voice the softest you'd ever heard it.

Slowly, you reached for him, resting your hand over his. He immediately slid his fingers through yours, just like the first night, and whispered goodnight.

Jake always came home while you were asleep, and he didn't even front every day. Usually he was only there when Khonshu bid him take to the nighttime alleyways and rooftops, or when Marc and Steven were in an exorbitant amount of danger...

...which was unfortunately more often than either of them (or you) were aware. Marc had a long and colorful past, in which he'd made many enemies - some of them, through no fault of his.

Abused, with an undiagnosed disorder, there were sections of his life missing, and problems he just couldn't control. That, combined with blackouts from drinking and a mighty temper, when provoked, had left a trail of...unfortunate mishaps. And pissed off former associates and enemies.

Time eased many grievances, and Marc had handled several problems on his own, years ago. But even after Jake himself had dispensed with Arthur Harrow, there still lingered fingers of his network. And those weren't the only problems.

Just last week, Jake had disposed of a man who had followed you home from work two nights in a row. He simply watched the first night, choosing restraint, but after he saw the mysterious man following you a little too closely the second night, well - that man did not live to see a third.

At first, Jake wondered how Marc could be so naive. He expected that more from Steven. Well, not naivety, exactly, but a general "chin up" outlook on life that the he radiated.

Steven, although far more direct, outspoken and cautious than most people gave him credit for, was an overall ray of sunshine. In protecting the system, Jake wasn't just protecting his own body, or Marc, who he had known since his youth, he was protecting Steven - the one Marc simply could not do without.

And Jake supposed that's what it all came down to. Marc had settled into a beautiful domesticity with both you and Steven. And maybe that was why Marc couldn't perceive the danger you were all in.

Jake was happy to keep it that way. If Marc was not only safe, but thriving, if Steven was growing and learning, putting his beautiful mind to work, and the two of them had someone they loved? Then Jake had done his job. As long he stayed on top of things, it could all work out.

But the drinking relapse was a problem. And he hadn't counted on you meeting him.

Jake had often wondered how Marc and Steven - for lack of a better word - shared you. He wondered if they ever got jealous. Or if you ever showed any preference for one over the other. That's why he thought it best to stay out of it. Not only did he hope to keep his head down and do his job, he was concerned that getting mixed up with you would only confuse him.

That all went right to hell when he carelessly barreled into your bedroom the other night, having forgotten to have Marc or Steven check in with you earlier, or go to bed beside you. He was equally panicked and wonderfully elated for this mishap.

And now, as your soft breathing slowed, he tried to pretend this night was like every other time he'd slipped through the window to find you asleep.

But it wasn't and he couldn't.

He wished you were still awake. He wished he had more time to hear your voice, to watch the flurry of you around the room, picking up his things, worrying after him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he remembered the press of your body against his - the soft satin hugging your shape.

Shit. He could use a cigarette. Or maybe he could beat the hell out of someone.

It was difficult to blow off steam when Marc - a.k.a. their body - couldn't drink and with Marc and Steven engaged to you. Jake tried to respect that. He had the right to his own life, sure, but he just couldn't bring himself to "blow off steam" in that way since you got engaged. You weren't his, but he was faithful to you anyway.

As if sensing his irritation in your sleep, you rolled over, burying your face into his shoulder, snuggling up to him comfortably.

Jake was walking a very fine line between soothed and riled up. If your leg made its way across his thigh, he was going to lose his shit.

Only a few hours later, as the sun struggled to climb into a gray sky, you woke up, tangled in someone. Wondering who might greet you each morning always brought the tiniest smile to your face, but on this morning, just for a moment, you wondered if it was Jake.

Your body stiffened. Did you sleep like this for the past few hours? Did it bother him? You hadn't ever thought of what you might do in the night when Jake got home from his escapades.

As the man beside you continued to breathe evenly, in and out, you decided that three hours of sleep was definitely not enough.

Hours later, you awoke to the domestic sounds of the kitchen. You smelled cooked food and heard the sink's water running, along with the clang of a pot or saucepan.

The sun had made its way through the morning fog, and a sliver of it poured through the crack between the drawn drapes and the window.

After stretching like a very satisfied cat, you freshened up in the bathroom and headed back to your closet to decide what to wear for your day off.

Steven was waiting for you on your bed, perched on the edge.

"Morning, my love," he hummed cheerily, his eyes raking down your body appreciatively. "See you've got on those nice satin pajamas I gave you."

Glancing down at yourself, you softly smiled. "Indeed."

"You're so bloody lovely," he breathed, eyes darkening as he reached out his hand to beckon you back to bed.

Feeling absolutely adored and a little frisky, you skittered over, ready to pounce, when he held up two hands to stop you.

"Careful, darling, I've made you breakfast. Or brunch, rather. It's eleven o'clock," he laughed, nodding toward the tray sitting in the middle of the bed.

Eyes wide, you beamed - but it didn't stop you from climbing onto his lap, just...carefully.

"You are an angel." Locking your arms behind his neck, you dragged your hips forward until you were flush against his body. Rubbing your nose against his, you giggled as he chased after your lips.

"Feeling cheeky this morning, are we?" he tutted after trying and failing to kiss you a few times. "Come here, you." Gently gripping your face in one hand, he opened his mouth hotly over yours. Sucking your lips one at a time, he teased you right back, easing one strong arm around your back. His forearm flexed, holding you firmly as he thrust up against you.

"Steven," you gasped, shifting in his lap to feel him just where you wanted him. Licking into his mouth, you pushed your fingers into his curls, tugging just hard enough for him to jerk deliciously against you again.

The two of you went on that way until he laid back on the bed, pulling you on top of him.

"Steven, Steven, wait--"

Too late. The tray carrying your breakfast spilled all over the bed, some of the jam-covered toast landing on Steven's adorably oversized sleeve.

"Shit, I'm so sorry." Scurrying off the bed, you rapidly gathered up the mess, hands bumping into Steven's as he struggled to help you.

"Thank goodness I've left the tea on the table then, yeah?"

You burst out laughing.

You and Steven cleaned up the bed, finished breakfast (at the table) and dressed in cozy clothes for a day off together. Steven decided missing one class wouldn't hurt anything, since he had high marks in every course.

"Thank you for taking care of me this morning, my love," you sighed contentedly, draping your legs across his lap as you relaxed on the couch. "I noticed you pulled the drapes closed so I could sleep in."

"Oh...must've been Marc, I s'ppose," he mused, rubbing up and down your leg. "Wasn't me."

"Oh, okay. But it was you that cleaned up the broken bottle the other morning, right? Before I woke up and made breakfast for Marc?"

Steven's head whipped around so fast. "Sorry, what? Marc broke a bottle? Darling--"

"It wasn't like that, I promise. It was an accident," you soothed. Reaching for his hand, you squeezed it gently, forgetting, in that moment, who could have cleaned up the bottle.

"Everything's a bit odd lately, innit?" He spoke up after a few moments. "Khonshu scaring the life out of Marc like that, deceivin' us both. Bloody stupid pigeon."

"I'm sorry, baby." You felt a shade guilty having talked to Jake twice when Marc and Steven had yet to even meet him.

"Not your fault, love. The old bird's the one to blame. Him and this other mysterious bloke I've got up here." He tapped one finger to his forehead.

"Jake, you mean." You eyed him cautiously. Feeling like you hadn't seen Steven as much for the past few days, you felt the need to confess - catch him up. "I talked to him again last night. Did Marc tell you we'd met?"

Dark eyes cut over to yours - unreadable - a rarity in your warm and open Steven. "Didn't have to. Spoke to him myself."

You gasped a little dramatically. "Y-you talked to Jake? He talked to you?"

"A bit, yeah," Steven sighed. "A bit. Might have told us we were still entangled with Khonshu so Marc didn't have to wake up in an alley like that. It's no bloody wonder he's had a rough go of it."

Gently rubbing your thumb over his knuckles, you inched a little closer to him on the couch. "So...you're angry with him then. With Jake."

Shaking his head, Steven's gaze dropped. "He's got his own life I s'ppose. Rather used to the way things are with Marc, is all."

"Must be hard, sweetheart," you sweetly sympathized, wishing you could fix any and everything for these men you loved.

"Not your fault," he softly repeated, reaching up to caress your cheek. "He does seem a bit taken with you, though."

Oh god.

"R-really," you squeaked. "Jake said that?"

"Not exactly, but...I gathered," Steven mused, his fingers trailing down over your throat to rest along your collarbone, which he traced carefully. "Made me wonder if you'd worn that lovely satin for him, if I'm honest."

You gulped. "Well...not for him, exactly. I did want to talk to him in a little more than Marc's t-shirt. I want answers too."

The corner of his mouth turned slightly upward, reminding you of Jake. "You're a vision in anything, darling - bare legs and t-shirt, or black satin. I certainly understand why he fancies you."

You skin heated up as you tried to decide how to respond.

And just like Jake the previous night, Steven seemed to enjoy you flustered like this. Giving you a devilish smile, he trailed his fingers down your arm.

"Steven...you're my fiancé," you finally managed, a little breathless. "Jake and I have only spoken twice. It will take a little more than crawling in the window at night to get to know one another."

Nodding, Steven asked, "But you would...like to get to know him?"

"Of course I would," you instantly answered, as if it were obvious. "Of course I want to know someone in our lives like this - part of you and Marc, and...honestly, someone who has you all out at night doing god knows what."

Reaching for your fiancé, you wrapped your arms around his neck. "Besides, I doubt Jake said he fancies me," you chuckled. "Doesn't really sound like him."

