#How to control husband through black magic

[navillee]

can you please write more Zayne sub? :( no one does sub Zayne like you

Because everyday is a good day to talk about sub Zayne. ♪

Cozy Holliday's Zayne. What about it?

Zayne subtle sub behavior pt. VI

I'll repeat again, Zayne is such a home husband, all the poor man can think is heading home to his wife;

Especially in december's Hollidays. When the snow covers Linkon city after a day that didn't seem to past fast enough for Zayne at Akso hospital;

Zayne always arrives at home with a shopping bag. He can't help it but want to see your curious glances at him whenever he step inside with new flavours of cakes, pastries, chocolates and other variety of fresh sweet new recepies out of some cozy bakery that still open the day before his day off;

It's okay for him to wait in line, and to get his pitch black hair white with snow, he's heading home after all, nothing on the way matters;

Zayne stopped to use an umbrella in the trajectory from his car to the house's door. So he always arrives looking like a stray black cat covered with white little snowflakes;

That may be true, he did transform into half of it a couple of years ago, right? Maybe there's still some influence from the kitty card's cats from that cafe still running through his veins, after all, you always brush the thin white coat from his hair, and everytime he melts just as the snow in the front door;

He said he avoids kissing you when arriving because the cold weather outside made his face half freezing. But let's face it, his adorable all wrapped up in his scarf with the tip of his nose and ears red, it's like your little personal snowman, and both of you enjoy a way lot the temperature shock when your mouths collide into a warm welcome kiss. Zayne couldn't ask for more, he's home now, and the affect you have on him start to working just like magic, from the moment he step inside;

Zayne always cooks for you, when he has time. Even if he doesn't, he makes time for it;

He knows he got your attention when he rolls up his sleeves preparing the recepies he knows that are your favorites;

When he chops some vegetables and the sleeve garters of his shirt tighten around his arms and he knows you're devouring him with your eyes. Oh, he loves it;

You know when Zayne is entering that space in his mind, he starts to sigh, suave and longs sighs with time intervals that decrease as he feels more impatient, more hungry. It's not about managing the food, forget about it. He needs your actions, towards him preferably;

That's when you know that the conversation about where's the best spot to watch the new year's fireworks at Linkon new year's festival should take a break for now;

When you now that's time to pour two glasses of a sweet fancy champagne brand and offer to him. Drinking a sip first just to show him it's safe, that he won't get out of control this time, like he always does;

What a lie;

Enticing and dangerous as the alcohol running down his throat;

But never as tempting as you adjusting his garters on his shirt, bringing his memories of you adjusting some look alike leather accessory on his neck, days ago;

Or even you hugging him from his back, kissing his shoulder and praising him for doing such a good job;

He's a so very dedicated husband, but he gets sighing and blushing every time you remember him of that;

He stopped your hands from wondering on his inner thighs, more by the necessity of finishing dinner than by anything else;

He has the need to serve you after all. He can get his reward after he does it, he can always wait, like a proper ideal husband would, right?

But when he places you on his lap at the couch, after you provoked him during the entire Christmas eve dinner barely letting you set an ambience soft piano background playlist, you know he had enough;

You watch him as he puts a small ginger bread between his lips for you to catch. He does that all the time, that's how he loves to share chocolate with you, a sweet kiss after a sugary taste is the best;

When he gets bold like that, he always looks fro your approval, it's a soft, warm and inviting look on his eyes;

When Zayne wants sex, when's he's needy to adore you, his eyes get dark;

It's not a metaphor to say how pent up he is. His pupils literally dilate, consuming the bright greenish tone of his eyes into a yearning and relaxed hungry darkness;

Even the Christmas tree cozy lights can't hide the sincerity his eyes show you;

Neither can't his tongue, thanks to alcohol;

When that happens he's vocal. He's a confessor. All the dirty things he thought during the day, how he can't stop those thoughts and how frustrating they are slip out his mouth as he mumbles;

He wants you to forgive him, or to make him worse even. It doesn't matter. Kiss him, or mark him, loose his belt or pull his tie, make him beg and almost cry, freeze until death or meltdown completely;

As the snow accumulates outside, slowly falling from the dark night sky, it doesn't matter to Zayne. It's Christmas eve and he's back home, again. As he should be.

I appreciate the way you guys enjoy my sub!Zayne writing. This is a way shorter than the other parts, but I needed to talk abou him and Christmas/new year's since "snowman - sia" is playing on my head rent free and it's such a Zayne song.

[pursuitseternal]

𝓥𝓮𝔁 𝓜𝓮: a “Hate” Smut with Lord Astarion update to “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x f!Reader | E | 3.5 K

🎨 by @kowashites full image ON TWT

Summary: A year after the Netherbrain, you go to celebrate in style, but your husband Lord has gotten on your last nerve, and tonight is the last straw. It’ll be fun pushing to find the edge of his control… until he snaps.

CW: “hate fuck” (taking out all your irritation about those annoying things your partner does), CNC (intentionally provoking rough/angry sex), semi-public sex, against a wall, spanking and choking, marking, rough fuck with deep feelings

Previous ch | Ao3 link | Masterlist

Another gala to commemorate the anniversary of the Netherbrain’s defeat, a less-than-sordid affair, hosted by the Duke. Not Wyll, you grumble, not your friend, not while he’s adventuring in Avernus with your favorite Hellion. No… his father will play host to the usual stuffy, humdrum sort of gathering. A typical Baldurian ball lies ahead for you… wine and toasting, dancing and discussions. Hells, you already dread having to recount your adventure for the umteenth time. The crash… the Goblins… the Shadowcurse… you roll your eyes as the carriage sways on the stone streets through the City. It’s a short ride from the Palace to High Hall, the site of your final battle, now amazingly rebuilt in under a year. A little magic and a lot of money can fix anything, you grumble.

A lot of money, no small thanks to your Lord who sits across from you, his head leaned back against the carriage wall as you jostle and sway. Truth be told, you would have rather walked the little jaunt to the party, but Astarion wouldn’t hear of it.

The Vampire Ascendant must arrive in style, he had crooned, summoning the gaudiest carriage, the one with gold flake embossing, darkest black paint, and rubies from Thay worked into the gilding.

And what was more, his own outfit shimmered, a pearlescent silk suit, embroidered on almost every inch, with shining elven shoes to match. He’s preened himself perfectly like the peacock he is.

After all, it’s his anniversary too—a year as the Ascendant. A year with you in his beating heart and in his warm bed.

Insufferable. Proud and regal and sensual and a total arrogant, raging bastard. Gods, you love him. But you also hate him sometimes.

Like the way his fingers are playing with that little dagger he keeps at his hip… it’s almost as natural as breathing for him the way he flips it over and over in his palms, tapping the edge of the blade on the sole of his shoe. Easy to do with one leg bent over his knee.

Tap… flick... tap... flick... He’s not even watching, head resting back and that grin on his face that screams he knows he’s wonderful and powerful and desirable…

Fuck him.

Actually, maybe you’ll tease him with words and touches tonight in front of all those guests. Work him up into a frenzy and then deny him. Your mouth quirks into a grin, your fang biting into your bottom lip at the mere thought. The idea of driving him mad makes your insides all warm and knotted, and it makes your cunt instantly wetter.

Shit, he knows. You curse yourself for not being careful with your thoughts, for not guarding your feelings that can so easily slip from your mind to his down your soul-bond.

His nostrils flare at the scent, his lips curl in that devious smirk, and lastly, those crimson eyes open to level his gaze upon you. “Why, my Consort, what has you so very… deliciously… flustered?”

Let the games commence, you think as you force all true thoughts of how best to torture him deep inside you. “Oh, it’s nothing love. Just excited to be touted and toasted as the Saviour of the City again,” you preen, fluffing the lace that lines the plunging neckline of your bodice. “Let’s be honest, love, I’ve been playing second fiddle to you ever since. It’s always the Vampire Ascendant first and then his precious, darling Consort.” You mimic his posture, reclining back with your ankle over your other knee, arms behind your head. Decidedly unlady and un-consort like.

Astarion narrows his eyes, shifting forward to lean into your space within the confines of the carriage. “Careful, my dear. You’re beginning to sound rather arrogant and ungrateful…” he purrs, his voice rolling in his throat, edged with that tint of danger and threat.

It makes you shiver more.

You roll your eyes, blatantly petulant, “Forgive me if I’m excited the accolades and adulations are pointed towards me tonight.” You pause to pat your hand on his knee, cajoling him. “Well, on us, I suppose.”

His grip snaps around your wrist, using the sway of the carriage to pull you into his lap. “Careful darling,” he hisses, fanged smile glinting in the moonlight. “I bi—”

“I’m well aware you bite,” you interrupt, unafraid. You gnash your own fangs in a cheeky grin. “So do I now…”

His face twists in a smirk, the kind that makes your walls flutter around nothing, wishing for something. “You little…”

As he crowds you like the predator he is, the carriage rolls to a halt, the door opening to reveal High Hall, the very picture of festivity and merriment.

His smirk fades to a muted smile, his dagger is sheathed once more at his hip, and you wait for him to help you down from the carriage box.

Torches and banners, music and wine, you can’t help but let it go to your head. Maybe you let your hips sway just a little more from side to side, maybe you don’t take Astarion’s proffered arm to lead you into the gala, and maybe, just maybe, you delight to feel him glaring daggers into your back.

The ballroom is alight with a thousand candles, with golden chandeliers and bright burning flames in the sconces. Couples dance, and politicians and Patriars toast the defeat of the Netherbrain and the rebuilding of the City. The only thing flowing more freely than the champagne is the fawning praise that everyone lavishes upon you. Men compliment your battle prowess, and women your attire and sparkling scarlet eyes.

And any attempt to include your vampiric partner glowering over your shoulder is easily redirected in your favor. It’s been an hour of playing the hero, and with each interaction, you can sense him closer and closer to losing control. It’s so much fun, you think. Currently, a noble couple of Half Elves stand hanging on your every word, enraptured to hear your tale. And for once, you don’t mind the effort to retell it for the tenth time tonight—not when Astarion’s fingers claw into your hip, his arm wrapped snug around your waist when you gloss over the details of his Ascension.

“Spectacular,” the man congratulates you, applauding with a wide smile on his swarthy face. “And of course, your union with Lord Ancunín has only ensured the city be rebuilt speedily and even better than before.”

The wave of relief and pride that comes off of Astarion irritates the shit out of you. But you hide it behind an easy smile as he takes your chin and lifts your mouth to his for a possessive kiss. “Of course,” he purrs, “this City would be rubble without us, just as my Consort would be nothing without me. Isn’t that right, darling?”

Terms of engagement. A summons for battle. That’s what he’s issued.

You give him a chaste little kiss. “Oh, I don’t know. I had many allies of even greater power and magic,” you reply as you extricate yourself from his arms. “The list was endless, really. And while Astarion packs quite the bite, I had far more powerful allies in the final battle here in these halls.” You feel the ripples of anger simmering under his pale skin, and you swear you can hear his teeth grinding and gnashing over your shoulder. “Dark forces of the Ascendant?” you giggle, “a handful of ghouls and shadow mastiffs. It was nothing compared to having an Illithid in our ranks, or…”

“You’ll excuse us, won’t you?” Astarion interrupts abruptly, a gentlemanly nod of his head as his nails dig into you so hard, it tears into the silk of your bodice.

The poor Half-Elven couple are left in stunned silence as he pulls you towards the door of the grand chamber. “A word in private… my dear,” he hisses into your ear. “Perhaps more than one word… perhaps more than only words will be required for this discussion.” He snarls the word, spittle covering your cheek as his rage reaches its boiling point.

