Summary: After disappearing during the Coreflame Trial, Phainon returns to you — rain-soaked, haunted, and changed. Amid the ruins of Okhema and the storm overhead, you confront the grief, love, and betrayal left in the wake of his absence. It’s a tense reunion filled with unspoken pain, raw vulnerability, and the faint, flickering hope of rebuilding what was broken.
Tags: Phainon x Reader, Angst with Romantic Undertones, Hurt/Comfort, Reunion Scene, Emotional Baggage, Post-Battle Trauma, Confession, Slow Healing.
Warnings: Emotional Distress, Themes of Abandonment, Grief and Mourning, Descriptions of Physical and Psychological Burnout, Mentions of Blood and Injury (mild), Heavy Emotional Dialogue (?).
Rain. Of course it had to be raining.
You leaned against the cold, stone balustrade of the Chrysos Bastion, overlooking the ruined spires of Okhema as they reached for the sky like broken fingers. Below, the quiet sobs of a city in mourning were hidden under the weight of the storm. Lightning traced white-hot lines across the clouds. You watched it, empty.
He hadn't come back. Not yet.
Phainon.
His name tasted like ash now. It used to be different — once, it had been sunrise and silk, the way he said your name when he thought no one else was listening, the careful touch of his fingers brushing yours during council meetings.
You still remembered the last thing he said before disappearing into the Coreflame Trial.
“Don’t wait for me.”
You had waited anyway.
Three weeks. Long enough for the other Heirs to begin calling it a "noble sacrifice." Long enough for statues to be planned and poets to craft final elegies. But not long enough for you. You still believed in impossible things.
Until today.
Because today, Mydei had found his ribbon. The one you tied into his coat sleeve before the Silver Chariot mission — the one he said he would keep near his heart.
It had been scorched. Charred edges, faint bloodstains.
He wasn’t dead. But he was hurt. And if he was alive, why hadn’t he come back?
That question echoed louder than thunder.
The door creaked behind you. You didn’t turn. Footsteps — familiar, measured, quiet despite the storm. No one walked like that except him.
Your breath caught. You spun.
And there he was.
Phainon.
He stood in the doorway like a ghost, white hair damp with rain, his sword slung over one shoulder like it weighed him down more than usual. He looked thinner. Worn. Haunted.
And when his eyes met yours — those blue eyes that once smiled without needing to speak — you saw it.
He had changed.
“[Name],” he said softly. A fragile whisper, like he didn’t trust his voice.
You didn’t know what to say. So you said the first honest thing your grief-stricken heart allowed:
“You left.”
“I had to.”
“You said don’t wait for you. But I did. I did.”
Silence crackled between you. Even the storm seemed to pause.
Phainon stepped forward, and you stepped back. It was instinctive. His eyes flinched.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You always meant not to hurt me. That’s the problem, Phainon. You never let me carry the pain with you.”
He clenched his jaw. Rain streamed from his coat. “I saw things in that Trial... the Titan’s divinity—it stripped everything down. My doubt. My love. My fear. It made me face a version of myself I didn’t recognize. I couldn’t come back until I knew who I was.”
“And who are you now?” you asked, voice trembling.
“I’m someone who’s failed you,” he said, and finally — finally — he dropped the sword.
The sound echoed like a death knell.
“You weren’t supposed to come back like this,” you whispered. “You were supposed to come back and say it was worth it. That you became stronger. That you still loved me.”
“I do love you,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s what scared me. That I could burn in that Coreflame, become something monstrous, and still love you. Especially love you.”
You stared. Your throat felt like it was wrapped in iron.
Phainon kept going, voice cracking.
“I imagined you standing here. On this very balcony. Every night. I wanted to reach you, but I couldn’t trust that I was... me anymore. Not until the fire passed.”
“And now?” you asked. “What’s left of you now?”
He raised a shaking hand to your face but didn’t touch.
“I’m still burning. But I want to burn beside you. If you’ll let me.”
For a heartbeat, your grief roared louder than any storm. And then... it cracked. Like armor too long worn. You stepped forward, slowly. Rested your forehead against his chest. You could feel the tension in him — like a bow pulled too tight.
“You left me in the rain, Phainon.”
“I know.”
“And I hate that I still love you.”
“I know.”
You looked up. His eyes were raw now — no regal silk, no poised warrior’s facade.
Just Phainon. Scared. Hopeful. Real.
“I can’t promise to forgive you tonight,” you whispered.
“I don’t deserve it tonight.”
“But I want to believe in us again.”
He exhaled, like it was the first breath he’d taken since leaving.