"Ohhh, it doesn't, does it?" Steven laughed out. Studying you closely, he added, "Would you like to know what he really said? 'Bout you?"

Spellbound, you nodded as Steven leaned in close. "I'm not going to tell you. That's between you two. But I will tell you what I think, if you care to know."

Climbing across his lap, you touched your forehead to his. "As long as it's something good, baby."

"Oh it is," he breathed against your mouth.

He never told you. But you did finish what you'd started in the bedroom.

After all the recent late night activities, plus a vigorous couple of rounds in bed with Steven, your sated bodies drifted off to sleep...

...which inevitably led to you waking up from your nap, wondering who would be greeting you. The flat was quiet and you were alone.

Feeling a little more relaxed and rested than you had felt in days, you found the clothes Steven had yanked off your body just a couple hours before. You didn't want to waste one more second of your shared day off by sleeping.

After checking the bathroom and the living room, you finally found a note in the kitchen from Marc.

On the roof. - M

Finding some shoes and Marc's tan hoodie, you grabbed your phone, realizing Marc had sent you the same message via text, just in case.

A few minutes later, you made your way out to enjoy the chilly but decently sunny day. A rare treat indeed.

"Hey there," you sweetly greeted, walking up beside Marc, purposely bumping your shoulder against his. "Where's your jacket? It's cold."

He glanced over at you, smirking. "You're wearing the one I like. Looks better on you anyway."

Even though Marc was a little taller than you were, you wrapped your arm around his shoulders as if it might warm him up.

"What are you doing?" He chuckled, already a bit cheered up by your presence.

"I'm protecting you. Like I said, it's cold."

Glancing down at you, he shook his head, amused, while his heart flared with adoration. You were always taking care of him in one way or another. He could never deserve you.

"Come here," he whispered, pulling you into his arms, folding you close. "There, now I'm warm."

"Good," you returned, nuzzling into his neck.

He held you in silence for a few minutes, rubbing up and down your back lovingly.

From what little you knew of Jake, you were fairly certain that Marc was the quietest of his alters. It was nice sometimes, to just be together in contented stillness.

But unlike Jake, there was no one in the world you knew better than Marc. And he was neither content, nor prone to remain still for much longer. Itching to prod about what troubled him, you waited longer still. You had learned to wait him out and he had learned to trust you...confide in you.

"I, uh..." he cleared his throat, breaking the silence after a while. "I came up here because I was thinking about...having a drink."

Oh.

Releasing you, as you knew he would after an admission like that, he folded his well defined arms over his chest. "Sorry." He stared out over the city, wondering what you would think of him - of how he kept letting you down.

Matching his pose, you gave him just enough space to confess, while keeping close enough to ground him.

"Sorry for what?"

Huffing out an irritable sigh, he frowned. "You know what. Sorry for wanting to. For...fucking everything up, for letting you down."

"I see," you softly returned. "Is that all?"

Turning his head, he started at you. "Is that not enough? You need a longer list?"

"No," you shrugged, keeping your gaze fixed on the cityscape. "Just asking if there's anything else you're trying to punish yourself for today."

"There's a never-ending, extremely long fucking list," he huffed, rolling his eyes. "Where do I even begin?"

Turning your body to face him, you waited a moment for him to calm down. "How about we start with what brought you up here today? Did something happen? Did you talk to Steven? Or Jake? Or maybe Addiction is just being the annoying bitch that Addiction is?"

You could see that he was already relieved to have you facing him, engaging with him. Marc could fight with the empty, thin air if he wanted to, because the person he fought hardest with was himself.

"I did...talk to Jake," he finally confessed, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. "He, uh...he actually apologized...for what happened in the alley, with Khonshu."

"Okay," you slowly nodded, your heart rate doubling at the thought of Marc and Jake interacting. "And how did that make you feel?"

"Like an idiot," he huffed, pushing a hand through his hair. "I should have known that Khonshu would never leave us alone." His hands landed on his hips - a trademark Marc-is-annoyed stance. "I should have known it wasn't safe, especially for you."

"What does that mean?" you hesitantly questioned. Surely he didn't mean he was unsafe for you, or Jake was... You started to worry for just a moment, that he would try to do one of those stupid 'you're safer without me' speeches that superheroes were always doing in films.

Like hell. Khonshu could shove his bony beak right up his bony ass. He was not fucking with your engagement, or your life.

Seeing your distress, Marc reached for your shoulders. "Jake saved your life last week," he explained. "Someone was following you home from work."

"He...what?" You gasped. "Who? Jake told you this?"

"Don't know who," Marc replied, his jaw clenching in fury at the thought of anyone even noticing you, let alone trying to stalk you. And to think he had no idea - no inkling that you were in danger... it was unbearable. "Doesn't matter. He's gone now. I just can't believe I let that happen to you and I didn't even realize..."

Releasing you, he paced a few steps away, and back again. Back and forth, punishing himself. For not perceiving that danger still followed him around - followed you. For not being the one to save you. For not recognizing someone else was in his mind, in their body. For being the absolute most useless and pointless of his alters. For all these things compiling and making him want to drown it all at the bottom of a bottle. For being a worthless alcoholic. For being like her...

Marc was the walking embodiment of the phrase, 'that escalated quickly...'

You knew it was bad once he stopped pacing and dug the heels of his hands into his forehead. Steven would probably be joining you momentarily. Or maybe Jake.

"Marc?" You softly called, gently reaching for his wrists to stop him hitting himself in the head. You didn't pull or try to halt his motion, you simply allowed your fingers to circle his wrists. As soon as he realized that his banging motion was jerking your arms too, he stopped, allowing you to hold onto his wrists, rubbing your thumbs carefully over his skin.

"There you are," you soothed, granting him the most gentle smile and pulling his hands down to his chest. "I think you kept this conversation going without me. Probably started telling yourself a whole lot of bullshit...does that sound about right?"

Sometimes you would undercut the most dramatic of his meltdowns with deceptively gentle sarcasm. It always seemed to disarm Marc - your comments showed him your tenderheartedness rather than your slight teasing feeling like mockery. You truly had a gift for it.

You didn't wait for his verbal answer. His silence was compliance. You kept hold of his wrists, there against his chest, and tried to fill in the blanks.

"I'm guessing you're blaming yourself for not knowing everything that's ever going to happen, for not predicting the future, for not knowing every corner of your mind, and for being afflicted with an addiction. Am I close?"

His jaw clenched, this time in anguish, rather than fury.

"You don't...you don't have to do this," he choked, avoiding your gaze. "You shouldn't have to do this."

"Like I hell I shouldn't," you shot back. "I marrying you in 52 days. And on that day, I'm going to vow to love you for better or for worse, in sickness and in health - you know the rest. This is exactly what I should be doing."

"I'm sorry," he brokenly whispered. "I'm sorry I'm like this. I hate it. I hate..."

"What are you like, sweetheart? How is it that you think you should be?"

Marc shook his head, his eyebrows pinched with worry. "I-I don't even have a job or go to school, or always make you smile or feel better, like Steven. I can't even protect you, like Jake. I have nothing to give you. I can't think of one reason to even--"

"Don't you dare," you warned. "Don't you dare compare yourself to them - they are a part of you." Releasing a shaky sigh, you realized then how bad things must have gotten for Marc before he ever even picked up a bottle.

This was deeper than one encounter with Khonshu. He was calling his whole self-worth into question, comparing himself to Steven and now Jake. He hadn't failed you. Maybe you had failed him.

"Look, I don't claim to be any kind of an expert on addiction or DID or marriage," you explained to him. "I only know what I know. When Jake saved my life, you were there. You are a part of him. And-and Steven - his amazing mind is your mind too. This addiction you have - they all have it! I understand you are distinct people, and I respect that. And I don't pretend to know what you're going through or what it feels like to be you, but baby..."

Squeezing his hands, you peered up at him pleadingly. "You were my first love. I knew you first. I loved you first. You are the reason I'm here. And Steven. And Jake. We all love you, Marc and we need you. We're with you. Who else is going to help Steven remember to do his homework? Or make my coffee the way I like it? Or fix the sink every time it leaks?

"Who is going to make me feel like the most special person in the world, make me laugh, make me the best toast for breakfast--"

"Uh, that would be Steven," Marc admitted, his voice softening. "Steven does those things for you."

Thinking back through what you'd just said, you nodded. "True. He does make better toast than you but his coffee-making skills are shit."

Marc cracked a smile. Just a tiny one.

"And you do make me laugh. And make me feel special. Why do you think Steven is the only one who does that?"

"Because...I don't know, because he's so good at it," Marc shrugged, calming down a little more. Your candor was somehow soothing because he never had to wonder where he stood with you.

"Baby, where do you think he gets that from?" You stared at him pointedly, waiting for him to get it. "How many years did you try to protect him, to keep him safe?"

"Yeah, but I fucked that up too," he argued. "He was pissed when he found out about me, remember I told you that."

"Only a first," you reminded him. "But since then, you're literally his best friend. You keep him grounded. And I know it's true for Jake too. You're his moral center."

"Really," Marc scoffed, "then he's fucked."

You rolled your eyes. "You are. From what little I know of Jake, he doesn't seem all that bothered by violence... by doing whatever he feels he needs to do, for you or for Khonshu. Don't you see?"

Marc shook his head.

"When you have to use violence, you hate it, because it was used on you. You've agonized over the lives you've taken, because you value life. What is more morally centered than that?"

Finally releasing your hands, Marc rubbed his face with a long sigh. "I told myself I wasn't going to do this to you. That I was just going to go to a meeting and talk to you after. But...but I thought if I left to go to a meeting that I might stop by the store and there would be a drink, you know, just waiting..."