“What ho!” a familiar, jolly voice calls your name. And much to Astarion’s chagrin, he forgets your new title of ‘Lady…’ Gale comes your way, fairly elbowing his path through the frilly crowd until he’s standing so close to you, arms wrapping around you awkwardly as Astarion refuses to let your waist go. “Apologies, I just couldn’t resist. It’s been six months since last I saw the pair of you, and, well, you know me: absence makes the heart grow fonder. Particularly when the heart no longer has a certain Netherese blight and…”

“Is there something you wanted, Wizard?” Astarion snaps, literally closing his mouth so forcefully his teeth click shut.

Gale remains unphased, used to the vampire's temperament. “‘How are you?’ was my question… I suppose. Is domestic bliss filling the walls of your newly redone palace?”

You snort, a genuine reaction to the implication of anything ‘domestic’ when it comes to the Vampire Ascendant. But you spy an opportunity here, a chance to unleash a few of Astarion’s more private habits that peeve you. Ones he would rather die… again… than have revealed to Gale. “Where do I begin? The entire place is refurbished, you’d hardly recognize it. Astarion here has spared no expense to make the place bright and cheerful. Though it does get rather tiresome with only one another for companionship. You should come for a stay, Gale!”

“I’m sure the Wizard is far too busy with his responsibilities in Waterdeep,” Astarion manages to dismiss the notion with an elegant wave of his hand.

“Oh pish posh,” you giggle ostentatiously. “What? Embarrassed that Gale would observe the decidedly domestic ‘bliss’ we share? That he’ll hear how loudly you chew at dinner? Or notice that you leave your things everywhere around the palace? Or that… hells forbid… he hears you far—”

Your final, embarrassing comment is swallowed by his own mouth on yours. His arms pick you up like you’re a doll, a plaything, and he carries you to the door of the ballroom. Your feet swing midair, your arms pinned to your side, leaving a gaped-mouth Gale staring after you. But he knows better than to follow.

First alcove from the entryway, and you are shoved against the cool, smooth stone wall. Moonlight falls in sharp slats from the tall crystal panes. The angles of his face catch your breath with their ferocity as he glowers down on you, hand to your throat. “I can’t believe you,” he hisses, “treating me like that in front of everyone…” his voice is dripping with venom, heart racing with enraged palpitations. “Tell me,” he whispers so tight and pressed in his throat, “do you hate me?”

You give an insolent grin as his fingers flex gently on your windpipe. “Hate you?” You swallow, your voice box gripped just tight enough to rasp. “You irritate me, annoy me, and sometimes you outright piss me off.”

“Is that so?”

“And sometimes… sometimes… I do hate you….”

He leans away from your face, moving into the shaft of moonlight. The pale glow catches in his silver curls, the swirling ruby depths of his eyes glowing. You’re not sure if it’s from magic or rage or light, but it’s decidedly there. It makes your stomach bind in knots. That dangerous light shines brighter as he licks his lips. “Well, at least you’re not indifferent towards me, that would be a tragedy. I’ll tell you a secret…” His lips tickle in the sensitive spot beneath your ear, warm breath ghosting down your cool skin. “Sometimes… I hate you too.”

With hot breath and tongue, he consumes you, reminding you that you don’t need to breathe to survive anymore. Good thing. You’d have passed out by now as he kisses, your head spinning and lungs burning. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he growls into your mouth, hand slipping from your windpipe to claw roughly around your breast, ripping it out from the deep cut of your bodice first. “Tonight is, after all, all about you…. Your victory, your allure. Hundreds of eyes begging for a glance, a moment of your attention. Same as me,” he spits the words between clenched fangs. “You dare to ignore me, insult me. After all that I did for you… with you… ungrateful wretch.”

His hands have already bunched your skirt, arm wrapped to pin your thigh to his waist so he can grind into you. The angrier he becomes, the harder his hips press that confined cock into your sex, back and forth… back and forth.

You take a deep breath finally as soon as his hand releases your neck. Retaliating, you grip into his head and yank, keeping those gnashing teeth from your undead vein. “What about you? Vain and power hungry and controlling bastard,” you sneer, finger clawing your nails into his perfectly sculpted curls.

Hands fumbling between your body to snap open the fastens to his pants, your fingers roughly grabbing the outline of his erection hard enough to make him squeal. His gaze burns with hunger—carnal and sanguine—eyes narrowed in anger even as he smiles.

Roughly, you grip his cock and squeeze him in his pants, making that little bit of precum at its tip dribble out more, enough to stain his front.

“Playing with fire, my cheeky little pup,” he growls, gripping beneath your raised thigh to slot himself tantalizingly close… the hot, thick head of his cock pushing its way along your seam. But not in it. Not yet. “And here I thought you were deep in your annoyance and hatred for me?” That cock pulls back, sliding again where you are positively dripping down your thighs. “You may hate me, but my cock...” he leans in until his lips suck your ear loudly, “you still have a soft spot for my cock, it seems.” He lets just the head of him dip inside your channel… once, twice… then he pulls back out. And you have to swallow a moan. “More like a tight, warm, and wet spot…”

His laughter encases you, deafens you to the din of the gala that is dangerously close to your hiding spot.

“You want me to fuck you,” Astarion hisses, lips and tongue tickling the creases of your ear. “Even hating me, you want me to try to make you moan and sob and weep for your lover…” It’s not a question. He’s happy to play the rules of your game, abiding by the terms of engagement you have been dancing around at this ball.

You give him your own version of his liar’s smile. “No… no I don’t want any of that,” you taunt, sardonic tone and batting eyes to give an effort of innocence. “Don’t do it. Don’t shove your cock between my thighs. Don’t come near me. You disgust me.” Just for good measure you lower your leg, letting his length slip from under you. “Now, let the belle of the ball return to her party so she can be toasted as the hero she is…”

Astarion snarls, feral and angry, a smile on his face all the while. He spins you around and traps you right back where he had you, but this time, he shoves himself to his balls, sheathed totally inside you from behind. “Fear not, you’ll return soon enough,” he’s panting in the back of your ear as he pounds you, your cheek pressing against the stone wall with each thrust. “You’ll return with your insides painted white and my cum dripping down your thighs, just for good measure. You’ll return, my insolent saviour, and get all the praise you’re due, but you’re going to do it… reeking of sex, stinking of me inside you.”

Your back arches, body burning its hatred and annoyance in the flames of pleasure. Fuck, it feels good. All his pent up rage pummels your insides, his possessive hands pinning you in place and wandering over every inch of your body, a body he has worshiped tirelessly and daily for a year. His panting mouth lowers to your neck, and for a moment you fear his bite… Instead he marks you… little brands that will hide so well for the rest of the night beneath your hair. Over and over again, he does this, leaving a trail of love bites encircling the back of your neck, a collar of his own possessive marking. Hand extended, he smacks your ass, your breath hitching to swallow your groan of delight as he gives you another mark of his claim to conceal beneath your skirts. Another spank, just enough to drive you towards the edge in that way he knows you crave.

He ruts into you from behind, and you, splayed with your hands and face against the stone wall, you’re smiling… “Gods, you can’t stand me having any power, any eyes on me that aren’t your red ones.”

“Can you blame me? You’re mine, darling. I’ve shared everything with you,” his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the music and chatter in the ballroom and over the slap of your bodies as he fucks harder. “I ascended for us, for you… I fought at your side, gave you my gifts of immortality and sunwalking… and what’s more I gave you my heart, my trust. You are the first person I ever truly, obsessively cared about. And this is the thanks I get?”

Hips snapping slow, hands gripping nails into your hip and neck. He’s close, his pace growing more deliberate and deep. You gasp, his words piercing deeper than his cock as he bottoms out to the hilt with each thrust. Guilt slices into your gut, and you arch your back again, your face pressing against his cheek. “I can be thankful and find you incredibly… vexing… at the same time…” you pant.

“Vex you? Little old me… vexes you?” he’s laughing now, a wicked delight where there was rage a moment before. “Show me, show me how much I vex you,” he smirks against your cheek, fingers wrapped prettily around your throat until he feels you shudder. Your climax slams into you, a wave of heat and twisting muscles and fluttering walls. And gods, do you moan, do you scream for him. Unmistakable as that noise is, you’re sure someone will come to aid you in a moment.

But a moment is all that is required as he’s groaning and coming, head pressed into your back, hand clenched around your waist and throat. His seed fills your cunt, warmth instantly sticking and dripping down your thighs. Damp breath on your skin, a bit of drool wetting that spot, and Astarion kisses you at the nape of your neck.

His voice is rough, ragged from exertion and teeming with emotion. “Well,” he rasps, “as long as we are being honest… there is something that vexes me too, darling. I knew I never would be enough for you, that you degrade yourself to stay at my side.”

“Degrade myself?” you whisper, turning as he pulls from your cunt. His eyes are dull again, that fire of rage smothered and replaced by a raw vulnerability. That was a sight you had not expected as a part of your games tonight. “My love, do you still believe that, after all this time?”

“A year is nothing for the life of an immortal…” he trails off, a bit of his mask snapping back into place as he laces his cock inside his pants and rolls his shoulders to his full height, “especially one as powerful as I.”

You smack him on his shoulder, playful but powerful in your own way. “I do not see it as such,” you reply, “I see you as the man you are, a bastard sometimes, but a glorious one, one that has my heart. But even if you have me, body and soul, you, you do still vex me, irritate me, and make me hate some of the things you do.”

“Well,” he preens, making a show of fixing the lace of your bodice collar where he’s torn it a bit, “as long as it’s only vexation, don’t pretend you hate this, you love this… you love me…”

You lean in and give him the most feral kiss you think you ever have, all teeth and tongue as you pull him into your mouth with both hands. “Of course I do, that’s why you can annoy me so much, why I can feel bursts of such… passionate… hate.”

Astarion breaks the kiss first, thumb swiping along your lower lip. “So long as it’s passionate,” he teases back with a petulant smirk. “You do know, my darling, I am proud of your accomplishments…”

“Our accomplishments…”

His answering smile is disjointedly tender after the rough fuck against the wall. A little nod of his head, and he’s offering you his arm with all genteel decorum. That’s when you sense it, see it in his shoulders and bearing. A confidence and assurance that, despite vexation, you’re proud of him too. And of course you are, you think as you reenter the festivities, rubbing your neck and backside with a smile.

[arting-block]

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 (𝟐) | Eleventh Doctor x MCU!Sorcerer Reader

❝𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵—𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩—𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥?❞

Summary: Recovery and revelations.

Genre: Romance, AU/Crossover

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, PTSD, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of killing, comfort

Words: 26.2K (yes you heard that correctly)

Reader: POC friendly, she/her, 24 y/o.

A/N: i wrote 6 whole drafts of this god-forsaken chapter all of which included more backstory and angst. trust me, this was going to be over 50k but i didn't think tumblr could handle allat.

previous chapter |

[KAMPOT, CAMBODIA  24 YEARS AGO]

The humid air from outside still somehow seeped into the old hut of the village shaman. Dark, moody clouds could still be seen over the night sky. A small abode tucked away from the main roads, separated on all sides by thick foliage and dense forest. 

Therula hated using Eldritch Magic more than anything, but cannot deny the ease of the sling-ring. Cracks of azure light cut through the air in front of the hut. Warmth from the (L/N) estate and its lavish tapestry halted, turning to centuries-old wood and tropical breeze. The door to the hut, covered in red talisman and chicken feet, was left ajar. Yellow candle light came through the crack of the door frame, enticing the young woman inside.  

Bright yellow walls and intricate drawings cover the old shaman’s home. Ink sketches of human bones against mandalas; the hollow sockets where eyes were supposed to be staring back. On the ceiling there was an intricate projection of the night sky. Nebula, stars, and planets floating against the inky black of space, much like the one Therula conjured in her own home. 