“Then let me stay,” he said. “Let me earn that belief. Let me be yours — not as a hero. Not as the Deliverer. Just... me.”
You finally let him touch you. His hand curled against your cheek, and you leaned into it like it was the only warmth left in the world.
“Welcome home,” you said, voice breaking.
And for the first time in weeks, the rain didn’t feel quite so cold.
I fucking love Project Hail Mary to pieces, but my brain has been tormenting me with angst on an alternate ending.
Like what if Rocky did die before Grace reached him, but he still went to Erid to save them in his stead? He has to explain to everyone what happened, including Adrian and the family of the rest of the crew. He's alone on an alien planet with no one he knows, though I think very slowly there are those he would likely get closer to (like Adrian, maybe, lots of angst potential there, too. Grace gave up going home to try and save Rocky, then to save Erid, but seeing him is a reminder of Rocky's loss for Adrian at first).
Then comes the decision of taking his chance to go home. It's painful for him to stay, but he's also still built somewhat of a life on Erid, and leaving means that connection to his best friend will be lost to him forever. No one on Earth will know Rocky, who he was and what his death meant to Grace. Not to mention he's still grappling with what Stratt and Carl did to him (the two people he was closest to in Project Hail Mary).
It's a very open ending, but I still like to think he's able to find peace in it, no matter what. He definitely deserves it.
Ominis is a phenomenal duellist. His family is known for being terrifying in duels and they train their children from a young age, other than cruelty its their claim to fame. Though it’s Gaunt typical brutal. So Ominis came to Hogwarts with a firm grounding and exception skill for his age. He underplays his skills. Doesn’t join the duelling club and generally just does the bare minimum in DADA.
By fifth year he’s so good at underplaying his skills, Sebastian mistakenly starts to really believe that he is the superior duellist and keeps trying to get Ominis to sign up for crossed wands to improve his skills.
Ominis lets him win half the time and most of the time just duels him in the spirit of fun. He will absolutely shut down Sebastian’s aggression if he feels it’s coming close to a line of causing injury.
☀️ Here’s your reminder to honor the slower moments, off days, and the gentle truth that you’re worthy, even when it feels like you’re not shining at full strength 🌻
❤️🩹 You may not feel powerful every day. Not every moment feels like healing, and there are gonna be most days where you’re tired of pretending you’re fine or being strong
🤍 Some days are meant for softness, stillness, and simply being, and that's okay
❤️🩹 Your worth isn’t tied to how productive, pretty, or perfectly healed you feel
🤍 You’re not abandoning yourself when you rest. Permit yourself to be human
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
😊
Summary: Steve returns after thirteen months without a word, thinking that showing up might be enough.
But Danny is still angry. Still hurting.
So when Steve says, “I thought coming back would be enough. But it’s not if you’re not with me,” and give him a list of places he went, the ones he wishes he hadn’t seen alone....
Danny agrees to go, not because things are fixed, but because some things are still worth fighting for.
Together, they travel across the world, through silence and storms, trying to heal and rebuild what they once thought unbreakable.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Anakin wished, not for the first time, that Ahsoka could have been here. He wondered if she knew about this illness—if she had encountered anything like it.
But she and Rex were somewhere at Mon Mothma’s request, and anyway, Anakin was still figuring out a way forward with his former padawan.
Luke groaned again, turning restlessly and trying to kick off the blanket covering him.
“No!” he cried. “Father! Father… please …!”
It was a terrible echo of his pleading when the Emperor had turned his dark wrath upon the young Jedi.
“I’m here, Luke,” Anakin told him, laying a prosthetic hand over his son’s heart and placing the cold gel pack on his brow once again. He decided to risk a Force connection. It had helped Luke settle when Leia had done so.
If you’re ok with this can you please write Jing Yuan, Blade, Aventurine, Boothill reacting to reader telling them about how they were S/A’d by their stepfather in the past and is having a hard time healing from the traumatic incident
Fluff, Angst and Comfort please
Thank you so much and I hope you have a great day!
The Stars Don’t Blame You
Synopsis: You confide in them about a traumatic event from your past—having been sexually assaulted by your stepfather. As you struggle with the aftermath and the long, painful road to healing, they respond with unwavering support, comfort, and tenderness.
Tags: Boothill x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Blade x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Trauma Recovery, Emotional Intimacy, Protective Partner, Gentle Romance, Heavy Past, Confession Scene, Vulnerability, Soft Moments, Slow Healing, Emotional Intimacy, Supportive Partner, Inner Turmoil, Comfort After Trauma.