His hands found their way back to his hips. "What do I do?" He gazed at you as if everything in the world hanged on your answer.

"This," you said confidently. "You take a beat...take a breath, talk to me. Exactly this, baby. Everything you need to be doing, you are doing right now: admitting you're tempted to drink, stopping and thinking first, going to meetings..."

You counted his victories off on your fingers, "Using your support systems, being honest about your feelings, even the really fucking hard ones. This is exactly what you do, Marc. You are literally my hero."

Completely taken aback, his lip trembled. "W-what? No...I-I'm not."

Folding your arms over your chest, you narrowed your eyes, waiting a beat.

"You're not? Shit. I must have been thinking of someone else then." Cracking a grin, you inched toward him slowly. "You're so damn stubborn, Marc Spector, but you have met your match. Game fucking on."

Reaching for his wrists, still planted defiantly on his hips, you pulled his hands into yours. "Now, is there anything I can do to make you feel better today? I could walk you to your meeting? Or fix you some matzah ball soup? I've been practicinggg," you sang, a little playfully.

Sometimes acting like a dork really cheered up your grumpy fiancé. Maybe it would work.

"Please, god no," Marc laughed out, "it was more like matzah meal sludge. I think I could have built a sandcastle with it."

Giggling, you released his hands, sliding your arms around his torso. "Okay, fair enough. Maybe we'll do something else then."

"Yeah, like what?" He shot back, some of the tension finally draining out of his tense body as he wrapped his arms around your back.

"How about a massage?" You suggested. "You love it when I play with your hair. You could lie down on my lap, relax..."

"You're just trying to get my head between your legs, aren't you?" Marc chuckled, narrowing his eyes.

You smiled innocently up at him. "Always."

"Come on, it's freezing out here," he laughed, guiding you back toward the doorway with his arm around your shoulders.

"Still feel like a drink?" You asked, your candor never ceasing to amaze him.

"Only if you make me eat your matzah ball soup," he teased.

Just him joking was a good thing. And he probably would have you walk him to a meeting later in the day. One step at a time.

"You're really doing it, you know? I'm really proud of you," you sweetly affirmed as the two of you made your way back down to your flat.

"Thank you," Marc evenly answered, after a long silence. He hadn't really been sure how to reply until the two of you were back inside your living room. "For everything."

"One day at a time, my love. Today, you're doing it. You're doing everything right."

Wondering what he would ever do without you, Marc pulled you close, gently swaying with you in the silence of your flat. He had always felt so hard to love - his childhood had made sure of that. But you loved him hard.

@stormydaysxx laaundromat @kindlover @spxctorsslxt @deezisnotreal

@rivalriotrenegade @wordacadabra this--is--music @i-still-dont-like-your-face 

idk if all the tags work. I tried!

[familyabolisher]

I don't think I've ever seen anyone say much about loveday before, if the mood strikes you I'd love to hear what makes her compelling to you!

oh god you can really pinpoint how long someone’s been following me based on whether or not they’ve ever seen me (or anyone) say much about loveday. i will try to make my handful of thoughts here brief—a lot of this is somewhat corollary to my fucking massive backlog of takes about cytherea, which i feel is fitting considering we can pretty much only get a sense of ms heptane through what we know about her terrible terrible girlfriend.

i think the main thing i find interesting about loveday heptane is her role as this kind of invisibilised governing structure that, like, scaffolds the discourse of gtn. if the core drive of the book is (as i would argue it to be) gideon “learning” cavalierhood, and by extension us as readers understanding what cavalierhood “means” relative to the discourse of the text, then part of how this process of elucidating cavalierhood-as-subject-position takes place is in this three-way interplay that happens between gideon, loveday, and protesilaus relative to cytherea. put simply, gideon, loveday, and protesilaus can be understood as cytherea’s three cavaliers, and placing them in this equivocal discursive position allows us to draw useful conclusions about how we might understand the nature of cavalierhood, and how that understanding might be informing the wider narrative.

because the narrative focalises gideon as our protagonist, we could argue that she takes primacy within this triad, so perhaps another way of putting it is that everything she does relative to cytherea (and, later, harrow, though i think it’s significant that cytherea acts as a catalysing force towards the creation of that cavalier subject position that drives the book) ought to be examined with reference to a) protesilaus and b) loveday. as i said, all three occupy a discursively equivalent position relative to cytherea—that of the cavalier. so when we see this kind of courtship unfold between cytherea and gideon, and take on the language of grooming, objectification, predation, etc., alongside this process of, like, subjugating her, subduing her into a position whereby cavalierhood becomes a coherent possibility, we can understand one dimension of cavelierhood as a subject position to involve a form of sexual subjugation made somewhat salacious by its being socially taboo. at the same time, protesilaus as functionally cytherea’s cavalier is a dead body being reanimated, wholly at the behest of cytherea’s will, and loveday as cytherea’s cavalier is long dead, mourned, batterised, and made into a symbol of devotional grief (‘cytherea loveday’). when gideon ‘learns’ cavalierhood, she is ‘learning’ how to become the reanimated corpse and the beloved battery and the site of sexual availability. all three are then operating in tandem to make the nature of cavalierhood legible to us.

(i think this is at its most salient in the avulsion scene, which is one of the few moments in the book where we see cytherea make a fairly straightforward reference to loveday with “I’m sorry. We take so much. I’m so sorry.” there’s also this—

She said abruptly, “Why did you want to be a Lyctor?” [...] The older woman was leaning against Protesilaus’s arm. She looked extraordinarily sad, even regretful; when she caught Gideon’s eye, a tiny smile tugged on the corners of her mouth, then drooped again. Eventually, she said: “I didn’t want to die.”

—preempting her much later and more straightforward claim to palamedes that she & loveday went through with the lyctoral process because she “thought it would make me live.” this alongside the suggestion that she looks ‘regretful’ and the attention paid to gideon in a sentence that seems to be covertly about cytherea’s grief imo makes a fairly solid case for reading this exchange as another passing reference to loveday; there’s an emphasis, however covert, placed on cytherea’s grief and guilt in this chapter that hasn’t thus far made itself especially apparent. & it’s significant that these references crop up alongside a scene which has gideon acquiesce to being subjected to a brutal process of batterisation which serves as a fairly efficient metonym for the entire lyctoral process, and arguably by extension the entire state of cavalierhood, and also sees cytherea use language like ‘darling,’ ‘good girl,’ ‘poor baby,’ ‘i’ve got you,’ &c. &c. specifically to facilitate that process; these complex, overlapping networks of sexuality & subjugation & death & grief & lyctorhood are being put to pretty significant work in that chapter.)

re. loveday specifically—i’m really interested as well in the fact that, like, the seventh house seems to have this specifically chivalric culture attached to it (more so than some of the other houses, though it’s seemingly present across the whole internal body of the empire to some extent). we see this in, for instance: cytherea and dulcinea are duchesses when a duchy is a medieval apportioning of land; protesilaus and [presumably] loveday’s title is ‘the knight of rhodes’; dulcinea’s name references don quixote, which examines and parodies the conventions of chivalric literature and culture in spain. gideon and cytherea’s relationship is conducted rather like a courtship between a knight and a lady; though this speaks more to empire-wide social conventions around cavalierhood as a whole, i think it’s interesting that the narrative focalises cytherea (of venus!) when drawing attention to dynamics of love & sexuality within the relevant social order. all this is to say that i think cytherea and thus loveday by extension fit pretty coherently into the chivalric cultural narrative that muir is working from, and i think this gives us a lot of scope for thinking about what the two of them are ‘doing’ wrt gender.

& i think it’s fairly plain that the text is, among other things, interested in interrogating contemporary articulations of ‘lesbian gender’ abstracted through the various lenses that allow for diegetic consistency. what i mean by this is that, for example, we as contemporary readers who attach meaning to ‘butch’ as a descriptor know that gideon is a butch and we are to make sense of her character as such, but that’s not a gender framework that she has available and thus not a meaningful diegetic descriptor; we can’t say that gideon says or does X or Y or Z because of extant cultural norms around butchness, because those cultural norms don’t exist for her. we can, however, notice how the attention paid to rendering her as legibly ‘masculine’ in-text run parallel to (among other things) a particular kind of masculinity articulated in the language of chivalry, knighthood, &c.—which is legibly present in the text as cavalierhood, and is thus explained, historicised, problematised, all while acting as a vector by which we can think about the legibility of butchness in an imperialist social order.