It smelled of incense and peppers. A horrid combination that made Therula (L/N) physically ill. Even without the pregnancy hormones, she would still gag at the sharp smell of the home. Silks adorning Therula clung to her clammy skin. Its ornate pattern, coupled with hand-woven lace seemed odd in the humble environment. 

Anxiety crept in her bones slowly. As if to draw out her unease for as long as possible. A dull cramp settled in her gut, making her seeming calmness falter. Therula placed a laced hand above her stomach, exhaling softly to get her mind under control. 

This is for her own good.

A new mantra she often found herself saying. It keeps her focused, reminding herself that sacrifices are worth it. 

Months of sleepless nights are finally catching up to her. No matter how much concealer or color corrector she puts on, there’s still the gaunt look under her eyes. Her skin is losing its usual luster, and her fidgeting increased tenfold. Very improper indeed, but she gave up trying long ago. 

With anxiety came the sudden rise in heat. Therula felt her chest, neck, and face starting to flush. Inch by inch, crawling up her skin until sweat collects at the base of her head. She couldn’t help but mutter a soft prayer, hoping a call to her patron will give her strength, “Planet of oceans and ice, I ask to strengthen my veins with your power.”

She spoke in an ancient tongue, one that no book held record of. A language passed down from mother to child, only spoken within family. 

On cue, the familiar chill of her magic materialized. It took root in her heart and quickly overtook her body. It wasn’t enough to send her teeth chattering, but enough to calm her. Above all, it was a testament of Therula’s bond to her planet. A sign that they were there for her, aiding her through this difficult time. 

Whilst Therula was acclimating, she failed to notice the shaman materialize behind her. She didn't feel the air shift or the feeling of magic crackle through the air. A sign of the old shaman’s abilities than the lack of awareness on Therula.

“Back so soon? And without your husband, no less,” a snide voice said from behind Therula.

Therula whipped around, placing a hand over her startled heart. She silently cursed herself for letting her guard down. 

The shaman is a raggard woman with a hunched posture and a perpetually hoarse voice. Her tan skin was wrinkled heavily, but still had some residual roundness of her youth. The whole of her chest is covered with amulets and thick, circular clusters of peppers which Therula believes contributes to her posture. Bright primary fabrics construct the robe she adorns. 

A stubborn woman and old enough to have seen Pluto’s full orbit thrice. Her bony hands are covered in dainty tattoos and the tips of her fingers are dyed bright red. The old shaman regards Therula with a piercing gaze and her wrinkled lips into an even thinner line.

Therula had only met the old woman once before. Months ago, when she was barely showing her pregnancy. Therula had come with her husband then, seeking arcane advice for something barbaric. Enestor wasn’t keen on seeing a traditionalist, especially if it concerns his wife and unborn daughter, but he knew how much it meant for Therula. 

At that time, the shaman pushed back at Therula’s request. Too risky, especially when the subject has yet to breathe air. 

Now, as her due date grew nearer, Therula acquired new information regarding her family history—around the curse plaguing her unborn daughter. 

Therula rolls her shoulders back, holding her head high, “He doesn’t understand the situation we are in.”

The shaman shuffles closer, the amulets clanging softly against one another. Peppers along her neck are still sharp with capsaicin, making Therula’s nose scrunch. The shaman’s gaze zeroes in on her large stomach. Beneath the extravagant dress and expensive lace, the shaman could feel the pulsing heartbeat of an unborn child. 

A grunt came from the shaman, “You make decision without husband? Something that will not be reversed?”

The same warning, the same displeased look. 

Something in Therula hardens under the gaze, hardening her voice as much as she could, “He’s not part of my practice. This is a matter that concerns me, no one else.” Her tone is final despite the obvious waver. Her hands stuck along the sides of her swollen stomach, both soothing the baby and her own nerves. 

The shaman’s smile is smug, almost proud. She wags a red dyed finger at Therula, “You are bold, I’ll give you that. Many people come to my hut asking for power. None have asked to take it away.”

A warning. Something irreversible that cannot and would not be undone. 

“Will you do it?” Therula asked, her nerves starting to get the better of her. The calm, collected façade chipping away. 

The shaman huffs, “You ask for impossible, I give you impossible. Although I advised against this, it is clear you are stubborn.”

The old crone beckons Therula to the other side of the room. Wood beneath their feet creak and groan under their weight. The small room only takes a few strides to cross. On the other side, a dark wooden door with a large magical seal painted in red. The brushstrokes are precise and delicate, but it looked more haunting than beautiful. As Therula approached closer, she could make out the grooves of a fingerprint along the paint strokes. The sound of keys clanging made Therula watch the old woman shuffle through her belt. 

Keys, small knives, and talisman were bunched up on a single loop of her belt. The shadows swallowed any definition, making it seem like one big mass. It was hard to tell which key started and the talisman ended. 

A few seconds of shuffling until Therula heard the click of the keyring. An old brass key was finally found. Carved by a dark metal with small flourishes. 

It seemed heavy by the looks of it. The shaman’s shaky hands lodged the key into the lock, twisting it with some strain. The door creaked open as the gears of the lock shifted. Therula could see clusters of lit candles of different colors in every corner of the room. Despite the numerous candles, it was much dimmer than the room previously. Ends of the walls were a dark, inky black with no discernible corners.  

Light from the candles gave a blue hue to the contours of their faces. The smell of incense wafted away to a damp, moldy smell. 

Shelves filled with exotic herbs and more peppers sat along the wall. Glowing bottles next to wet specimens. Even a few shrunken heads dangled in the dark corners. All of which were nothing surprising to Therula. An old crone of her caliber is expected to adhere to traditions, no matter how unsavory. 

In the middle of the room was a giant magic seal. Old Khmer script along its edges along with complicated geometric patterns in the same red paint as on the door. Therula found herself transfixed by the seal. It was a dying art in the magical world. With newer mages seeking Eldritch Magic, there was no need for manually hand-drawing seals. Here, in the small hut in Kampot, a piece of this tradition is marked in stone. 

In the dim lighting of the room, the red seemed dark and muddy. Almost like…

Something uneasy was felt in her gut. Therula took a deep breath, caressing her abdomen. The door creaked shut with the sound of a metal lock clicking, making the poor mother jump. The shaman snickers, no doubt trying to make Therula on edge. 

“I fail to understand why you come here. Plenty of other strong, young mages to do your bidding,” the shaman grunts, pouring glowing liquids and peppers into a wooden bowl. Her bony fingers found a stone pestle to grind the ingredients together, “Not that I mind. Rare to see such esteemed witch from powerful family come to old shaman. Many good elders from your clan to take care of your problem. Those who know this curse better than I.”

Therula shifts her weight, feeling a dull ache in her knees, “You’re the only celestial witch old enough to pull this off. Even the most promising witches and warlocks from my clan only have a planet to call upon. Rumor has it that you have a star. A large one at that.”

A planet for guidance is a feat in itself. Talented mages had taken decades of their lives trying to build a connection. Complete devotion wields pure energy to siphon off of. Planets, with their rich mythology and monstrous size, give unparalleled power to their mage. 

But a planet would only take you so far. 

The shaman smiles at the praise, “You need power to match the curse, yes? One that is old and of equal value.” She brings the wooden bowl to Therula, who hesitantly accepts. 

Fluorescent blue liquid sloshes inside the bowl. The sharp sting of peppers hits Therula, forcing her to aggressively blink away tears. The shaman once again took another look at the mother’s stomach. There was no doubt that the unborn child had the gift. A strong current of magic swirling in around the womb despite the soul not taking hold yet. 

A strong vessel, perfect for a powerful witch. 

“I wonder what your ancestors did to warrant such a nasty curse,” the shaman mutters, still loud enough for Therula to hear, “No doubt the caster pulled divine intervention. Your family is protected by the nine planets, yes? But that’s not good enough. Not pure enough.”

Curses, especially ones involving the soul, are notoriously difficult to break. The older the curse, the more it festers and grows. With time comes the destruction of knowledge, including customs and language. Sooner or later there would be no one alive, nor any record preserved, to break the curse. 

The old shaman was born centuries before, older than some of the elders in Therula’s clan. Her magic was cultivated during a time where magic was still abundant in the public mind. A celestial witch with a star as her patron. Pure energy, older than the curse festering in Therula’s child. Energy that is easy to bend and manipulate, especially when it comes to magical seals. 

Therula huffed, a bead of sweat dripping down her temple, “It has to be done. Trust me, I weighed any other possibilities.”

There wasn’t any other choice. Not one that could save both mother and child. 

“Each year fewer of us are being born. Not to mention the sickness that's spreading,” the crone says, still eyeing her stomach, “I’m sure you’re aware of the potential of your daughter—.”

“Potential means nothing when her life is at stake,” Therula snaps, her eyes burning despite placing the bowl away from her face, “Powers or not, she’s my baby. If there’s a chance to give her a better life, then I’m willing to take it.”

Months of stress pouring through each word; no mistaking the raw edge of desperation.  

The shaman’s lips pressed to a thin line, but said nothing. It was clear that Therula was going through with her plan one way or another, even if it meant going to a lesser mage to get the job done. At the very least the old woman could provide a safe, stable spell that won’t harm either the mother or the fetus. 

The shaman reaches within the deep sleeves in her robe, pulling out a small decorative dagger. It was gold, matching the amulets on her chest, and encrusted with blood-red rubies and rich emerald. The blade gleams despite the low lighting, curving down to a sharp point.  

“I need to ensure the seal will last. Blood from me—” the shaman wastes no time slicing her palm. The thin skin broke through, and her darkened blood dripped into the bowl in Therula’s hand. The shaman took the bowl and flipped the handle of the knife to Therula, “ —blood from you. Power from two witches, and their patrons, are better than one.”

Therula’s heart hammered in her chest, but her hand grasped the ornate handle with no hesitation. A slight burn emanated from her hand where the deep cut was made. She clenched her hand, watching the blood pool out of her fingers and into the glowing bowl. Fluorescent liquid bubbled upon contact. 

“You drink this the moment you go into labor.” The shaman decants the liquid into a clear jar. “The soul of your daughter will start to enter her body. This elixir will enter her bloodstream and create a barrier around her spirit. Once child is born, she will be cut off from magic. The older she grows, the stronger the seal. Her soul will attach itself to barrier and create unbreakable bond.”

Therula takes the glowing jar. It’s easily a cup of liquid and no doubt will taste like copper and spice. Her hands tightened their hold. Early victory could easily sour as there were still five weeks left in her pregnancy. Nothing is for certain until the time of her labor. Even then, Therula would still worry and fret over her child. 

“How strong? Nothing is unbreakable, you of all people should know that,” Therula bites.

The small kernel of hope did nothing to mask the skepticism. After many months of mental torture, it seemed too good to be true. 

The shaman smirks, all knowing with her centuries of power, “Not even a star could undo it.”

— — —

[PRESENT]

Sound is a distraction. It dulls your brain and nullifies your other senses. Silence, in the absence of numbing noises, makes the air coil around you. Your body becomes aware of forces beyond your control. 

It wasn't crippling, but always there. 

Vibrations of energy flowing inside your skull, through your bones. It fills space between your atoms, making your body denser. It’s been the background of your existence for so long, that a part of you feels empty. It feels…

Lighter. You feel lighter. 

The Doctor left the room to retrieve his companions: Amy and Rory Pond. Husband and wife who he swept away from their ordinary lives back on Earth. Rather, they became husband and wife during his time with them. Not too long ago, but he seemed unsure. His eyes are always going about from one side to the next. The Doctor then remembered why he went off on a tangent, saying it would only take a few minutes. 

“Get comfortable. Don’t exert yourself.”

It’s been a few minutes. You shuffled back to the meager cot against the far corner of the room. Each step sends an ache in every fiber and joint in your body. 