Warnings: Sexual Assault (mentioned, not described in detail), PTSD/Trauma Response, Mentions of Abuse by a Stepparent, Emotional Distress, Vulnerability and Mental Health Struggles, Protective/Comforting Reactions, Slow-Burn Healing.
A/N: Reader discretion is advised. These stories aim to offer comfort and representation for those processing trauma, but they may be emotionally intense. Your well-being comes first—please prioritize self-care.
You hadn’t meant to tell him—not today, not like this. But the storm outside your window mirrored the storm within, and his quiet presence had broken something open. Jing Yuan sat beside you on the edge of the daybed, his eyes watching with unwavering patience as the words tumbled out of your mouth. Your stepfather. The betrayal. The lingering pain that no one could see but you carried every day.
Silence.
Then the soft shuffle of silk as he gently reached out, fingers brushing your trembling hand.
“I see,” he murmured, voice low as thunder rumbling on the horizon. “Thank you for trusting me with this. You didn’t have to. But I’m honored you did.”
You expected pity, or worse, a stoic dismissal. But what you received instead was understanding. No attempt to fix it, no false promises. Just his presence, solid and warm.
He shifted closer and invited you to rest your head on his shoulder. “There are battles no blade can fight. What happened to you... it should never have happened. I will never pretend to understand your pain fully, but I will walk beside you while you heal.”
His hand found yours, interlacing gently. Not possessive. Protective.
“If nightmares return,” he added, “you need only say the word. My door—my arms—will always be open.”
You told him in fragments—like your soul was a broken mirror reflecting too much pain at once. Blade didn’t speak at first. You feared he wouldn’t react at all. You almost regretted sharing.
Then he stood up abruptly, pacing like a caged storm.
“He hurt you,” Blade said slowly, dangerously, his voice edged with the same rage he carried in every scar across his body. “And the world… let him.”
You nodded, feeling small. But then Blade turned, his eyes burning with something not just anger—but grief. For you.
“I know what it is to be violated,” he murmured, stepping closer. “To have your body and soul turned into something not yours. They called it destiny. But it was cruelty. Yours was too.”
When he knelt in front of you, his touch was featherlight, trembling even. His hand rested just beside your knee—not touching, waiting for permission.
“I can’t promise to fix you,” he whispered. “I’m broken too. But if you’ll have me… I will sit with you in the dark until you’re ready for the light again.”
That night, you lay beside him—not as lovers, not as warriors—but as survivors holding each other through the quiet sobs of a haunted past.
When you told Aventurine, it was late. The air was thick with perfume and wine, the sparkle of casino lights long faded into shadows. He had been laughing, telling a ridiculous story from a corporate gala gone wrong—until you cut in, voice thin and trembling.
His smile fell.
“I see,” he said quietly. He took off his glasses and set them on the table.
You braced for deflection or discomfort. But Aventurine stood and crossed the room, sinking to the floor beside you. He placed a hand over yours, still and heavy.
“Luck,” he whispered bitterly, “has never been kind to people like us.”
Your lips parted, but he continued. “You’re not broken. You were wronged. And I want to be very clear… that bastard doesn’t get to define you. Not in your pain. Not in your healing.”
There was no glint, no gamble in his eyes now. Just fierce, quiet rage and devastating tenderness.
“I manipulate systems. People. But not you. Never you,” he said, brushing your hair back. “You’re not another hand I’m playing—you’re the reason I stopped playing for myself.”
And when you trembled in his arms that night, he held you like you were the most precious, untouchable secret in the world.
You didn’t plan to say it—not while sitting under stars on the wing of a stolen IPC freighter, sharing dry jerky and ghost stories. But the memory ambushed you, raw and cruel, and it spilled out before you could pull it back.
Boothill went quiet. Real quiet.
For a while, he just sat there, chewing on nothing, hands clenched like twin pistons. His eyes didn’t blink, didn’t move.
Then he turned toward you. “Ain’t nothin’ I hate more than cruelty that wears a smile,” he growled.
You looked down, but he tilted your chin with his gloved hand. “Listen here, sugar. What he did to you—it ain’t your shame to carry. It’s his.”
He didn’t try to touch you more than that, just sat back with a long exhale, like he was trying not to snap metal with his rage.
“You’re stronger than any steel I’ve got runnin’ through me. ‘Cause you survived it. And now… you got me. Ain’t nobody layin’ a finger on you ever again. Swear it on every bullet in my belt.”
Later that night, with your head resting on his scarf-covered chest, he told you a story—about the first time he felt safe, as a child rescued in the snow. “Didn’t know what it was back then,” he murmured, brushing your hair. “Now I do. It's you. Safety. Right here.”