(i feel like a proper reading of what tlt “does” with gender is its own post—real aveheads will remember—suffice it to say that i think the above is part of the fabric from which that discourse unfolds itself.)

i bring this up because i think loveday is something like the ur-text for this specific reading—which is why i’m so interested in her and the force she exerts over the narrative in gtn. most people seem to lean towards reading her as a butch (as a character we ought to understand as a butch &c.), and i would agree; i think it’s significant, however, that we can draw that conclusion based on cytherea’s demeanour/preferences (lol) and a handful of characteristics attributed to her in the very sparing accounts of her that we have in-text. however reliable or otherwise the accounts we have of her might be, i think it’s noteworthy that her lover remembers her as a ‘nice girl [who] died for me,’ clearly agentive in the decision to effectively sacrifice herself for cytherea (“i didn’t want to do it at all [...] she and i thought it would make me live”), memorialised in what to me reads as a symbolic marriage (‘cytherea loveday,’ the taking of the partner’s name—this along with the fact that john misremembers cytherea’s surname as ‘heptane’ and we never find out her functional ‘maiden name’ means that i think my reading of it as a gesture to marital conventions is more than fair), whereas eg. mercy and augustine remember her as ‘looking like she wanted every one of us beaten to death,’ seemingly generally unpleasant and antagonistic. this idea of someone who comes off as aggressive, unfriendly, standoffish to outsiders, but is loving, self-sacrificing, devotional to an excessively servile degree in romantic relationships is very much—not stereotypical, necessarily, but archetypal, and especially archetypal to the ‘chivalrous butch’ that i think muir is employing. add to this the things i said above about the seventh house seeming to operate on a culture of chivalry, her title being that of a knight, the kind of necromancer-cavalier relationship that cytherea solicits from gideon closely resembling a chivalric courtship, and i think there’s a case to be made for loveday as a stand-in for this archetypal ‘chivalrous butch’ that the text then probes and problematises. 

this is interesting to me because i think it allows us to read loveday and her presence in gtn in particular as something of a discursive signifier rather than a fully fleshed-out “character”; i mean, crucially, she’s not fleshed out, she’s entirely subsumed by cytherea! if (and i realise i’m going a little crazy here; blorbo from my autism, &c.) we read the version of cytherea and loveday present as disciples at canaan house as representative of how butchfemme negotiations of gender can be subsumed into an imperialist social ordering via the conditions of chivalry, we can think about loveday then being collapsed into a signifier for a discursive position such that her presence in the text governs how gideon navigates cavalierhood and how we as readers understand and interpret it (cf. how i opened this piece, talking about the gideon-loveday-protesilaus triad), and how by extension the imposition of subjectivity via subjugation eschews the agency of the subject in favour of transforming them into a set of signifiers, symbols, representations, &c. (this is—i have to say it—this is the crux of the argument i make in salolita, and, as we all know, lolita is a huge part of the scaffolding of these books.) it also allows us to read cytherea as we receive her in gtn as a kind of unravelling or destabilising of that signifying dynamic, which we can of course extrapolate onto the destabilisation of the necromancer-cavalier-lyctor thing as a whole that gtn introduces and articulates through her.

and i guess i just—i’m interested in this! i think the gender angle and the subjugation angle are my two preferred ways of approaching these books, and i think it’s pretty easy to eke out some v compelling readings by kind of throwing loveday heptane at the frameworks and seeing what happens.

[captainofthetidesbreath]

Now that we're through season two of Midst and are looking forward to the trailer for season three this week, I thought it'd be fun to return to the season two trailer to take a look at the "questions you may have" after the season one finale that it listed and see how many of them we got answers to and which are questions we still have!

——

Why the fuck did the moon explode? This is still a question we all have, audience and characters alike.

What's gonna happen to utterly doomed Midst and everybody trapped on it by an incoming wave of reality-devouring fog? Just as when Saskia was asked this, it is not really possible to answer this one succinctly—but we do get an answer.

Are Lark and Tzila gonna be okay? Yes! Physically, at least. For the time being.

Are they gonna figure out that Sherman's not dead? They did. It was harrowing.

What's Phineas gonna do now that he's been abandoned by the Trust, the very institution that raised him and gave him purpose and his sense of self-worth? And like, what is he gonna do? Go to therapy. I cannot believe, in the best way, that the answer is literally "go to therapy" here. After that, it's go to the Un (!!!) to rescue Sherman. He's always running after one Guthrie or another.

Will Jonas Spahr do the right thing? He's done a lot of things. Some of it was definitely not the right thing, and some was an attempt at the right thing, and some of it was a failure to commit to the right thing. So, mixed bag at best. It can be said that, ultimately, Jonas Spahr has come to a place where he is trying to do the right thing.

What even is the right thing? This is highly subjective, both in reference to Spahr and in general, so whether we received an answer to this is up to interpretation. There are few clear and unequivocal answers in this story.

What is Imelda's deal? Zealotry!

Why did the Trust even bother rescuing Moc Weepe even though he's this weird sleazeball piece of shit who stabbed his closest friends in the back? That massive ridiculousness of an abacus was more than just an inconvenience, it represented the fact that Weepe has enough Valor to be a member of the Upper Trust! Also, Imelda sees his cunning and ruthlessness as an asset and something that the Trust needs, which should concern everyone.

And what is a mirrorhawk? This has not gotten clearer, and I suspect never will! They're apparently edible though, given herbed mirrohawk dip was served at an Upper Trust luncheon.

What is a bocular horse? "You really know what it is. It really barely needs mentioning. You've seen science fiction. Yes, that picture you've got of the bocular horse in your mind right now, that's it."

What is going on with Weepe's voice? Apparently the same as what's going on with the rest of him, given his voice has gotten more gravelly lately against all odds.

Is Landlord gonna die? They told us this one in the season two trailer directly: no. He does make a couple of lovely reappearances.

Why did Lark kill Fuze? What is she trying to hide? Tying up loose ends, trying to prevent him from identifying her as the one who killed Maximilian Loxlee. Why she killed Maximilian, however, is a new question we've got.

Is the nutcracker okay? It was! Then Saskia threw it out, so...

Will the rapidly depreciating value of Valor ever restabilize, or is the market doomed to implode? Still waiting on this one, and the Trust is sure trying to stablize the market. It's not looking great though, gonna be honest.

Is the Trust bad? It's pretty bad over there, to put it mildly.

Did Saskia's dogs really eat the melted corpse of enterprising businessman Atticus Concord? The answer to this hasn't changed since season one, so it's still at: apparently! Also, we learned the dogs' names: Lloyd and Bartimaeus.

[multifunctionalnitroglycerin]

Poe’s Annabel Lee in TLT #2

You thought I'd never post it huh? Well about a month later, here is the beast. Enjoy!

We have already delved into the most obvious parallel that the TLT books create, between John and Alecto and the heroes of Poe’s Annabel Lee. I would like to now draw some comparisons between Gideon and Harrow and Annabel Lee. This might seem a bit far-fetched, because how can John and Alecto AND Gideon and Harrow exist in the same premise within Poe’s lines?

The answer is simple. They don’t. Contradictory, I know, but a lot of that comparison and many of those parallels stem from the fact that those two pairings themselves are reflections of one another. Or perhaps picture negatives. After all, what John and Alecto had, stems from love, and it is plainly stated – as plainly as all things in Muir’s writing are, at least – whereas the beginning of Gideon and Harrow’s relationship sprouts from unadulterated loathing. We learn afterward of course that this is not really the case, what with Gideon sacrificing herself in an act she perceived as the only act of Love, she could offer to Harrow and whatnot. But the parallels are there. And it is deliberate, for John and Alecto broke the world, and Gideon and Harrow will remake it – or die trying. Muir has a wonderful way of interweaving elements in the plot and creating comparisons, parallels, and antitheses between the countless colorful dynamics in the books. So, I feel where John and Alecto broke the world, and are going to -probably – die, Gideon and Harrow will step up and mirror them, bringing hope back to the world. As @local-selkie said, the series probably won’t end without hope. Hope for reconciliation, for fixing what has been irrevocably broken, hope for breaking circles and hope for a better tomorrow. (Yeah well, I may be a cynic, but I am human above all, and if there is one thing that humans yearn for, live for and fight for, it’s hope. Naïve, childish, hope. It’s what makes us better, I think)

Onto drawing a few parallels now,

It was many and many a year ago

In a kingdom by the sea

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

by the name of Annabel Lee

Not really much to say about this one. Our story for these two starts about twenty years ago, in far off Pluto – well, the Ninth – with the salty ass underground (might point to there having been saltwater there at some point) where Wake collapsed dead, and a wailing Gideon was found. Harrow had not yet been born, and frankly neither of them would be what one would call a fair maiden.

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

than to love and be loved by me

I was a child and she was a child

In this Kingdom by the Sea

Here I feel we could consider this a reference to the shared childhoods of our heroines. The lonely, shared childhood of our heroines. For there were no other children on the Ninth, and they bitterly clung to each other with all they had. Even if it means beating each other into a pulp within an inch of their lives. Because Harrow was a child, and Gideon was a child on the far off Ninth, where there were no other children, and all they had was each other and their rivalry. So, I can see the whole “she lived with no other thought” than finding a way to make each other’s life hell. And as we see going forward in the books, that was all they could do to love each other, the only way they knew how.

But we loved with a love that was more than love— 

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven  

Coveted her and me.

We loved with a love that was more than love, we loved with a love that felt like hatred, with a devotion that felt like abandonment, because Gideon could think of no greater act of love than sacrificing herself for Harrow, than letting Harrow consume her, and Harrow could think of no fate worse than that. Harrow loved Gideon so much the greatest act of service, of devotion, of love she could think to offer to her ill-matched cavalier was to spare her, to let her live. And they both failed spectacularly at that, but oh well. Angst.

As for the analogue to the seraphs, this is a bit trickier than John and Alecto. Because for them it’s obvious it’s the rest of the Lyctors, the Lyctors that couldn’t compete with John’s monster cavalier, the Lyctors that could never achieve their perfect connection. But who could it be that covets the connection between Harrow and Gideon? I think to be able to imagine an answer to that we should take a step away from the narrative and look at them from everyone else’s perspective. For the Niners it’s a no brainer. They know Gideon, they know Harrow, they would never think of a worthy connection between the two as highlighted by Crux’s words in NtN (and goodness if that didn’t hurt). But what about the Canaan House? Contrary to Harrow’s insecurities and paranoia, to the external observer they do present a united front. The two black clad nuns of the Ninth, with their veils and their disconcerting face paint, with their creepy/ damning/ borderline heretical prayer, the tiny unhinged necro, and the huge, silent Cav that disarmed Magnus in three moves, that seem so in sync it’s almost uncanny (“Death first to vultures and scavengers - AN ICON). So, I could see, the rest of the people in Canaan House at least envying their connection a bit, (if they haven’t already figured them out – like Pal and Ianthe), at least at first glance. And then there is ofc SYLAS OCTAKISERON, (I hate him, I am sorry, but if I could stick him headfirst to the ground I would). The Eighth generally isn’t that fond of the Ninth so no surprise there.  I am rly not sure how the OG Lyctors would feel abt them but if you have any ideas feel free to share.