It’s unnerving. The quiet of the air. No overbearing weight on your chest. There’s space between your thoughts and air into your lungs. 

It’s a new feeling, too new to be comfortable with. 

Sitting on the edge of your bed you let the seconds tick by, hoping to gather your bearings, think things over before the Doctor and his companions arrive. 

Your hands drag against the edge of your wrappings. Numb, damaged fingers find the frayed threads to slowly unravel. Scratching would hurt, so you quell the urge to scrape your nails on your palms. Keeping your fingers occupied so that you can fuel your nervous tick. A habit you couldn’t shake off and one that your mother always disapproved of.

Scattered thoughts pass through your mind. 

Flashes of color. The familiar burn of your magic. The rush of adrenaline—

Your throat closes. You need to keep calm. Focus on the now, figure a way out…

Silence bites your mind. It makes your feelings more apparent and it frightens you. 

You don't know the next step. You always know—should always know. 

A Master of the Mystic Arts, always a step ahead of everyone else. Commander of spells with experience that came with being an apprentice for six years. You had a big role to fill the moment the Ancient One anointed you as her apprentice and you met her expectations step by step. 

You were powerful. Surrounded by heroes and supportive friends alike. 

You were on top of the world. Power imbued in the fibers of your body. All the knowledge the universe had to offer at the tips of your fingers.

So why did you wish to leave? 

Being stuck in space wasn’t the issue. Being stuck in a universe with no discernable way out isn’t what’s plaguing you. 

Why did you leave? Why did your only thought—your dying wish—was to leave the world behind?

You were supposed to be a brave soldier, fighting for the universe itself. You never caved, never wavered in the battlefield. When the blood spills from your teeth or bones break beneath your skin, you always get back up. 

You swore an oath, bound by blood, to serve humanity and in return was bestowed the highest honor a sorcerer can have. 

And yet…you’d wish to give everything up. To leave your family, Peter, the Avengers—even Stephen and Wong. In your dying moments you acted on selfishness. 

The guilt causing tension in your body wasn’t from failing to keep Wanda and Vision safe…

It was because you chose your own life above all others. Above your friends; above the billions of others who no doubt deserved it more than you. 

The only surefire way to get back is if someone opens a portal and brings you to them. There’s too many variables, too many worlds to slip into. Traversing through the multiverse is like gliding through hot syrup and pure madness. No one in their right mind would suffer the cost just for a ghost. 

There’s no guarantee that even if you manage to survive another trek without magical protection that you could sift through and find your universe. The equivalent of finding a needle in a larger, near infinite pile of identical needles. 

You’re stuck. 

Thump, thump, thump. 

Voices and footsteps echo outside. Growing louder, getting closer.

Your body stiffens, your ears trying to pick up their conversation. Closer and closer they come. You shake away any stray thoughts, focusing on the present.  

Their voices sound clearer. Accents, different from the Doctor’s. Male and female, young, agitated. Arguing about something. They're too far away for you to make heads or tails of their conversation. Their voices come fast, fluctuating between stuttering exasperation (the Doctor most likely) to scathing retorts (Amy, judging from the higher pitch) and a deep groan that oozes annoyance (Rory, process of elimination). 

Voices and footsteps grow louder as the seconds tick by. Jumbled noises smooth into intelligible words. Not enough to piece together their conversation, but enough to know that they were a few paces away. 

Whisper-shouting and rustling of clothing stops the moment they reach your door. 

The ornate brass door knob rattles against the steel door. Side to side, as if it’s stuck. The door creaks open, the voices hushed the moment you see three figures standing outside.

Red hair, plaid shirt with worn jeans, and curious eyes peek through the door frame first. A beautiful woman, with a round face and even rounder eyes. She steps into the space with an air of caution, but there’s no mistaking the piqued curiosity. 

A tall man with sleepy eyes and spiky blond hair follows behind her. He wears a comfy, soft sweatshirt and a pair of dark, crisp denim. He doesn’t appear fearful, but doesn’t look too happy to be here. You notice the squared shoulders and measured steps, reminiscent of those in the military. 

The Doctor comes in last with a mind swarming with unfinished thoughts. His hands sweep around his jacket, trying to fix his appearance before stepping beside the blond man. The tension from your conversation seemed to dissipate, leaving a rather aloof expression on his face.  

The woman—Amy, you assume—stares at you, unblinking as if to not miss any movement. Her husband with cool regard, but has a protective arm around her shoulder. Their eyes take in every bruise and discolored skin, waiting for the Doctor to speak up. 

You can’t help but observe them too. They stood far enough that you could take in the tops of their head and all the way down to the worn converses they both had. Human, but something tells you they’re a bit more than that. 

Everything about her and her husband seemed so…ordinary. Civilians with catalog clothes and that tentative look on their face. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume they would be another faceless civilian out on the streets of whatever city you’re stopping in. The three of them stand in opposition to you. Each with their own perception of you, ranging between caged animal to war-stricken soldier. Pity, confused, and sad. It’s almost suffocating. Beneath the hesitance was an undeniable feeling of sorrow. As if seeing you was a tragedy. 

You don’t like it. Despise it, even. It seems that in every corner, in every face you see, there was an underlying sadness for you. It seems the lingering stares follow you outside of the multiverse and into the green eyes of Amy and the steel blue of Rory. 

The Doctor doesn’t seem to notice his companions’ less-than-enthusiastic mood. He stands beside you, bending slightly to get to your eye level. “These two lovely chaps are my companions: Amy and Rory Pond! Ponds, meet the wonderful—and very much alive—(Y/N)!” He does some jazz hands towards you with a proud smile on his face. 

They each wave to you awkwardly. 

You lick the sharp skin on your lower lip, the tiniest of smiles on your face. “I’m assuming you’re the Nurses?”

Rory and Amy seemed a bit stunned at your poor attempt at a joke. You guessed the contrast of a beaten face and a strained smile was a bit jarring. 

Then, Rory chuckles. Airy and genuine. It seemed the tension between them lifted. Amy’s shoulders relaxed, letting a smile of her own to be seen. 

“That’s a good one, I see what you did there,” Rory says. “Though, for the record, I’m the only certified medical nurse here.”

Your brows pinch, turning towards the Doctor with suspicion. He doesn’t seem to notice your wary looks, simply beaming at you with that smile of his. 

You shift in your spot, “Uh, I should’ve asked this when I woke up. How long, exactly, was I out for? When I blacked out, I didn’t register time passing. At all. Lemme guess, a few months?”

You’re not stupid. Back in the jungle, lying in that ditch, you felt your soul bursting inside your body. If it wasn’t for your unwavering spite, that stubbornness to get up, to keep trying, you would’ve seen the familiar skeletal face of Death herself. 

So far gone, that enough time passed that you are able to walk. You clearly remember struggling to do so; the biting pain still lingers in your knees. 

Something flashes in the Doctor’s eyes. A shift in his cheery demeanor to something serious and foreboding. 

Caution, you thought. 

“Five days.”

You blink. Once. Twice. 

Maybe you shattered your eardrum on the way here. 

“Sorry, I thought you said five days,” you scoff, almost laughing at the ridiculous thought. Sure you may heal cuts and bruises relatively fast, but you were on the brink of death. Bones were broken, no doubt a ton of internal bleeding sprinkled throughout your body.  

A taste of lemon on your tongue, a warm energy above the nerves of your spine.

Truth, your body says. 

You look at the Ponds and see the same look of weariness. Amy gives a slight nod of her head, confirming what the Doctor said. 

Denial grips your mind. Doubt in their words despite the lack of obvious deception. It makes the settling realization hit a lot harder. 

“It doesn’t make any sense. I should be out for weeks—months even,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. “Damage like that, I wouldn’t even bat an eye if it was a year.”

Acceptance creeps up, denial withers and in its place the cold grip of anxiety. You feel the leftover stinging and the scattered numbness from your injuries. You’re still healing and nowhere near full health, but you could walk and think somewhat clearly. 

A distinct memory floats in your mind; the time when you sustained a nasty fall from an eight story building. While some magic had cushioned your descent, you still heard the crack of bone when you landed on your side. Your humerus had deep fissures which took three weeks to fully heal, even with the help of healing magic. Not to mention the physical therapy alongside it.  

No, there’s no way I could’ve healed like that on my own.

You lift your head up towards the Doctor. “Did you give me some sort of medicine? Some technology that could advance human healing?”

“Well, not exactly,” the Doctor says, trailing off at the end. “Most of the machinery here requires blood work and stem cell extraction. However, because your body was retaining so much heat, we quickly realized that it could damage our equipment. Our biggest concern was the amount of blood being kept in your body cavity—a big sign of internal bleeding. And boy did you have a lot!” The Doctor chuckled, but upon seeing the disapproving look of his companions, he immediately smoothed his expression.

Rory rolled his eyes, continuing where the Doctor left off: “When the Doctor initially scanned your body in the jungle, he identified the sources of your internal bleeding. Mostly in your spleen and around your abdomen from blunt force trauma. We thought we would need to take you in for surgery but—” 

“Your body cauterized the wounds,” the Doctor cut in, too eager to let Rory finish. “Initially we thought it was due to the burning you sustained, but upon closer inspection, I realized that the burning was localized to the wounds you had. Tried my luck and decided to nick one of your veins and observed what happened. Sure enough, you sealed it moments after.”

You almost couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Almost. At this point you were willing to believe that you were a long lost moon princess that can transform with a magical compact. Somehow that seemed more believable in your mind than crossing the entire multiverse. 

At your stunned silence, Rory clarified further: “What he means is that your body—somehow—burned off the areas where you were bleeding without damaging surrounding tissue. But that wasn’t the weirdest part.”

“That wasn’t weird?” you ask, wondering how much new information you could take before your mind breaks. “So I now have burnt tissue stuck in my body on top of CMBR? Are my organs constantly boiling?”

The Doctor taps the bridge of your nose, making you jump. “Good, you’re paying attention. Luckily your cognitive functions seem to be working fine. To answer your first question, no. Whatever burnt tissue remained was overtaken by healthy tissues. Your cells were rapidly dividing to fix whatever damage was left behind. Even your bone marrow was working overtime to bring back the blood you lost.”

“What about the second question?” you ask. “You said that I still housed the CMBR—Big Bang CMBR—in the tissues of my body. Correct me if I’m wrong, but shouldn't my insides be cremated by now?”

In a flash, the Doctor’s finger points dangerously close to the middle of your brows. “I’m a bit insulted that you think I forgot.” He retracts his hand and paces in front of you. “To answer your other question, yes and no. The heat is mostly concentrated towards your heart and your blood. After a few days your body returned to normal temperatures and the CMBR was safely stored. For the most part.” 

You can’t help but inwardly wince. Phantom licks of fire tingle around your hands, threatening to swallow you whole once more. 

Amy moves closer, peering at you. Less analyzing, more like gazing over your features. When your eyes met, you were surprised she didn’t falter. She moved one step closer, her hands tense at her side. A bit of fear clung to her skin.  

“You told the Doctor something, before we came in,” Amy prompts. Any caution melted, spurring her curiosity. “You came from another universe, yes?”

“Don’t entertain her,” the Doctor says, though there isn’t malice. He seemed more exasperated that his companions were considering your story despite his opposition. 

Amy ignored the Doctor, focusing her attention on you, eager to what you had to say.

It was hard to pinpoint where you could even start. Bruce crash landing on the foyer of the New York Sanctum or the Battle of New York years prior? 

Events in your mind cloud and blur together. Too fresh of a wound to recount, even though five days have passed. Your body is still tense. The adrenaline has long since faded, but you can’t seem to unwind the taught muscles in your body. It doesn’t help that you’re in a room with strangers and a humming environment that seems alive.

