Ship: Harrow Nova/Camilla Hect, The Locked Tomb Words: 265 Notes: Harrow Nova exists for only one scene in canon, and Camilla isn’t in that scene. I don’t care. I am biting and tearing and ripping.
Contains blood, description of non-serious injuries, and a brief casual fantasy of suicide, all of which the POV character seems to enjoy.
——
If anything, it’s even better than Harrow Nova imagined it.
Camilla stands atop her, her boot digging into Harrow’s sternum, her rapier at Harrow’s throat. If Harrow wanted to, she could impale herself before Camilla had time to react. She savors the cold steel pushing up against her skin without puncturing it, savors the equally cold glare of her opponent, savors the taste of blood in her mouth and the feel of new bruises forming within her arms and chest, layered over the old ones.
“Yield.”
Camilla doesn’t even give Harrow the dignity of a question.
Harrow won’t give her the satisfaction of an answer.
Camilla holds her gaze for perhaps a second longer than necessary, then abruptly withdraws both sword and boot.
“You’re impossible, Nova. You could have won this duel if you wanted to, or you could have stood down and prevented it, but you didn’t. Why?”
Silence. Harrow recalls the moment Camilla’s shoulder slammed into her chest, relives the sensation of striking the floor. And, finally:
“The Reverend Daughter has forbidden you from fighting. I won’t help you violate her orders again.”
She probably believes it in the moment, is the thing. But Harrow knows which buttons to press, which pages from her catalog of weaknesses to exploit, how to keep her fighting but force her to win.
No, Camilla Hect will duel her again.
Harrow laughs the moment Camilla is out of earshot, lets the blood spill over her lips to stain the white of her paints red.
FILL: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Words: 265
Notes: Harrow Nova exists for only one scene in canon, and Camilla isn’t in that scene. I don’t care. I am biting and tearing and ripping.
Contains blood, description of non-serious injuries, and a brief casual fantasy of suicide, all of which the POV character seems to enjoy.
——
If anything, it’s even better than Harrow Nova imagined it.
Camilla stands atop her, her boot digging into Harrow’s sternum, her rapier at Harrow’s throat. If Harrow wanted to, she could impale herself before Camilla had time to react. She savors the cold steel pushing up against her skin without puncturing it, savors the equally cold glare of her opponent, savors the taste of blood in her mouth and the feel of new bruises forming within her arms and chest, layered over the old ones.
“Yield.”
Camilla doesn’t even give Harrow the dignity of a question.
Harrow won’t give her the satisfaction of an answer.
Camilla holds her gaze for perhaps a second longer than necessary, then abruptly withdraws both sword and boot.
“You’re impossible, Nova. You could have won this duel if you wanted to, or you could have stood down and prevented it, but you didn’t. Why?”
Silence. Harrow recalls the moment Camilla’s shoulder slammed into her chest, relives the sensation of striking the floor. And, finally:
“The Reverend Daughter has forbidden you from fighting. I won’t help you violate her orders again.”
She probably believes it in the moment, is the thing. But Harrow knows which buttons to press, which pages from her catalog of weaknesses to exploit, how to keep her fighting but force her to win.
No, Camilla Hect will duel her again.
Harrow laughs the moment Camilla is out of earshot, lets the blood spill over her lips to stain the white of her paints red.
Sure, sex is great (or so they say), but this?
This is perfection.