 And this was the reason that, long ago,

 In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsman came  

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre 

 In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,   In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

Alright, so as I mentioned before, this is where the tone shifts to something more chilly, if you will. No more fairytale notions – as much as Gideon and Harrow can be perceived as a fairytale. But if we want to be particular abt Gideon and Harrow’s timeline this is the exact point where Harrow makes herself a mausoleum for one more soul, Gideon. (The pain though). I know that at first, I interpreted kingdom by the sea as the Ninth, for Gideon and Harrow, but here I think it is safe to assume that it is referencing earth again, aka the First, where the final showdown for GtN is taking place. The highborn kingsman, I think again references the Lyctors only this time we are talking Cytherea, that forced Gideon’s hand, in sacrificing herself and Harrow partly consuming her. And now Gideon is a part of Harrow, locked away in her - soon to be lobotomized - temporal lobe.

And obviously Harrow aches for Gideon, for she never wanted this to be her fate. She consumed her out of necessity, not out of want. It is the process of Lyctorhood itself that comes and takes Gideon from Harrow, that causes this painful sacrifice, and has her clutching at whatever remnants of Gideon she has, as hard as possibly, with no plan whatsoever, but to preserve her, thus rendering Gideon’s sacrifice pointless.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love  

Of those who were older than we—  

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in heaven above, 

 Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

And this is Lyctorhood ala Harrow. Aka rendering the whole procedure useless, because you love your cavalier so much you cannot bear the thought of killing and consuming them. (Or well, Lyctorhood ala Ninth House, because Anastasia attempted preserving Samael first. I mean we can see that the Ninth Necros love their cavs too much – They literally both went, Immortality and immense power? No, thanks, I don’t want it without my cav by my side. They’re both ambitious enough to try, however, and we saw what that cost them).  I think that this part works as a foreshadow for Gideon and Harrow in the future, (for a hopeful future) as well as it is the part with the closest parallel to Alecto and John. Because part of Alecto is in Harrow and part of Gideon is John, and their love is enough that Gideon kills herself for Harrow, no regrets, and the stubborn, little, malnourished nunlet lobotomizes herself to spare Gideon being consumed into nothingness. So yes, their love transcended that of the other Lyctors and their cavs, because they refused to make the sacrifice, because they loved each other so much they found a way to at least stop the procedure, instead of just ling down and taking it (well Harrow did, Gideon was ready to die for her. And again. How Gideon thinks so little of herself she thinks she is better off as a sacrificial lamb, and Harrow in her endless guilt just refuses to let her – masterful and painful in equal measure. They both feel betrayed, because the other didn’t let them die, but wanted them to live.

As for the never severing the souls, I have two words for you. Perfect Lyctorhood. (Just an idea, but we’ll see)

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes  

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, 

 In her sepulchre there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

            Dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee, like the coffee-shop au dream/hallucination Harrow has? Like the constant nightmares where her brain glitches replacing Gideon with Ortus?

            I must admit that this part to me also highlights the connection between Harrow – Anastasia’s Line – and Alecto. Because we meet Alecto through the dreams, because Harrow sees Alecto in her sleeping and wakeful hours, because in the dream Harrow is Alecto and Alecto is Harrow.

The bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee, Alecto’s golden eyes, Gideon’s  golden eyes, and Harrow’s own dark ones, that while not bottomless pits are pretty dark in their own measure. Now the lying down next to my beautiful Anabel Lee part, is… tricky for those two. I honestly don’t have many ideas abt it. I can picture it as Kiriona and Harrow sitting next to one another in the Tomb, and together undoing what has been done, and then having their happy ending, but that’s as far as it goes.  If we take the idea that Harrow is the mausoleum in which Gideon’s soul is preserved, I can imagine that the whole thing will happen in the River. Perhaps from an access point on the Ninth, but literally this part is the one I most struggle to interpret.

Of course, we also need to take the biblical connections into account, and those biblical connections are in large why there are so many parallels between the two pairings. You have God and his offspring, that sacrifices herself, you have Harrow, who in a sense is also Christ going down in Hades in the days before the resurrection, and you have Alecto. John is Gideon and Harrow is Alecto and it’s a glorious mess.  We have parallels in a love that transcends all that was known before, we have it starting from what is perceived as hate but in reality, is the last strings of their sanity sticking together, with a few sprinkles of codependence. And again, is that love truly as beautiful as it appears?

We do tend to romanticize it a lot in the fandom, but ultimately, it’s a story about grief and loss. Harrow’s story is abt grief and loss and guilt. The future of the ninth was sacrificed for her to be born, her whole planet will be lost if she doesn’t find some way to help it, she has already lost so much and sacrificed so much to be where she is, and the last straw is Gideon’s death and coming back as Kiriona. And Gideon, Gideon that was born alone on the ninth that no one wanted, no one paid attention to but Harrow – Harrow who made her life a living hell yes, but Harrow who talked to her, even if it was just to exchange insults. Gideon abandoned by the world, that loved Harrow and harrow abandoned her too, in choosing not to utilize her sacrifice. Their stories are so interwoven with themes of love, loss, and grief, that the parallels are hard not to draw.

Anyhow, I am beat. I hope this makes sense. Feel free to add your own thoughts and comments, and don’t forget to take care of yourselves.

Till next time!

PS check out @katakaluptastrophy's post abt the descent of Christ/Harrow in Hades here.

It's spectacular, as usual (The articulation is so on point I cannot. I feel like a mad scientist reading a scholar's work every time). And perhaps with the Orthodox Easter approaching I might take the chance to revisit the scriptures myself.

And @fkapommel's post abt the duality of the Christ symbolism in Gideon and Harrow here.

I enjoyed this too much not to recommend it.

[paradoxcase]

Chapter 29 of Nona the Ninth

There's a First skull on this chapter, but there's no one in it who's associated with the First, I guess unless you want to count Pyrrha and/or Kiriona, but neither of them have big speaking parts here

So Paul can do necromancy just fine, and doesn't seem to be affected by Varun the Eater at all. I guess this is because Camilla's body used to belong to a non-necromancer?

Honestly, why didn't John decide that the Lyctors should wind up in the cavalier's body instead of the necromancers? The pros are that their final body, that they'll have for all of eternity, is not made out wet noodles and can wield a sword that's not a rapier, and also they will be immune to the resurrection beasts' madness aura, and I don't think there are any cons, really. Ianthe could do necromancy from Babs' body just fine, so I don't think that would be an issue. It does mean that Ianthe would spend eternity looking like Babs, but that's ok, I don't have a lot of sympathy for Ianthe

I just realized that they totally abandoned Babs' body in the tunnels and it's probably going to get eaten by a Herald. Poor Babs, first Ianthe disrespected him by doing his hair wrong, and now he doesn't even get a funeral. He was kind of a dick, but I'm not sure he deserves all the desecration his body has been through

I guess because it seems like We Suffer is staying behind to hold off the Heralds and let the truck escape? This wasn't made super clear

So there is a messenger, and two parts of a message, and Aim is one of the parts. So is she three separate entities? She is sometimes saying "I" and sometimes saying "we" and the first "I" refers to the messenger, but Aim is the name of one of the messages. I don't know who "us" refers to in "when the message was passed to us" because previously the messenger was singular. And we have a new name Emma Sen, which doesn't seem to follow any of the naming conventions we've seen so far, though it does have some letters in common with "messenger". And I'm curious what it means for the message to be "too simple for human beings like us to understand". She hopes Nona will hear it, so maybe it is intended for planets? I guess this will probably get resolved in the next book, since there's not much time left in this one

Pash made a joke! I think she is learning how to be funny from Pyrrha. I think someone should write an AU where Pyrrha is married to Wake and is Pash's cool aunt, I think that would be fun. Maybe G1deon can be in there somewhere too

I wonder if she still thinks it would be super romantic for Harrow to eat her soul and is jealous of Paul now or something

Ok, but I'm pretty sure you're going to the Ninth to kill John and as we all know that will explode the sun and etc., etc., so I'm not sure that's actually true

I like how she talked to Juno Zeta for five minutes and she learned the names of all her family members and now is someone she has to say goodbye to

Interesting and sad that Paul refers to Palamedes and Camilla as "they" and not like, "we"

Gideon is just pissed that there isn't anyone she can call "Sex Pal" any longer. I wonder if they picked that name specifically because it would be hard for Gideon to come up with a funny variation of it

If We Suffer is staying behind, I wonder what Paul has planned here

Or do they just mean that she will die soon, and they will see her ghost in the River?

Since the next chapter is the last John chapter, I guess this means that Nona passes out after they enter the River

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for avenging my sweet children?

Recently, I lost my young triplets. This would be a harrowing experience under any circumstance, but under mine in particular, it was especially grevious.

Please, allow me to explain.

My children were from a forbidden relationship with the love of my life. We came from two rival households. As such, our intermingling was forbidden, but we didn't care. We were convinced love would win.