“I was in battle, protecting Earth,” you start, the words scratching your throat. You can clearly remember the panic and animosity on the battlefield. The air was sparked with rage and stank of blood. “An alien named Thanos wanted to kill half of all sentient beings from the universe in order to preserve resources. He managed to collect five out of the six Infinity Stones. Each stone represented a core trait of existence. Infinite power, that when collected together, could bend the entire universe to your every whim. They were remnants of the Big Bang, hence the CMBR in my body.”

Your voice wavers slightly. Tired, scabbed, numb fingers clench the cotton sheets beneath you. 

Guilt swirls, clawing the inside of your chest. Enough to force your words out with anger lacing each syllable. “My friend had the last stone. He was already injured and Thanos’s army had worn through our defenses. I swore that I would protect him. I took an oath to protect humanity, even if it costs me my life. I tried to stop him—I did what I could and it didn’t matter—”

You cut yourself short. Your eyes were trained on the linoleum floor but all you could see was blood. The sound of flesh being torn apart by alien teeth and the screams of Wanda pounding in your head. 

“The stones—my arms—I tried to stop him. I absorbed as much as I could and I wasn’t strong enough. But I didn’t care about the burns, all I wanted at that moment was to save my friend…And it wasn’t enough.”

It didn’t matter that you managed to hold off Thanos long enough for Wanda to break the Mind Stone. Your promise was null and void and perhaps deep down you both knew it. It was better to hope than go into battle with defeat instilled in your mind. 

Forcing your head upwards, you locked eyes with the Doctor.

Something passed through the Doctor’s face; his lips pressed to a thin line and his eyes holding what words would fail to say. 

Understanding. 

The atmosphere of the room was thick with tension. Though your rushed and jumbled recount of events left more questions than answers, the three strangers didn’t pry further. Amy seemed to be the one most visibly upset. 

Feather light steps and a pinched expression on her face, Amy sat down on your bed beside you. Her weight makes the old foam creak, the close proximity makes the emotion pouring out more apparent. Pity and empathy came off of her in waves. If it was anyone else, under any other circumstance, you would recoil at the feeling.

“You’re safe now,” Amy whispered, her hands on your shoulder accompanying the gentle words. “You don’t have to explain yourself. Not unless you’re ready.”

Citrus on your tongue and the waves of sorrow easing the tension in your body. 

You don’t let the tears flow. You scrape together any ounce of energy to let yourself fall apart. Not now. You’re not ready for that. 

Breathe.

A muffled groan leaves you, your shoulders sagging with the weight of…honestly, you don’t know what to call it. Overwhelmed is a vast understatement to what you’re feeling. A throbbing headache threatens to pound against your skull, your body still desperately trying to pull itself together. You were teetering dangerously close to the edge of your sanity; one wrong thought and you’ll plunge into a familiar abyss. 

The three strangers dare not to move, scared that they’ve pushed you too far. The Doctor’s bright, observant eyes watch every movement of your face, trying to gauge your reaction. 

A shuddering breath escapes you, and you force yourself to fill the empty silence. 

“I-I think I need some time…alone.” Your voice is cracked, barely audible to Amy. You lower your gaze to your clenched fists, barely keeping yourself from trembling. You feel too vulnerable, exposed like a raw nerve. You mumble a strained: “Please.”

Amy doesn’t move right away, lingering in her spot beside you. After a few moments, she gives a feather-light squeeze of your shoulder before standing up. 

The Doctor, despite his distance, seemed to hear you just fine. Shoving his hands into his pant pockets, he sends a tentative smile your way. “Of course, we’ll be out of your hair for the time being.”

He walks to the other side of the room, opening a cabinet to reveal a small fridge. He bends slightly, rummaging through the fridge before grabbing a glass pitcher filled with cold water and a mug from an adjacent cabinet. 

Long legs carried the Doctor back towards you, setting down the pitcher and water on a nightstand beside your pillows. Opening the drawer from the nightstand, you hear the sound of rattling before the Doctor retrieves an orange bottle with large, white pills. 

“Some medicine to help you sleep,” the Doctor explains. “Don’t worry, we ran tests for any allergens.”

You make no move from your spot, only giving the man a stiff nod. 

The Ponds observe silently, fearing that any sound could set you off. They wait until the Doctor ushers them to the door to finally move. Amy twists her head, trying to keep you within her sight even as the door was being shut on her. You catch the quiet panic in her voice as she talks to Rory, but they’re retreating away from your room before you could catch what they’re saying. 

The Doctor is the last to cross the threshold, lingering once more. The corner of his mouth twitches to a slight frown, before straightening to a thin line. “Give a shout if you need anything. Don’t try to leave the room, it can get a bit confusing navigating the hallways. I’ll come back in a few hours to change your dressings.”

He didn’t wait to hear your reply, softly shutting the door with a faint click. 

— — —

The second the door closed, Amy wasted no time dragging the Doctor down the corridor and into the console room. The Doctor protests against her harsh tugging, something about expensive wool, but she couldn’t care less. Her grip on his sleeve was like steel, unyielding even when the Doctor tried wiggling out of her grasp. 

When the familiar flight of stairs came to view, Amy shoved the Doctor forwards, causing him to nearly fall down them. His feet miraculously stumbled to place, albeit with little grace to his movements,  saving him from a nasty fall and possible regeneration. The Doctor stumbled the remaining steps before turning back towards Amy. 

“What was that for?” he demands.

Amy descends down the stairs rapidly, stomping towards the man. “You knew she was gonna be awake.” She pointed a finger square in the Doctor’s chest, her accusing tone pinning him in place. “You didn’t want us in the room with her. All week you’ve been dodging questions—hiding something. Why?”

The Doctor scoffs, which only fueled Amy’s anger. “I told you not to worry about it. Besides I was testing, you know how dangerous CMBR is? Dangerous, lethal. Does that not scare you?”

“You said the radiation levels were not a problem! You tell us what’s going on right now because whether you like it or not we are in this mess together. We found that girl together and that means that Rory and I are just as responsible as you are,” she reminded. 

The Doctor leans back, putting distance between Amy’s face and his. He looked to Rory for support but all the blond could offer was an exasperated look. 

The two of them had an inkling that the Doctor was avoiding them only in regards to the comatose patient in the med-bay. Stuttered, whip-fast excuses, and long winded explanations for his continued disappearance. They knew the Doctor tried to work around their sleep schedule, so Amy proposed sleeping shifts to catch him. It never worked and couldn’t confirm their suspicions, but they couldn’t ignore their gut feeling. He deflected questions from Amy and outright refused help from Rory. 

Amy leaned closer to the Doctor so he could see every inch of her displeased face. Rory, who usually let his wife do the scaring, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Amy. Effectively creating a human wall against their Doctor. 

The Doctor raised his hands in surrender. “It was only a hunch—but I immediately went back to you two afterwards.”

Rory rolled his eyes. “Telling us after isn’t the same as letting us know beforehand. What happened to being a part of a team? Why did you feel the need to sneak around? We’re here to help.”

The Doctor heard the faint sound of disappointment from his companion, sending guilt straight to his two hearts. He sighs, running his hand through his hair for the umpteenth time. He hoped to have gotten away with it for longer. Alas, nothing could get past Amy or Rory. A part of him—a large one—was glad they were observant to see through his attempt at secrets.

“You’re right, I was sneaking around,” the Doctor admits sheepishly, though a part of him was unwilling to say it. “I wanted to be sure. This situation is unlike anything I’ve ever dealt with.” 

Amy scoffs, but lets a smile peek through. “Just hack it up already.”

The Doctor’s mood lightens a bit, letting him shift in excitement. “As you know, I’ve been trying to comb through her things, rather, what's left of them. Right when she was stable, I checked the driver’s license number on her ID. Y’know, run it through the New York DMV database to find any matches—”

Amy cuts the Doctor off, “But you didn’t find anything. She didn’t exist with no living relatives. You checked her DNA and knew she was human. You traced her back to around our time. We already know this, just tell us what you found out.”

“There, that’s the problem,” the Doctor states rather unhelpfully. Amy groaned. 

The Doctor pivots around, already ignoring Amy. “Girl crash lands in a jungle and has energy from the Big Bang. Wears clothes of a monk but clearly has defensive wounds meaning she was in battle. Odd, monks in battle. An oxymoron if I ever heard one.” He turns back to his companions but continues to ramble to himself. “Why would a New Yorker wear monk garb? A young one at that? Temples, monks. You don’t find enlightenment on the Statue of Liberty.”

Rory nudged Amy’s side, mouthing something to her: money. 

Amy’s eyes widened in realization, digging into her pocket. 

“Forget crashing, why voluntarily fight if you value all life?” the Doctor mumbled into his hand. 

“Doctor, I think I found some—” 

The Doctor cuts Amy off, not even looking in her general direction. “Stones? Who uses stones? Oh, who am I kidding, stones are cool, stones are sturdy and reliable. If I was the Big Bang I would be a stone too.”

“Doctor would you please—”

“Not now Amy, I’m in the middle of something.” The Doctor tries to maneuver around the console, but Amy grabs him by the shoulders, forcing him to acknowledge her. 

God, sometimes she wants to smack him, possibly knock his brain in the process. 

Amy shook the Doctor, glaring at him with enough heat to make anyone wither. “If you would just listen for once, I could tell you where she became a monk. Goodness, it’s like you get paid to ignore people.”

The Doctor looks to Amy’s hand. In it was a crumpled 20 rupee banknote. 

“National currency of the Federal Democratic Republic of Nepal. Odd currency for someone living in New York, isn’t it?” Amy smirked at seeing the Doctor’s eyes widened. 

The Doctor snatches the rupee, giving it a sniff and inspecting it under the TARDIS lights. It was real all right. He spun back towards his companions, “How come I didn’t see this earlier? Were you hiding this from me?”

“A taste of your own medicine,” Amy quips. “It was in her robes, not her wallet. Found it a few minutes ago when I was inspecting it.”

It was a stroke of luck that Amy managed to see the red bank note in the sea of red fabric. Whoever constructed the robes had a knack for secret pockets and seamless edges. At first glance, the pockets themselves were placed in rather odd places. It seemed as though they were slapped on haphazardly; one of them was adjacent to the armpit, another placed smack in the middle of the back. Most of them were empty, save for an odd post-it note or some receipts from Delmar's Deli-Grocery. The Doctor had already found no matches for the receipts or any deli in New York with a name like that. 

Pride bloomed in the Doctor’s chest. He gives Amy a giddy smile and ruffles her hair, “Oh, Amelia. What would I do without you?”

The red banknotes flips in his hand. Another clue for him to dissect.

“So our soldier-monk went to Nepal to be enlightened,” the Doctor observed. “Somewhere along the way she somehow gets recruited into a big war where monks are part of enlistment. Sounds like an awful system to be living under. Things happen, stones get collected, infinity becomes real, she crash-lands on Rwanda.”

“Think you missed a few steps,” Rory mumbled. 

The Doctor flicked the side of his head. “Plot holes in stories are what gives us clues. If her memories have been tampered there would be glaring problems with her story. Problem is, her story is just a big hole with bits of plot in them. A plot stew if you will. No, that’s not right.”

Amy leans against the console. “Maybe she doesn’t trust us to give the whole story. She didn’t seem like she was lying. Everything felt so��genuine. Besides, what else could cause those injuries if not…stones made from the Big Bang?”

“I’ve come from a whole line of medical professionals,” Rory adds. “Never had I seen burns look like that. The skin only split where her veins were. Any other normal injury would follow the pattern of the fire or lightning, not the pattern of your veins.”

The Doctor had to agree on Rory there. Nothing about this made any sense. Normally that would be a surge of excitement. Few things puzzled the Doctor, especially for days on end. What would usually be something of a game very quickly turned to a massive headache. 

