#sorry to keep waxing poetic about this but i really am rotted about them

[babydarkstar]

honestly no wonder harrow forced ianthe to lobotomize her so she could save gideon. listen…LISTEN…if i was a secret-war-crime cult nunlet princess worshipped by my entire planet and the only person that (barely) kept me in check was my childhood nemesis—a butch a year older than me, towering over me in stature and physical prowess, and so hot it made my teeth hurt from how hard my jaw clenched in her presence, who wielded a two-handed seven-foot sword and had irritatingly huge biceps and told very lewd stupid jokes and also learned how to wield an entirely new weapon and be my bodyguard with startling accuracy in three months—only to have us finally learn to trust each other because we got invited to a magic murder mystery and then before the bubble burst i spilled the worst secret about myself that i was born because my parents murdered an entire generation and tried to Kill Her along with them and she just wouldnt die, and i told her this expecting a swift death i believed i deserved, only for her to fucking cradle me in her big butch arms and kiss me on my forehead with her soft butch mouth and just. forgive me for a shameful weight ive carried my entire life and then MAKE AN ACTUAL NECRO/CAV VOW with me despite every evil thing i have done to her……to have her tell me, in the end, bleeding and broken after putting up the most beautiful and glorious fight of her life, that she understands purpose and she understands duty and she knows loyalty more fiercely than ever now, that she knows who she is to me, that there is no her without me….to have her backed into a corner and make the ultimate sacrifice…..for me…..to recite scriptural wedding vows of eternity to me in her last wisps of soul-consciousness…..if i thought there was even a snowflake’s chance in the pyre that i could save her by turning myself into her very own locked tomb, i’d be begging ianthe tridentweirdius to crack my skull open and turn me to mush too, goddamn. i understand you harrowhark girl you don’t have to explain a thing to me. god said you couldn’t undo the lyctor’s bond bc it’d kill you. you told god and his angels that not even a lyctor’s bond could outshine the power of female spite and lesbianism and they didn’t listen. they didn’t believe you. but i heard you loud and clear and i was 17 and hormonal and hopelessly romantic not too long ago unlike those fucking dinosaurs and i’m saying it’s valid it’s what i would have done and really everyone should be thanking you for not being worse and more wretched about it, all things considered

#i think about gideon nav every day #she makes me want to eat drywall #shes so jesus shes so her own thing shes so god and savior It Is Finished divinity of love and sacrifice #honestly so much of harrow is so so relatable to me shes so real for everything she does #her little griddlehark meetcute au her little divine highness au #ive already waxed poetic about the harrow nova au #sorry to keep waxing poetic about this but i really am rotted about them #like im going insane. tamsyn muir when i get you tamsyn when i catch you #griddlehark #tlt spoilers #harrowhark nonagesimus #i am you as you are me we are one and two and two and one #i cannot conceive of a universe without you. #should i forget you let my right hand also be forgotten; add more also. if aught but death part me and thee. #I FELL INTO THE WATER AND NOW IM FREE

[o-wyrmlight]

'There's Only One Bed' trope but with Bittersweet and Affogato, after working on trying to find Dark Choco in another kingdom. There's a festival coming soon, so all the rooms the inn has available only has one bed. Affogato is determined not to share a bed but Bittersweet's just like.

'Okay. I can sleep on the couch. Or the chair. Or the floor. Or something.' This is supposed to be literal royalty, mind you, offering such things. Maybe it'll be funny, Affogato thinks, half-heartedly.

Affogato thinks he'll go to sleep fairly easy that night but Dark Cacao keeps moving around, in a restless way that implies constant discomfort. He moves from small couch to recliner to bathroom to recliner to floor, and then he doesn't get up. All the while, Affogato complains. 'Sorry,' Bittersweet says. 'I'm trying.'