I was shocked but joyful when I fell pregnant. I was convinced that my household would come to love my children, and one day accept them when the truth came out.

But the truth came out much sooner than I anticipated. A despicable lout who I'll refer to as RW learned about my children's' parentage after being shown a sign by the heavens. He revealed my misbehavior in front of the entire household, outing me as a iconoclast and my children as bastards.

We were exiled. Even a 'friend' of mine, FW, who claimed to love my children previously, did not support us. She attacked me outright and told me to go.

And so 'go' we did. I hoped to flee to my lover's home. But to get there, I had to cross the river, and just my luck-- there were terrible storms. Even so, though, I knew it was my only hope.

I attempted to cross with my babies in tow.

But we were capsized-- thrust into the waters and drowned. Just barely, I was saved, rescued by my aformentioned lover (Who I'll hereon refer to as AD), but my children were not so fortunate. The tide swept them away, leading them to a watery, incomprehensibly horrific grave.

I expected AD to comfort me, but instead, he was aghast. He asked how I could possibly bring our children into such a dangerous situation. I tried to explain my banishment to him, but he refused to listen to reason, telling me he never wanted to see me again.

...I believe I know why, too. It had nothing to do with the deaths of our children. It turns out AD had another mistress... some reprehensible wench from his household! All this time, he had been having an affair... playing me for a witless fool.

I was not allowed to find refuge in AD's home. He and his people kicked me out, calling my crimes unforgivable.

I was angry. So angry. I had lost everything in a single day. And even worse, there were people to blame! And so I began to plot. Surely there had to be a way to avenge my babies... to lay them to rest and make their murderers pay.

I started with RW-- the revealer. I slit his throat while he was on a religious pilgrimage and left him to bleed out. His companions later attempted to bury his body, but I dug it up, allowing the vultures to consume his flesh.

After that, I killed FW... the person who pretended to be by friend. Apparently, she had seen my children drown. Apparently, she had done nothing to intervene! She had to die for that! I lured her into the territory of extremely venomous snakes and tricked her into being bit. Soon after, she succumbed to a horrifying death.

The final person I intended to kill was AD's mistress. She was pregnant by this point, and I couldn't stand it. I knew that AD was planning to replace my children, and so I decided I'd slaughter her and her unborn babies both! Perhaps then he'd understand how I felt.

However, AD jumped into the trajectory of my attack. I ended up killing him instead of his mistress. I tried to kill her too, but was soon after slain, ending my murder spree with a mere count of three.

I would have liked to kill more, truthfully. There are many others responsible for what happened. Even so, though, I did what I did, and for the most part, I'm content with that.

It seems our ancestors did not understand my actions, however. For my insolence, I've been condemned to hell. Whereas AD-- a heartless, unrepentant adulterer, is allowed to walk among the stars, I've been banished to the fires of Hades. Here, I will wander for eternity.

As such, I suppose I am forced to ask... am I the asshole? Or am I a hero-- a matriarch who made monsters pay for the suffering of three innocent children?

[vaguely-concerned]

I wish to do some lyctor sexy party demography, for fun and literally no profit, so here we go.

Okay, so when augustine talks about 'the shindigs they used to pull off back in the day, when they dared to congregate' -- also referred to as 'sexy parties' in other places, which I'm taking to be vaguely synonymous with 'orgies' half the time b/c... come on -- most of that seems to be after they became lyctors. this means that at that point all the cavaliers are already dead, and there would be a few more notable absences:

g1deon: legendarily unamorous, canonically will excuse himself from the orgy to go do leg day instead. acespec king, I feel is implied

if I understand the sequence of events right, anastasia was out of the picture before prime sexy party era

Which in turn means that as far as I can figure the core sexy party crew seems to have been down to:

john (though he clearly never participated to the point of *ahem* emission before mercy and augustine broke out their full duplicitous slut game lmao, still leaves lots of room for possibility here between necromancy and human imagination)

cyrus of the many many nudes. he gave those to people for their birthdays whether they had asked for them or no. def sexy party material.

ulysses, who also seems to have been The sexy party instigator; is referred to as 'that madman (affectionate)' several times so he sounds like he was the life and soul of the party, even though I'm still a bit unclear on how he did get a soul back in the first place, or whether it was ever like. his own soul.

augustine 'I never met a problem a threesome won't fix' quinque. naturally.

cassiopeia. finding out it was her wife's soul she ate adds... a lot of stuff to this one, but she was canonically around and a lightweight haha

cytherea -- considering she'd spent most of her life camped out on death's doorstep, might have been her first chance to really get into sexy party stuff. little sister vibes on this girl from how the others talk about her, but that means very little in this psychosexual horror show of a found family across ten thousand years

mercymorn 'I sincerely wish augustine would stop trying to solve every problem with a threesome but *aggrieved sigh* I'm in fuck you I hope you choke on a dick and die >:(' the first. hated the sexy parties, but is still implied to have attended them. one of her immediate reasons for brushing off harrow and ianthe is that they aren't as pretty as anastasia and cyrus respectively, though, so maybe the saint of joy doth protest too much lol

anyway let it not be said I didn't do my part to try to figure out which of the horrible old war criminals were hooking up the most

[artbyblastweave]

Gideon the Ninth Liveread: Chapter 10

Harrow is still missing in action. Noted casually, because Gideon doesn't care per se, but this is absolutely a length of seperation that would be setting off alarm bells within any other necro/cavalier pair; for all her complaints about Gideon not being able to maintain the charade, Harrow's lack of regard for Gideon strikes me as the fundamentally weak link in their plan, most likely papered over only by the fact that the other houses have no frame of reference for how the Ninth conducts it's operations. Also, I’ve had the thought that the other houses might not care; the whole "fake cavalier" thing seems tailored to the scrutiny of a social environment much more heavily populated. Harrow was gearing up for some real court intrigue, but Harrow and Gideon are marooned with just 16 named characters, all of whom have their own shit going on.

Funny aside; Gideon doesn't know what Fish are.

More details on skeleton mechanics. Harrow's specific skill at boneology (and that line I've seen floating around, "we do bones, motherfucker" is shoring up my growing belief that each of the houses has a Hunger-games-like arbitrary speciation in their flesh magics; it's a sign of great skill when you can get skeletons up and running without the assistance of connective tissues or any other fleshy bits. This is potentially a cultural engineering thing- an attempt to delineate between living slave-and-indentured-servant castes and pure robotic servitors. An attempt to head-off the exact bullshit Harrow is pulling with her parents, in other words.

Trying to guess which house this new antagonistic house is. First, second, third, fourth, fifth, seventh and ninth are accounted for; this is either sixth or eighth. I get the sense that the necro may have artificially arrested their aging somehow, and with it possibly their emotional maturity/brain development? It would explain at least in part their Cav's disgruntlement. Or maybe the fact that the Cav has actually clearly seen a ton of use as a meat shield while the Necro is in silk and chain-mail too thin to fulfill its function. Actually, this looks like the only pairing thus far that’s seen real action. Most of the rest are kids, or Magnus, who does not, you know. Have the vibe of a guy who’s experienced true horror.

Gideon's reaction to the necro's thousand-yard stare is telling; her recollection of Crux, of Sister Lachrimorta, of the Reverend Parents, all emphasize this need to be wanted; to be of use; Crux's version is painful because it conveys disappointment, the Reverend Parents because they convey fear. And as she leaves the dining hall, her response to the Lyctor Trials is that she feels "suckered;" she isn't wanted here, she isn't useful here.

"The Stinging Slap in the face that she didn't even have Harrow." Okay, here we get a sign that Gideon views Harrow as a comforting absolute even if she nominally hates her. I've been wondering more than a little what the hell the grounds for a turnaround in their relationship were going to be; here we get a single inch of concession. (Also, open call to the peanut gallery- what does/did the insufferable discourse surrounding this relationship look like? Abuse apologia? Power Dynamics? This whole series feels like a hotbed of Facewearer discourse.)

Okay, my Bonesaw assessment of Dulcinea swells in its hold on my mind. She wanted in on Gideon's personal brand of suffering because it seemed like a romantic way to die, and lost interest because of the aesthetic mismatch. I'm inclined to say that this is callous towards Gideon's situation but given Dulcinea's state it feels like a grass-is-greener situation more than anything truly appropriative.

So the seventh house deals with... reversing aging? Arresting the spread of disease? Or the progression? This is mentioned to be a hereditary issue, so perhaps their brand of necromancy was influenced by 10,000 years of trying to counter what’s happening to Dulcinea. And, as a point of comparison, I can imagine that both Ninth and First House’s skill with bone automatons developed downstream of their chronic manpower problems.

Dulcinea twigged to the sword discrepancy. This makes sense; Her Cav is proportioned like a super mutant and seems unlikely to have exclusively trained with toothpick rapiers. I’m not sure if Dulcinea is the only necro who's capable of noticing this discrepancy at a glance- there are other fairly militaristic houses present- but she’s certainly the only one paying enough attention to Gideon specifically to notice.

Okay, Protesilaus is back. He reports that something is shut. What’s shut? Dulcinea sits and looks harmless, and she can afford to because she’s got her Cav off executing her plans for her, whatever they are.

So, final roundup! I sense a love interest. Noting, belatedly, that the very first thing Dulcinea does is give Gideon an opportunity to be helpful; and through this whole sequence it becomes clear that Gideon just kinda... does stuff if people ask nicely and make her, specifically, feel wanted and useful. She gets chased out of the dining hall, painted as a wrong and intrusive Thing, and moments later falls head-over-heels for the first person who makes her feel actively desired, even just for rote manual labor. Dulcinea’s appraisals of Gideon have this real.... charge, a suspicious charge, I felt like I was watching a spider wrapping up a fly with every request Gideon granted- and there’s a level on which it’s very sad, because a person less starved for affection would find being approached like this off-putting. Dulcinea is rotating her like a specimen! But to Gideon it’s a fantastic experience for reasons she doesn’t even have the vocabulary to articulate. I can’t picture her instinct being to confess everything at the slightest provocation to anyone else on this rock. 