You believed everything you said wholeheartedly, but everything that came out of your mouth seemed to contradict the thing before it. 

The Doctor rounds the console, finding the swiveling monitor, with Amy and Rory trailing behind him. His fingers type out something on the keyboard, the monitor beeping to life. 

Charts, data, and a scan of your body was shown. Text flashes, blocks of letters and numbers that could make anyone’s head spin. Amy had seen this screen many, many times, yet couldn’t make out anything in plain English. Rory’s nursing background gave some leverage, easily spotting medical terms and diagnoses that the Doctor gave. 

“Remember how I said that I couldn’t find a relative traced to her?” the Doctor asked, enlarging the scan of your DNA. Large parts of your genes were highlighted in bright orange and another set of text appeared: NO GENETIC MATCHES FOUND. The Doctor continued: “I checked everything. What diseases she’s immune to, her microbiome, and general physiology. All signs point to her being human, but it’s this that gives me trouble. This specific sequence not only doesn’t belong to any human, but doesn’t relate to any living species on Earth. It’s not spliced, it’s the same genome she was given to the day she was born.”

“So she’s an alien,” Rory said, albeit a bit unsure. 

“As much as she is human, yes,” the Doctor answers, typing more things out. “Monk working as a soldier, New Yorker with Nepali money, human with alien DNA. So alien that the sequence doesn’t match any known species—sentient or not—across the Milky Way. I even sent a sample to the Department of Intergalactic Biologics back in Andromeda. Nothing back yet, but I’ve been told that my case is top priority.”

Amy leans her body against the edge of the console. “Last time you asked them for help they took a month to reply back. If I recall correctly, that case was also top priority. Are you going to keep her here until then?”

“That’s the plan, yes,” the Doctor replied. There was an edge of frustration lined in his words. He hoped his normally erratic behavior covered it well enough. “Even if she did omit elements to her story, I doubt it will clear anything up. However, my reason for keeping her onboard is to monitor her CMBR. Specifically, how her body houses it. Or worse, if it can metabolize it.”

Amy’s lips pursed in thought. “Metabolize? As in eat it?”

“As in convert it to energy,” Rory corrects. He glanced at the Doctor for confirmation, to which the man nodded. 

“And that’s supposed to be a bad thing?” Amy asked. “Shouldn’t that be a good thing? That means that the radiation wouldn’t harm her or us.”

The Doctor shakes his head, his body wrung tight with tension. “You and I see her as who she is, as a sentient being with ambitions and goals. At best she could harness the radiation and be at peak physical performance at all times with little food. But not everyone will see her as such.” 

Amy’s eyes narrowed slightly in confusion at the Doctor’s purposefully vague wording. A part of her regretted trying to prod the alien for information. 

Realization of the Doctor’s word dawned on Rory nearly immediately. “She’ll be a battery.”

The Doctor let out a heavy sigh. “A weapon would be the correct term. That's why I couldn’t let her go to the hospital. Even a human one. At such a vulnerable stage, anyone could try to conjure ways to extract the energy inside of her. If not the staff, then surely any desperate enough group who are willing to get their hands on a stable energy source by any means necessary.” 

As much as your odd words and mysterious origin makes the Doctor’s temple ache, it relieved him that he and the Ponds were the first to find you. With countless wars and fights for resources plaguing galaxies across the universe, there’s no doubt in his mind that you would’ve been picked off and made into something less than. All things good and human would be torn away, and you would be left as a husk whose sole purpose was to give and give until you simply couldn’t. 

If what you said was true, that multiverses do exist, then that reality has already come true. The Doctor didn’t make it in time and the universe would have swallowed you into an unknown path where not even the TARDIS could track you down. So many possibilities sprung from his mind that he nearly forgot he was being watched carefully by the Ponds. 

The Doctor didn’t acknowledge the worried looks of his companions. With a deep breath, the man steadied his mind and straightened his back. Back to his old self. 

He clasped his hands and pivoted towards the Ponds. “Right, no point in worrying about the would have or could have. Focus on the now—the present and what we control. As Amy pointed out, our top priority should be our patient’s health and well-being. I’ll save the testing ‘til she’s in full recovery.”

“And how long would that be? A few days?” Rory asked. At the rate you’ve seemed to recover, it would be a matter of time before you were at your full strength.

“I don’t know,” the Doctor admitted. Arguably a worrying statement coming from someone like him. “Internal bleeding and bruising are healing exceptionally fast, but it’s her arms. Whatever force, power—what have you—had done that damage seemed to alter the way her cells repair themselves. It’s hard to tell why, but it’s not going to heal the same way the rest of her body does. That is a certainty.” 

“But she’ll live, right?” Amy asks, a bit fearful of what the answer would be. 

Rory looked expectantly at the Doctor as well. 

Once again, the Doctor is reminded of why he is so fond of humans and their planet. Why he orbits the Earth and adopted it like it’s his own. 

“The chance is never zero,” the Doctor reminds, but his grin betrays his own bias. “I think she’ll be okay.”

— — —

The medicine the Doctor gave you managed to knock you out for three hours. There was no label to tell you what exactly you were putting in your body, but you knew that the Doctor could’ve easily killed you in the five days that you were in his care. After drinking the entire pitcher of crisp water, you took a single pill. In no time, your body sagged against worn pillows and the warm duvet. 

You would’ve probably slept a lot longer had it not been for Amy desperately trying to wake you. 

“You have to get up,” she whispered, gently shaking your shoulder. When you stir slightly, she raises her voice a bit louder. “Rory says you need to eat. You can go back to bed after, promise.”

Sleep still clung to you, trying to pull you back to the soothing, dreamless state you were before. You had half the mind to ignore her, hoping that she will get the message and leave you be. As you shifted your body away from her hands, you felt a familiar ache in your stomach. A loud, rumbling growl that echoed inside your body. 

That certainly woke you up. 

Amy’s laugh further cemented your embarrassment, but you knew she wasn’t trying to make fun of you. She helped you out of your bed as your arms were incapable of hauling the duvet off of you. Still groggy with sleep, you allowed Amy to hover beside you as you stubbornly limp to the door. 

“The Doctor went out for supplies,” Amy says. “Just going to be me and Rory for the time being. We would’ve let you sleep longer, but Rory realized that the Doctor took out your feeding tube, meaning you haven’t had any food for twelve hours.”

“He knew I was going to be awake?” You had to remind yourself that you weren’t back on Earth with your limited technologies. They probably had your whole genome mapped and analyzed by now. 

Amy let out a frustrated sigh. “He had a hunch, but kept Rory and I in the dark. Turns out he wanted to interrogate you alone. He didn’t piss you off, did he?”

You tried to think back on your initial conversation with the Doctor. The confusion, the whip-fast talking, and the odd words he said. U.N.I.T.…Torchwood…

“The Doctor called me something.” You wracked your brain, trying to push past your sleep-deprived memories. “Spor…Sporgatuu? He got pretty upset, accusing me of trying to get him to join a club?”

Amy stopped in her tracks and gave you a questioning look. “He said that to you?” She gave a scoff and under her breath mumbled: “Unbelievable.”

“What? What did he mean by that?”

“The Doctor calls them a fringe, off-the-wall cult,” Amy starts. “One of the oldest in the universe. What we know is that they want the Doctor to join and they always send a woman to speak with him. I’ve only seen one of them, and I can tell you first hand that they got a few screws loose. They believe in magic and that their gods live in other universes. Don’t worry, I’m sure the Doctor knows by now that you’re not one of them.”

You gave a small chuckle. “He sure seemed pretty convinced back there.”

Amy rolled her eyes. “The Doctor is as stupid as he is smart. His heart is in the right place, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t do questionable things. How about we put away the multiverse talk and think about something else for a change. Like…how do you feel about stew?”

— — —

The kitchen wasn’t too far off from the med bay. You managed the distance without wincing or injuring yourself further. Inside, you could smell the cooking vegetables and feel the steam warming up the room. Rory stood at the stove with a plain black apron and some upbeat jazz in the background. You wanted to keep to yourself, opting to sit on the barstool on the kitchen island. Amy respected your silence, not wanting to further distress you and went to join her husband despite his insistence that he could handle cooking. 

She helped Rory with setting the table and poured you a generous serving. Dinner consisted of veggie stew and mashed potatoes. The steam kissed your cheeks and the plate was warm to the touch.

Rory became sheepish when you rightfully complimented his cooking. The steamed carrots melted on your tongue and the seasoning was a delicate blend of savory with a tiniest splash of sweet. The last meal you remember having was microwaved dim sum and expired fried rice. Between covert missions and temple duties, you didn’t think to restock your fridge or have any spare time to grab a decent meal. 

You learned that Rory was automatically elected to babysit you as the only human medical professional. The Doctor simply handed a communication device should he run into trouble. Amy wanted to stick behind, partially because she wanted Rory’s cooking, but also to see how you were doing. She knew how hard transitioning into TARDIS-life (as she called it), and hoped to make it smoother for you. 

After your first plate was cleared, your stomach still felt hollow and ravenous. By the third time Amy refilled your plate, Rory brought the cast iron pot on the stove to the counter in front of you. Breathing became a suggestion and shoving spoonfuls of stew became your sole priority. 

You didn't realize how much you missed home cooked meals. With missions across time and space, your options for food were limited at best. Slobs of unintelligible meat with exotic plants that could poison you were unfortunately very common. 

It was during the holidays or times where your body was on the verge of collapsing were when you could indulge in simple comforts. 

Warm food, cozy bed, time with your parents and siblings.

The thought makes you pause. Hunger that festered in your stomach for the past hour had evaporated, leaving a sour pain. 

Amy, who was observing you like a hawk, immediately picked up the miniscule change in attitude. “Something wrong?”

You cleared your throat. A scratchy, hoarse sound. You shook your head, “Sorry, just lost in thought. It's just…been so long since I had any good food.”

Just how long has it been? Weeks? Months?

It was better to consume anything remotely edible than be picky. You’d learned that the hard way. That didn’t mean that eating mystery meats and slobs was enjoyable. If anything, it made the juxtaposition of seasoned stew and creamy mashed potatoes all the more jarring. 

The two of them said nothing as you slowly ate the rest of your plate. By the time your spoon scraped the bottom of your bowl and your fork scooped the last bits of mashed potato, Rory had decanted the leftovers into plastic tubs. Amy took over dishwashing duty, thoroughly scrubbing the pans and utensils. 

Slowly, you rose from your chair with your empty plate in hand. Movement was difficult and your full stomach made you feel the beginning stages of sleepiness. Still, you made your way over to the couple and placed your plate beside the sink. 

“Thank you. Seriously, you don’t know how much this means to me,” you say softly.  

Amy seemed surprised at your admission. Then, a wide grin blossomed on her face. You returned with a small one of your own, pained as it was. 

— — —

The first time you wandered through the TARDIS by yourself was downright terrifying. When the Ponds supplied you with their information regarding the space-craft, you realized that you were far too tired to actually hold onto the information. Bits and pieces of the conversation stood out; bigger-on-the-inside, spatial warping, dizziness. Amy advised to call one of them to guide you around as it can be overwhelming to experience the TARDIS alone. 

Three days and some hours have passed since you’ve woken up on the strange ship. You’ve always had a speedy recovery—something you’ve come to loathe—and your altered cells have only increased it. Walking around the room can now be handled without any opioids or morphine (courtesy of Rory). Days were spent glued to the bed, broken by the timely visits by the Ponds or the Doctor. Rory made the executive decision to prescribe bed-rest. A week at least. 

Three days and you’re now starting to lose it. With all the sleep medication and sore limbs, you were practically welded to the mattress. 