Affogato smells jam at one point and that strikes his attention enough to sit up, turn on the light, and look over. Bittersweet is wiping his mouth with his sleeve. At some point he pulled down his robe to expose his chest, firmly bandaged though it may be. The bandages are old, days old at the very least. Bittersweet has his eyes clenched tightly shut. His breath softly wheezes, with each inhale and exhale.

Affogato falters for a moment. 'Do you MIND?' he settles on. Bittersweet stiffens. 'It's almost ELEVEN?'

'Sorry,' Bittersweet murmurs, almost meek. 'I'm trying. It hurts a lot.'

'What hurts?'

'...You don't know. Of course you don't.' He pulls his sleeve from his mouth and inspects it. To Affogato's surprise, there is jam. That must be where the smell came from. 'But you should. If we are going to be traveling together. You should. I'm dying, Affogato.'

Affogato didn't know about the cursed injury scoring its way across his chest. He didn't know. But this is the night where he finds out, where he remembers the Dark Cacao from the before times--how tall and regal and steadfast he always seemed. And can't help but draw a comparison between this... somehow more humbled and humanized man who grew in an established castle and lived an easy life compared to most.

Dark Cacao explains, in that slow, picky way he tends to resort to when fishing out words. And the more he speaks, the easier they come, until eventually he's waxing poetic in that very him manner. The basic summary is this:

'My son struck me down with a sword. I survived, but the sword has cursed my wound to never heal. I have lived years with an unhealing injury that renders me... useless. And it's slowly rotting away at me inside. I am running out of time.'

Pure Vanilla cannot break the curse--he has tried, researched, done great work to help, but ultimately this is a magic whose department is not in his field of expertise. Bittersweet has given up on finding a cure long ago--he's come to accept that this is just how it is now. The worst part about it is that he is unable to stand alongside his kingdom and must remain in his castle, safe and secure. He doesn't want to inspire doubt in his denizens, after all--so he understands--expected, really--for cookies to stage a coup upon him.

By the end of it, Affogato is insulted. Demands to know why he didn't insist on taking the bed.

'It's been years since I've shared a bed with another,' he answers quietly. 'And I figured you would be disquieted by the notion. I understand you are better acquainted with the luxuries of life, and I didn't want to... take that from you. Considering our situation is far from... luxurious.'

Oh, Affogato thinks. He's considerate.

Affogato ends up sharing the bed, small and humble though it is. There's little space between them. Affogato can smell bitter cacao bean melded with the sticky sweet scent of jam. Bittersweet tries to hug the edge while also hugging a pillow to his chest, burying his face in it, facing away. Into said pillow he utters a muffled thanks. His voice shivers, and his body follows suit.

Affogato wonders--seriously wonders--if Bittersweet is crying.

And if he is, over what it may be. If it's truly merely his unhealing wound, that's a clear indication of just how much it hurts. Or if he's thinking thoughts and thinking them silently, not breathing a single air of grievance or indication as to what those thoughts might be. Those must hurt, too, if he really is crying.

Affogato remembers, too. He thinks. He'd laid on floors before. He'd been kicked off of beds for 'those who needed it more' and relegated once or twice to sleeping hunched and half-wrapped in fraying, itchy blankets that were barely enough to stage off the cold. Moved from bed to bed, until he was sleeping by the window, where the cold seeped through with a frigid hunger. He was sick. You'd think cookies would show more consideration to a sick child.

Bittersweet did need it more, but the former king didn't move him. He doesn't know about what Affogato suffered through. Perhaps he never will--but he didn't question Affogato's tendency toward the lavish so much as accept it and try to compensate. And the bed is warmer now, with two bodies under the covers--almost too warm, but that's fine. A little warmth wouldn't hold a candle to the level of discomfort Bittersweet had been suffering these last few hours.

Eventually Bittersweet's breathing quiets. The whistle in his breath shushes gently, and his body relaxes, unwinds. He falls asleep. Affogato does, too, after a while.

Bittersweet was right. Sharing a bed with someone is a little strange to him.

#'there's only one bed' trope except play it crooked #bittersweet friends au