Notably, however, I never have to hurriedly scroll past any posts about Gideon and Dulcinea being cute together- and unusually for this series, I have no idea why that is. This is one of the few elements of this story I’m experiencing completely blind, and I’m extremely excited to learn whatever fucked up circumstances lead to Harrow pulling ahead of Dulcinea as the intuitive romantic lead.

[alasse-earfalas]

Dark Link and Cowardice, part 4

This is part 4 of my LU theory. This theory had to be spread across four different posts thanks to Tumblr's image limit, all of which I will link to here. Part 4 is under the cut.

Part 1: Dink is a Coward Part 2: Cowardly Powers Part 3: Two Weapons Part 4: the Curse of Cowardice <—you are here

Part 4: the Curse of Cowardice

We've discussed how the curse of cowardice affected the Master Sword (or, rather, how it didn't). So let's switch gears and talk about how it affected Twilight.

When asked if any of the Links have allergies, Jojo responded with the following:

"Cowardice. It doesn't sit right with them."

At first I laughed this off. Okay yeah, of course the Heroes of Courage would despise cowardice, that just makes sense, right?

But then I remembered Twilight's symptoms. And Dink's behavior. And I realized that this answer was given not to the question of what the Links hate or dislike, but to the question of, "what are they allergic to". Suddenly what I thought was a silly quip seemed to be a lot more than that, and I found myself consumed with this idea and wondering, "Why didn't I see this before‽"

Immediately after being struck with the cursed blade, Twilight still seems to be relatively fine (as far as his courage goes, anyway). He repeatedly insists on returning to battle despite his grave injury; so far, so Link.

But by the time Four and Hyrule reach him in the village, his attitude is starting to nosedive; so much so that it just about offends Hyrule.

Notice the language Twilight's using here. He's starting to second-guess his motives for his journey, almost as if he's wondering if it was even worth it. He's placing the responsibility for his adventure on his friends, his loved ones, and everyone else who was in danger, rather than himself. He's beginning to sound like someone who doesn't believe they have control over their own fate.

This is the cowardice beginning to take hold.

By the time the rest of the gang gets there, he's gotten worse.

At first we get a few lines that establish that yes, this is still Twilight. We haven't lost him entirely as a person. And yet, the more he talks, the more hopeless he sounds. This man went from, "I'm not going to die from a scratch" to "I'm not afraid to die" in a matter of hours. And this is a Hero of Courage we're talking about, not some Joe Schmoe!

This goes to show just how potent this curse is, and how potentially deadly it is for a Link in particular. What these boys have been through would have broken the spirit of anyone else. This is a harrowing glimpse of what happens when the Hero's Spirit, the Spirit of Courage, is eroded by cowardice. Twilight refers to this as "divine courage" later, so it's implied that each of these boys understands just how uniquely powerful their courage is.

Thankfully, Twilight does not remain in this state. Once he's through the worst of it and is on the mend, this is how he describes the experience:

I find two things about this rather interesting. One, the curse weakened and let go of him on its own. I'll get to why I think this happened in a second. And two, once the curse fled, it was no longer courage that Twilight lacked—it was power.

These two things seem to confirm things that we already know about the Hero's Spirit, and that were brought up previously by various Links.

Here's what I think: Twilight was able to fight this curse in the first place because the Hero's Spirit is, by definition, unbreakable. Yes it was rocky; yes he wavered; but all it took was the stubbornness and encouragement of his friends to right his course, to convince him to keep fighting, even in his half-conscious state.

Many of the Heroes (all to some extent, but some more so than others) draw their strength and power primarily from their courage. Twilight is one of these. Hence, when the curse failed to deplete him of his courage entirely (see: unbreakable spirit), it instead held onto him long enough to siphon away all of the strength that he drew from his courageous heart. If it couldn't kill him by depriving him of his courage, then it would kill him by stealing his power instead.

Thankfully, his friends were there to lend him both their own courage and their strength in Twilight's time of need. Thus, the group as a whole is brought closer together, and they've learned valuable lessons about the seriousness of this threat, even if they don't quite understand how it operates yet.

It'll be interesting to see where things go from here. Ultimately this is just a fun theory and may or may not be what Jojo has in mind, but there's so much evidence for it that I had to throw it all together and share it with you guys. Thank you for sticking it out through multiple posts for this, I hope it was worth your time haha.

Take care everyone!

[mayasaura]

thinkin thots about varus the eater,,,, when i read htn and was introduced to the whole 'RB induced insanity' and how the lyctors perceived the Beasts, i assumed it was your classic 'cosmic horror too large for the human mind to convey appears in form that teeters on the edge of reality' , but now with ntn telling us everyone sees an RB the same way, I'm being led to believe its more 'cosmic desire so large it almost ruptures the brain but is still ultimately recognisable' 1/2

(varun anon) what is that desire? it presumably changes from beast to beast, and because we don't know anything about the others apart from some descriptions (though i am curious about what a beast that is received as 'beautiful' by human standards[the one who was trying to drown mercy and only softly repeated 'die'] could possibly want, considering how we have alecto the haunted barbie doll and how much she hates being 'pretty') 2/3 now lmao

(varun anon for the last time i promise/lh) assuming that varun is presenting as their body pre-Oh-Fuckening, it means their cosmic desire is home!!!!!! it makes so much sense why they love none so much and are so ready to come to her aid

Yo, I had assumed the same thing, that the nature of a Resurrection Beast depended on the observer, not the Beast itself. But you're right, Varun proves otherwise! Why do all the Resurrection Beasts appear as different kinds of cosmic horror? Why a giant head? Why something beautiful that tried to gently drown them? Why a giant glowing blue orb?

If Varun is the ghost of Uranus, then that really is just... what it looked like in life.

Of course, there is the difference in location to consider. This is Varun periscoping, peeking out into the physical world, while the other Resurrection Beasts that Augustine and Mercy describe were in the River. We don't know what a fully realised Varun might look like.

So what does Varun want? Does it want to go home, is that why it looks like itself? If home is a place, the solar system, there would be nothing stopping it from going there. Like any revenant, it must have a thanergetic link it could follow back to its corpse. If home isn't a place but a time when it was alive, a part of its existence now ended, then home is beyond even it now.

Most revenants have links to their murderers, too, if it's looking for John: which it seems like it was, prior to the events of Harrow the Ninth. It isn't anymore.

There's only one reason for Varun to be hanging over New Rho, and that's Nona. It's looking for Alecto, the Earth, the last living representative of its kind. I had thought it was looking for her to enact vengeance on its behalf, and it does want that. It asked for it in as many words, the first time it possessed Judith. But...

“They concoct their own vengeance,” said the Captain. “Their justice is not my justice. Their water is not my water. I came to help. I am made a mockery. The danger is upon you, and you do not even know … they are coming out of their tower, salt thing. There is a hole at the bottom of their tower. I will pull their teeth. I will make it blank for you.”

There is clearly a wrong way to go about it, in Varun's opinion. Who or what the "they" is in this statement is not entirely clear, if it's even referring to the same thing every time. The 'they' coming out of their tower would seem to be the devils possessing people, the things that took Colum back in Canaan House. Is their justice not Varun's justice? If it doesn't want what the devils want, then what is its vision of justice, what vengeance does it want Alecto to enact?

[roydeezed]

One Piece-Chapter Round-Up(Chapter 1085)

Holy hell, my heart was in my throat the entirety of that chapter. There was such a sinister atmosphere engulfing the first part of this chapter. It really felt like stumbling upon something we shouldn’t have and the fact that we were so close to learning the truth was exhilarating. I don’t want to get into spoilers so I’ll put my more in-depth discussion below the cut. For now check out Franky and the cute turtles! It feels like forever since Franky’s been on one of these cover stories. To be honest I can’t remember the last one with him or Brook. But Franky’s defeated a crab trying to eat the baby turtles and is shepherding them to the sea. I swear that years after it ends people are going to find connections between these Cover Pages and details we haven’t found out. I say that because these baby turtles having to fend for themselves reminds me of how Franky had to fend for himself after being abandoned by his parents. I’m a freak about One Piece so I could go on about how I love Franky’s emotionality and how this reminds me of Tom taking care of a young Cutty Flam but let’s get to what we really should be talking about below the cut!

To save some time and space let’s just say I was very generous with the use of expletives during this entire first part because it was that harrowing. Right away we start off with Imu referring to themselves in the third person while talking in an older style of speech. They talk about how the D clan were their ancient enemy. Coba also says how Imu was the name of one of the 20 Kings. If Imu isn’t Lili, which I still consider a slight possibility, then the fact that Imu cursed her mistakes gives way to a pretty clear narrative. Imu was the one that killed Lili for her mistakes. And if I’m trusting the clues through the dialogue and trusting that cultural differences and translation haven’t obscure anything, then Imu is a child who was given Ope Ope No Mi surgery and has been alive since the Void Century. Imu being alive since the Void Century comes from their formal olden day speech and being young comes from the fact that they refer to themselves in the third person and that it would be along the lines of Oda’s comedy and the parallels we’ve seen so far. Though it could be that Imu thinks of themselves so highly that they refer to themselves in the third person, I’m sticking to Imu being a kid cause it’s hilarious. And finally Imu being given the surgery also suggests one more part of the narrative. That combined with the fact that Imu doesn’t directly condemn Lili, instead wondering at her motives, makes me believe that Lili was the one that sacrificed herself to give Imu eternal life in a show of fealty. At least that’s how I see it playing out. And I can definitely be wrong as last chapter I was speculating that Lili was actually Imu. 