You’ve walked down the hallways before, but always accompanied by one of the Ponds and never further than a few doors down to the kitchen. So when you woke up much earlier than anticipated, you made the impulsive decision to wander out. 

The door to the med-bay was a light blue tint over the steel; it silently shut itself behind you when you crossed into the hallway. Other doors were other versions of plain steel. You foolishly thought that if you kept track of the doors you’d see, you eventually make your way back to your squeaky cot until it was time for the Doctor to do his daily checkup. You told yourself that you’ll only be gone five—maybe ten minutes tops. 

Blue steel of the med-bay’s door marked the end of the hallway. You hadn’t walked for thirty seconds before you felt a strange shift in the air. As if something had moved and the air blew in response. Turning around, you expected to see the end of the hallway staring back.

An endless, repeating hallway met you instead. On and on it went that you could see a small vanishing point on the horizon. 

Maybe you were freaked out. A cold sweat overcame you and you started to walk back to where you came from. You twist your neck left and right to try and see the familiar door. All of the doors along the hallway were plain silver steel. 

Air billowed around you, like seconds before. This time, it fluttered your cotton shirt and the cuffs of your loose pants. You turned around, nearly jumping out of your skin. 

Blue steel inches away from your face. You turned back around and saw the same endless hallway. Looking at the reflective surface of the med-bay, your fingers hesitantly felt the metal, shocked that it was solid. 

Now you were more than a little freaked out. Maybe you were a little impressed. Was hallucinating part of the side effects of the drugs you were taking? No magic, so space-warping spells are immediately ruled out. You’d encountered many things, but the warping of space without the aid of some type of magic was perplexing. Scary, even. 

And very intriguing. 

It took some mulling and a lot of overthinking. The best hypothesis you could come up with is that the TARDIS is somehow telekinetic. When you panicked and tried looking for the med-bay, it immediately materialized, just out of your sight. 

So you wandered about away from the med-bay, longer than you had previously. You needed to put as much distance between you and the last known location of the med-bay so there could be no doubt. As you gingerly walked, you took the time to catalog the different doors. Most of this hallway was steel, but now that you’re taking time to observe, you realize the slight variations. Some were inscribed in alien language, others had tacky door knobs that didn’t fit with the aesthetic of the door, each one had a small plaque next to them. Some were numbered and others had plain English. Words like “pool”, “storage”, “1890s Costumes”, and other odd labels. 

Turning around, you see the endless hallway. Turning back, the same was met back. Closing your eyes, you plead:

I want to go to med-bay.

Air in front of your face swooshes away, kissing your eyelids. When you opened, the blue steel flooded your vision. 

You were still freaked out, but curiosity eventually won. 

You told yourself a couple minutes at the most to explore; that the Doctor would be waiting to check up on you.

Five minutes easily slipped to ten. Ten to twenty, and eventually you had been gone for an hour. Instead of the med-bay, you tried to summon different doors. Hell, you even opened a few rooms. 

The pool room (yes, a room full of pools) was huge, easily swallowing the med-bay by a few thousand square-feet. Costume related rooms were mostly a plain white room with racks of period clothing. Sometimes there were a pile of mismatched fabrics in the corner, as if someone haphazardly sifted through them. 

Easily, you’ve been in over fifty different rooms. You’d found another kitchen, which looked straight out of a 60s home magazine. Light green walls, pastel appliances, and a large fridge filled with various leftovers. It was bigger than the ones in New York, but smaller in comparison to the vast rooms of the TARDIS. 

You walked down the hexagonal archways, everything blurring together. You didn't mind the repetition as it made each room seem like a mystery. 

A few rooms stood out the most. Ones that had a name and had painted wood instead of steel. They were spread out from one another, taking you twenty to thirty minutes before seeing another one. 

Their knobs were round brass and when you went to touch it, there was a whisper of warmth. As if someone just held it before you. Some variations of these doors were present. 

“Martha” had grooves and was painted beige. 

“Donna” was a light blue with some flourish on the door knob. 

“Rose”, as the name suggests, was a dusted pink with small, colorful flowers. Each of them was locked shut, so tightly in fact, that the door knob didn’t wiggle no matter how much force was put in them. 

Old companions was the likely answer. People, like Amy and Rory, who were swept away from Earth and into deep space and time. You get the feeling that the Doctor locked them for a reason. 

Eventually, you made your way through the endless hallways, completely forgetting about the Doctor’s timely visit. Your hand glides through the oddly shaped hallway and your feet softly padding down clean floors. You didn’t have a destination in mind, just blindly walking in a straight line. It was repetitive, calming in the way meditation was. You didn’t think about potential meetings with masters, or the Infinity Stones residing inside you. 

Guilt was still there, always lingering in your body. Then again, there was always something weighing you down. Still, you kept walking, completely lost in your own bubble. 

Your body has healed remarkably since your waking. Soreness ebbed to stiffness and the nerves damaged had slowly, but surely, been repaired. Your hands haven't had the same luxury as the rest of your body. Still stitching itself together. Deep lines along your veins that had barely been scabbed over. Even if  weeks passed the Doctor believes it will take a year before your skin will finally close. Until then, gauze will cover them, keeping them safe from further damage. 

You hope your body will pull itself together soon. Residue energy from your universe—though terribly unlikely—could help speed things up. 

Air shifts behind you. 

Confused, you turn to see the med-bay materialize, even though you didn’t summon it. Footsteps were heard behind the door and before you knew it, the door swung open. 

The Doctor hung in the doorway, equally as confused. 

“There’s a lot of doors out here. Gets kind of confusing,” you say, as if it was the perfect explanation to your whereabouts. You slipped past the Doctor and into the room. 

The Doctor followed you, still utterly confused. “You could’ve at least told me you wanted to wander. You could get lost in there.”

“But I didn’t. It’s not that hard to figure out how to find your way back,” you say, plopping down on the squeakiest mattress. “Amy failed to mention how the TARDIS can warp space and is telepathic. Is it sentient? Did someone die here?”

A ghost, an emotional one especially, could explain the weird ship without delving into magic. Still spiritual, but not touching sorcerer territory. 

“Kind of, and no. If you knew your way back, why did you take so long to return? I had to get the Ponds out there looking for you.” The Doctor grabs several rolls of gauze and some ointments. 

You paused for a moment. Then, you answered honestly, “It was repetitive. I could walk for a mile and have the med-bay appear the second I command it.” 

I didn’t feel lost. 

For the first time in weeks—months even, you managed to entertain yourself without interruption. You had time to focus, shift your mind into a peaceful state. Even if it was temporary. You take any victory with stride, no matter how small. 

The Doctor unravels your gauze with surprising carefulness. You don’t see him much on account of your sleeping habits and his tenacity to leave the TARDIS for long periods of time. In the rare glimpses you do see, the Doctor is erratic as much as he is smart. Constantly bumping into corners, fumbling instead of walking, always in motion even when seated. 

It’s only when he engages in his namesake is when the Doctor is gentle and slow. Mumblings are few and his focused gaze is hidden behind his brown, wild hair. 

When the entirety of your right arm is revealed, it’s still as raw and tender as yesterday. Most of your skin seemed to remain intact, save for the deep, exposing gashes along your veins. A burn describes skin that's peeled and blistered. A cut would aptly describe the wounds you have. It’s clean, burrowing deep into muscle like butter. It winds and twists around your arms, only stopping around your bicep. From there, the only damage you see is dark, almost purple markings that extend to the middle of your chest and back. 

“It could be worse,” the Doctor notes, sincere and light-hearted.

A small chuckle escapes, but your words are dull. “It definitely feels worse.”

The Doctor reaches for the ointments, weird smelling pastes, and a saline solution. The saline is bottled in a dark, glass bottle written in a script that barely passes as English. After submerging a cotton round, the Doctor dabs the solution along the open wounds. Cold liquid cascades down, kissing the raw edges of your tissue. Up and up the cotton goes until all sides are discolored with flecks of blood and old ointments. 

You don’t mind the silence this process brings. It’s never awkward or boring. The cleanings don’t burn or sting anymore and the Doctor’s focus allows you to observe him. A habit you’ve gotten since you were young, always cataloging features of the people around you. Doctors, policemen, civilians. 

When the Doctor moves to get the next set of items, your eyes briefly meet. He doesn’t seem alarmed at your staring, even when he catches you often. He commented once how you often look at people more when they face away from you. You suppose he’s referring to the times where the Ponds interact with you. For a moment—perhaps for the first time—you really observed his eyes. A clear, muted green that easily slips into blue. The skin and features surrounding his eyes are young and prominent. It’s easy for his eyes to blend into his face and go unnoticed. But at this distance, you see him for who—what he is. 

“You’re old.” 

It’s a second too late and you realize how terribly you’ve worded your scattered thoughts.  

The Doctor looked startled. He immediately turns to the reflective bottles beside him and twists his head around, capturing his features on all sides. Before you could take back your words and verbalize what you actually meant, he scoffs, never taking his eyes away from his reflection. 

“Old? Me? Humans age, it’s natural, it’s supposed to happen.” You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or just rambling to himself. Then, he turns to you with concern, rubbing his throat. “It’s the neck isn’t it? Amy tells me that it’s the first place that starts to change. Or is it the hair? She tells me it doesn't suit me. Or was that Rory?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, trying to cut in before he misunderstands further. “I mean, sort of—I just mean that you’re older than you appear. You still look young, but you’re for sure older than us, the Ponds and I. You’re immortal. At the very least not human.” 

Now that you’ve verbalized it, everything about the Doctor’s behavior and being makes sense. Apart from the odd clothing and overly loud personality, there’s something off about him. It really shows when the Ponds are also in the same room as him. It’s not scary or uncanny. So subtle that most wouldn’t be able to tell. But you’re not most.

It’s the misplaced, dated slang. The sense that he knows too much and isn’t afraid to show it. How he constantly refers to the Ponds as “people” but sometimes slips into “you humans”. It seems he catalogs every sensory input, from the subtle change in the air to the pumping of his heart, because his brain has the capacity to do so. 

The sheer happiness radiating off the Doctor is infectious. His wide grin and twinkling eyes, joyous that you’ve caught on. 

“What gave it away?” he wonders, an echo of childlike curiosity. He tilts his head, leans ever-so-slightly towards you. 

It’s clearer now. The weight of centuries lingering in the depths of his iris. How could you have not noticed sooner? It’s familiar. Being an apprentice of the Ancient One; having spent countless months—maybe years—traveling between worlds where time is merely another dimension for you to alter. You’ve met and befriended a god whose age transcends the thousands and more so deities who have made you their sworn enemy. 

You remember the first time you’ve met Rocket. How despite his appearance as a normal mammal, you could immediately spot his wisdom before he uttered a snarky question. The way the Collector carries himself and how his brother regards you as less than. But time always manifests. Maybe not in the grooves of one's skin or the white strands of hair, but in the eyes. Always. 

“I’ve seen enough to know. You hide it better than most.” 

The Doctor’s smile doesn’t fade. He still has your wrist in his hand, a gentle but firm grasp. When he squeezes it subconsciously, he finally remembers why he’s there with you. 

Something crosses his face. A thought that makes his brow twitch and his focus falter. “And what are you?”

It shouldn’t surprise you that he asks. You survived a shock of radiation that would’ve no doubt vaporized any other being. Your body heals at an accelerated rate to the point where it takes less than a week for you to walk again. 

It shouldn’t surprise you, but you’re caught off-guard nonetheless. 

Your throat tightens, your tongue feeling like paper in your mouth. “I’m a person. With thoughts and feelings.”

The Doctor stares a moment longer. His lips settle into a more neutral state, and he thinks over your response. You wait for a response, but he turns away. He then grabs a tube of blue paste, the one that smells like burnt rice, and resumes his care. 