As we see after Imu asks Cobra the question, Cobra admits that he knew he was probably going to die, as he was only holding on to a small sense of hope that was not gonna be the case.  It also seems like Lili was a secret co-conspirator to the D clan as Imu uses this moment to confirm that she indeed was a D. Now getting to the D’s. This gives us a lot of vital clues. But I think the most hope-affirming one is this: It’s not an inherited Name. Bear with me here. What does that mean? I think that the D is a chosen name. And the evidence in this chapter towards it is that there was a seemingly cute but mostly irrelevant flashback to Ace giving Sabo a D in his name. Sure, it was to show that he connected the dots but I think it’s for a deeper purpose. And the other piece of evidence backs that up. And that is that Imu didn’t know that Lili had a D in her name! Despite seeming to be comrades in arms! And the fact that Blackbeard was called a false D. And the stated fact that the D refers to the enemies of the Celestial Dragons. Do you understand? The D isn’t a family name. It’s a name that you take on when you oppose the Celestial Dragons. It’s been there all along! I literally stumbled across this while writing but I believe this wholeheartedly.

And speaking of the D itself. I’ve always been of the mind that it’s been meaning Dawn. Cause think about this. Raftel was actually Laughtale. That clears up any illusion that the D must stand a Japanese word. And then the DON sound effect from the drums of Liberation. Just as how “Laugh” was obscured by being “Raf”, so too, at least in my opinion, is the “Dawn” obscured by “DON”. And obviously Romance Dawn being the title of the first volume and chapter is a huge clue. Alongside that is the idea of passing dreams down being similar to waiting for the dawn to rise. It fits the theme. And not only that. But the sun and moon imagery. The moon, being the lunarians and the kozuki and the minks and many others, who watch over the world and wait as the sun-coded warriors of D, such as the Sun God Nika in Luffy, bring about the dawn. I had previously thought the Dragons and the Gorosei and Imu represented the Moon and the people descended from there, but seeing the hellish and demonic imagery of this chapter makes me believe they represent the darkness and Hell itself. And seeing as we haven’t yet ventured back into a Impel Down like arc, I can see an arc in the future where it utilizes that. 

A few asides before we move on. First of all, the way the Gorosei literally looked like giant demons with their barbed tails, Oni and Akuma like silhouettes makes me think the naming of the Devil Fruits is a misdirect. The dragons have already manipulated history to obscure the true name of the Gomu Gomu No Mi so why couldn’t they do something similar for Devil Fruits? Maybe these powers come from the sacred treasure of Marejois. Some sort of parallel to the apples in the Garden of Eden? Another thing is that thinking of the Lunarians also brought up some ideas. While they are Moon-Coded, their name literally derives from Luna, they also wield the fire of the suns. I wonder if they were the mech pilots of the giant robots that were on Egghead as they required a lot of energy. Or if they were used as energy sources like some Omelas type thing. It would certainly fit with what I think happened to Kuma and his people.

Anyways, I know it seems like this giant figure in the back crawling down the throne in the panel above is Imu but it’s actually one of the Gorosei. As you can see there are two silhouettes on either side, and when the five are shown again, the giant figure become the second one from the left in the panel below. Also we can see the snail capture the photograph that we eventually see in the newspaper.

I wonder if they have something to do with the Giant Shadows at the end of Thriller Bark. Finally, let’s move on to the end. Wapol finds out the truth and saves Vivi, who was captured by CP0. It seems they were carrying out Imu’s orders, who was not only motivated by whatever they saw in the frozen chambers but also their personal goals. 

That brings us to the end. Please let me know what you think of my theory that the D is a taken name because right now, that’s the only thing on my mind. Another thing I want to mention is that it reinforces the idea of inherited will and dreams. And spits in the face of fate and dynasties. Because Luffy chose the will of the D by following Shanks, not because he was Dragons son or Garps Grandson, those two oppose the Dragons their own way. It would also make sense why the Gum Gum Fruit chose him. He chose to oppose the order of the world by being kind. I’m still reeling from this chapter so I’ll end it here but I might reblog in the future if I have anything to add.

[taylorrama]

Crown Him With Many Crowns

You girlies liked the cassette tape that had "Crown Him With Many Crowns" on it, so I thought I'd make a post about the song.

I don't think there's much depth/authorial intention with this reference–Tamsyn Muir was probably just looking for a song title to match Coronabeth and went with this one. The title also sounds kind of silly and redundant.

I'll admit, when I saw this name in Nona the Ninth, I was like "That's probably a hymn or Bible reference," but didn't know the song. Turns out, as is the case with a lot of hymns, I know the melody but with different words. This hymn appears in a bunch of hymnals, including Catholic ones, so it's possible Muir knows this song simply from being Catholic.

A fun fact about this hymn is that, according to Wikipedia, it has twelve verses. TWELVE. VERSES. That is a CHONKER. Wiki also says that typically, the song is split into two six-verse versions. Fascinating how you split the song and get two different songs with the same melody but different themes. It's almost like if you take an embryo and split it and get twins.

The other funny thing about Corona being named for a chonky hymn is that she's described as well-formed compared to how scrawny Ianthe is.

So, do the words give us anything interesting with respect to The Locked Tomb? Let's see under the cut. This isn't gonna be a detailed analysis at all. More like pointing out some parts that get some weird/cool meanings when applied to this series.

Crown him with many crowns, The Lamb upon his throne; Hark! how the heavenly anthem drowns All music but its own: Awake, my soul, and sing Of him who died for thee, And hail him as thy matchless king Through all eternity.

We have Corona and Harrow in the same verse. Amazing.

I might be misremembering, but isn't there a sound that Resurrection Beasts make? If so, there's our "heavenly anthem." And of course this idea of a king being hailed through all eternity–Jod.

The next interesting part we get is verse 5.

Crown him the Lord of years! The Potentate of time,-- Creator of the rolling spheres, Ineffably sublime! Glassed in a sea of light, Where everlasting waves Reflect his throne,--the Infinite! Who lives,--and loves--and saves.

Jod is an immortal (essentially) necromancer, the literal recreator of planets. And everlasting waves? The River.

The last one to point out is verse 10.

Crown him the Lord of life Who triumphed o'er the grave, And rose victorious in the strife For those he came to save; His glories now we sing Who died, and rose on high. Who died, eternal life to bring And lives that death may die.

Since this verse is referencing Jesus' death and resurrection, it highlights that exciting tension we feel as readers knowing this version of the story, but then seeing this same theology twisted around in The Locked Tomb. This does strike me, though, as pretty close to the narrative that most citizens of the Nine Houses probably have about Jod. He harnessed the energy of death to create life.

That's all I've got on this one. Sometimes, being a church nerd pays off. 😌

[promblums]

Gideon is so jarringly different in this book, and it rules. Tamsyn Muir is really good at not only not pulling punches, but knowing which ones to throw, because there’s so much to Gideon’s reintroduction to the story that pushes the envelope, but none of it could be chalked up to shock factor. So, you’ve got this abused kid, right? Beaten all to hell, but she’s still got fight in her, and all she wants to do is run away and join the army, where her anger has a place and that place is Killing People, a concept that’s still sort of abstract to her despite all her swordsmanship study. If she’s lucky, she’ll get to throw her life away for the Houses, which to a kid with lots of bravado but no self-esteem sounds pretty good. And then through all of book 1, she’s slowly opening up to the world, learning who she is, because even the Spooky Mystery Dungeon of the First House is far enough away from the prison she grew up in that she can find some sort of growth. And she and Harrow slowly realize there’s a way to interact with the world other than cruelty, which is life-changing for two kids who’ve never known anything else. So, by the end of book 1, Gideon kind-of knows who she is, and that person’s always gonna come down on the side of the little guy. In her connection to Harrow, in having a reference point of someone who cares about her and wants her to live, she’s found a guiding point. But it all goes to shit, and she ends up having to sacrifice herself after all, but hey, if it saves Harrow, maybe now it means something. Then book 2, she wakes up, and WE know how much Harrow misses her and the lengths she went to to save her, but all Gideon knows is that she took the biggest risk of her life and seemingly got rejected for it. If she could get room to step back and look at the situation, she’d maybe put the pieces together, but she’s too close, and she’s got 17 years of people kicking her and telling her she’s worthless or only useful as a sword behind her, and unfortunately one revelation in a pool can’t undo all of that. Not in a way she can unpick the rest herself just yet. If she’d had context and really understood just what Harrow had been doing this whole time, then yeah maybe, but she’s alone in a hallway full of monsters and petty demi-gods, all of whom hate her. So when we see her in Nona, she’s lost that guiding point. She can’t live for Harrow, she’d need looooaaads of therapy to live for herself, and she can’t die for anyone because she’s already dead. Her dad is God Himself and she’s got no way to navigate on her own, so her own will (which, from her perspective, has only ever made wrong choices) is meaningless. Her whole life she’s been told she’s nothing, and the end of Book 1 to the end of Book 3 has been an object lesson that it’s true. Wouldn’t you be bitter? Hence the genius of it. Just like with Nona, we get to see this wonderful thing, this kid who was healing, and then we have it snatched away, all so we’ll realize how badly we want it back.