You watch as his fingers glide over your hand. Starting with the middle of your palm and working his way out. To the lengths of your fingers, then the tops of your hand and up your forearm. The paste is dense and hard to manipulate. The tips of his finger catch on the sharp, dry flakes of skin and it stings. 

His response is delayed, so much that you’ve returned to watching his work on your arm in deep thought. When the Doctor speaks in a calm, observant voice, it glides through the silence. “You used the word ‘person’. Not ‘human’ or some snide comment that humans normally respond to when asked. Your first thought was to make me emphasize, to humanize yourself without saying it.”

The Doctor’s analysis cuts straight through you, pinning you in place. The way he says it is so matter-of-fact, as if reading from a book that is lying in front of him. 

To have the observation made by someone you know little about—

Your answer is rushed, almost shamed. “It’s just that…some people seem to forget. They’re more concerned about what I can do for them, feelings are second.”

You couldn’t blame the masters for doing so. You often took the hardest jobs, throwing away your childhood one mission at a time. Perhaps it was easier to treat you as a powerful soldier, pushing you to your absolute limits, because it’s easier than acknowledging that they’re enabling your suffering.

The Doctor doesn’t comment or try to analyze the words you say. Fresh gauze winds itself securely back onto your wounds. Your left arm was cleaned and wrapped at the fraction of the time it took your right. At the speed he was going, the Doctor still made sure to not harm you further. 

You don’t say anything when he piles the glass bottles into a drawer next to the sink. Nor do you acknowledge him when he goes towards the door. You feel his heavy stare and the questions that hang in the air. 

You don’t move from your spot until long after his footsteps fade away. 

— — —

In your travels you’ve come to know two things. One: you do exist in other universes. Two: none of them are sorcerers. None of them get their magic. They all seem to live ordinary lives, plagued with little threat, and return to their homes safe and sound. Sometimes there’s trouble in the form of being late to appointments or the forgetting of pants. It’s a break from fighting demons in realms without time. Perhaps you offer alternate versions of yourself fantastical dreams. In return you get to live out a life where you chose differently.

You’ve come to treasure these dreams. It was a break from the norm. So when you start to lie down and the TARDIS lights dim, it wasn’t dreams you were experiencing.

Instead of the normal dreams, ones where you live vicariously through the various alternate lives that you have, you have memories. Exact recreations. No autonomy; nothing you can do but simply watch.

— — —

Guilt festers. It grows and grows until you can do nothing but wallow in your anger. Anger is new. What used to be bottomless sadness that leaves you heavy has now been replaced by bubbling rage. 

You’re glad no one on board shares your gift of sensing energy. Behind every neutral look, every small grin, every dry-humored joke were storms of emotion. It hurts, physically pains you that you allow your grief to evolve. 

You deserve it. All of it. 

There was a point in time where the voice in your head sounded like yours. Then your mother’s. 

Wanda now whispers, her voice echoing in your ear like nails on a chalkboard. 

— — —

There’s a pattern to the dreams—memories, rather. 

If one night you experience a pleasant, mundane sliver of your life, the next will be filled with agony. Sometimes you’re lucky, and get a dreamless rest. But those are few and far between.

You’re not in bed, lying on a dingy cot that squeaks with any miniscule movement. Glowing orange walls are replaced with light green paint and white trim. Disinfectant morphs to a sweet, ambery vanilla from the candles your mother collects. 

The air is warm with the bristling of energy, and sunlight caresses every surface in the living room. 

You shouldn’t be here. 

“Are you okay?” 

A childish voice, one that rings through the air, in the silence of your thoughts. 

Snapping your head down, you meet the scrutinous gaze of your younger brother. Younger than you remember when you’d seen him last. He sits on the old Persian carpet your father loves dearly. No one is allowed to play on the good carpets, lest they ruin the intricate design underneath. Elio sits with his trucks and action figures scattered around him.

But your parents are away and you let him play as long as you’re watching. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m just tired from traveling. Probably be even more tired when I go back to the Sanctum.” 

“You’re leaving again.”

You feel his pain before his face betrays him. He knows it, hiding his eyes as he stares at the dozens of toys lying around him. Too many for one boy to play with. 

You were gone for three months, trapped in a universe that is comparable to Hell on Earth. Nearly missed your father’s birthday and Master Hamir’s annual potluck; the latter you don’t really care as much. 

No matter how sore your body is or how much work awaits you at your office, you make it a point to see your family after each mission. Always. 

“Not for a few hours at least. Seems like you’re stuck with me.”

For someone who’s age hasn’t passed the double digits, Elio doesn’t let his emotions show. You don’t blame him. Since you’ve gotten promoted, your visits have gotten shorter and shorter. Soon, you’re going to be regarded as just another adult in his life. 

No. You already are. The Elio in front of you is not the one you’d left behind once more. 

The floorboards creak, signaling the arrival of another member of the family. A pink ball of energy, with a fury that rivals your own.

“Elio! I told you not to take my stuff!” 

Lene’s shrill, whiny voice is almost jarring against the silence of the estate. Her puffy cheeks and wrinkled princess gown makes it known that she had just woken up. 

Elio doesn’t bother to look up from his toys. He responds in a calmer manner than his younger sister, “(Y/N) said I could play with your toys as long as you were still asleep.”

At the mention of your name, Lene freezes. Her face was so full of surprise that her eyes bulged out of her head. 

You’re situated on a couch right beside the entrance of the living room, yet Lene’s face morphs into shock at you. As if she’s seeing you for the first time. 

“I thought you left already,” she mumbles, her gaze wide and unmoving. 

You stare back, unsure of how she would react. 

And react she did. Not a second later, her nose scrunches up and tears begin to form. “Does…Does that mean—”

Lene couldn’t finish her sentence before a sob escaped her. Tears that are almost comically big started to bead off her eyes in droplets. Her shrill voice got louder with each cry. Immediately, you scrambled on the floor to embrace the small girl. Her tiny hands wrapped around you and you feel your shirt getting damp. 

“I’m not leaving for a while, okay?” you cooed softly in her ear. Scooping her up in your arms, you start to rock her, holding her tightly. “(Y/N) is gonna leave tomorrow morning, so that means you have the rest of the day with me!”

Your words did nothing but make your sister sob even harder into your chest. You can barely make out her words between each hiccup. “I-I already sl-slept all d-day!”

Glancing up at the window, you can see the sun making its descent. 

Not again.

“I’m gonna visit again soon, you’ll see me again,” you promised, trying to speak over her wails. Still, it feels empty when you say it. “Mommy and Daddy will come home soon and you can ask them to visit me in Nepal. Or what about New York? Don’t you wanna see New York?”

If it wasn’t for the fact that Lene is burying her face in your shirt to muffle her cries, you would for sure lose hearing in one ear. She shakes her head violently, gripping onto you tighter. 

You rock and bounce, still remembering the motions when she was just a small baby. You still see her as such, even now that she’s bigger than most kids her age. 

Her cries mellow into loud hiccups and her pudgy fingers grip onto your crisp shirt like a vice. You feel the wet patch where her tears fell, but you continue to rock her in your arms. 

“Are you really gonna leave tomorrow?”

You almost didn’t catch what Elio said. His voice sounded so small. Far away. His face is downcast, picking at the fibers of the rug beneath him. 

“He misses you a lot, you know. Looks up to you, more than anyone else.”

Your father’s disappointment hits you hard. As stoic as Elio always seems to be, you know how much you mean to him. How much he means to you. How you fight tooth and nail to make it home for the holidays, birthdays, and everything in between. 

To the world you’re Seraph. The Burning One. Master of the Mystic Arts. 

It’s hard to see yourself as anything other than that.

It was difficult to maneuver on the floor with a crying child in your arms, but you managed to lie down on your back next to your brother. Lene’s cries dwindled to violent hiccups as she curled up on your side. You turn your head towards your brother who avoids your stare. Stubborn. You pat the empty space next to you. 

Elio hesitates. For a moment, he stays rooted in his spot, contemplating. At this angle, you can clearly see the hurt on his face. Can feel the hurt. A constant stream of deep longing that pours and weaves between the space of spiritual and physical. Between dream and reality. 

With the wobble of his lip, Elio scoots to your empty side and hugs you tightly. The river of emotions is more intense, almost washing over you. It didn’t take long for his tears to follow. It's a silent cry, one that shakes his body but no noise escapes.

His grip is tighter, his hold on your bruising. The lack of outward passion and vigor doesn't diminish the intensity of his feelings. More so than the normal person. 

It's why he doesn't run to greet you at the door anymore. Why he tends to play next to you rather than with you. 

You don't know whether he naturally keeps his emotions to himself, or if it's something he learned from you. 

“They don't want a hero,” your mother once snarled at you. Her wrinkled eyes would pierce through you, full of hurt. “You're their sister. Act like it.”

You don’t remember how long you stayed on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Your shirt was drenched with tears, spit, and snot but you didn’t move or push them away. If anything, you pulled them tighter against you. 

You didn’t cry. Your chest didn’t ache nor did your stomach cramp from the guilt. You can’t allow yourself to. If you keep crying helplessly whenever you leave, it will only hurt you more. 

By the time the sun dipped past the horizon, your two siblings had long exhausted themselves. You wait an hour more before gently carrying them up to their rooms. With a help of some magic, you managed to tuck them in their beds without so much as a single stir. 

A buzz came from your phone, along with it a sense of dread. 

Master Rokda: The Elders request a debrief of your mission on Earth 75-C. Do not keep them waiting.

When you meet your parents at the front door, they don’t comment on the fact that you’ve put on your sorcerer attire. You promised to be gone for an hour and be back for dinner. 

You pretend not to notice the crestfallen expression of your father or the lack of emotion from your mother. 

— — —

Energy still fires in your blood. Taunting you. 

You should try. The very least you could do is try to harness the power you absorbed.

It’s easier to move now that most of your body has healed. Sleep is now in tune with your circadian rhythm meaning you can stay awake for longer. Your hands are still tightly bound with gauze with only your fingers being exposed. The Doctor replaces the wrappings everyday so you can clean and examine the progress. 

The Doctor had warned you that your arms wouldn’t heal the same, even with the technology he possessed. 

You shake your head, clearing unnecessary thoughts. 

Try. That’s all you have to do. 

Taking a deep breath, you perform some basic maneuvers that maximize the flow of energy throughout your body. Stiffness in your legs and arms are expected, but the strain is difficult to push through. Your muscles still remember the placement of your arms, the amount of force with each step, the way your lungs expand in your chest. 

Your body is used to taking. Greedily absorbing any energy you come into contact with. It’s hard to reverse what you’re used to. To release rather than to hoard. 

The power of the stones sits stubbornly in your body and around your soul. Once frenzied and bubbled, the energy slowly settled as the days passed. Burrowing deeper, melting into any space between your cells. 

You feel your body warm up. Heartbeats quicken and your breathing gets deeper. Your tempo doesn’t change, only the force behind each punch and step. Again. Again. Again. You focus on precision. Every valve of your heart, every cell moving in your body. The way your nerves spark and burn around your arms, down your spine, surrounding you. 

Again. 

Again.

Again.

It’s slow at first. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. A flow of heat blooming from your soul, bleeding into your physical body. Streams of static curl alongside the blood flowing, and it creates a strain against your movements. 

As if something’s holding you back. 

Fluid movements slow. Muscles start tightening as the stones’ power solidifies. No longer a scalding plasma, but a physical force that locks your body. 

Again.

Muscles beneath your skin grow taut. Sweat accumulates, forming a film around you. 

Again.

It’s starting to hurt. The fluid precision is slowly morphing to choppy, erratic motions. 

Aga—

The tension wins out against your body, locking you in place. You drop to the floor, gasping as your knees knock painfully on the floor. All at once you cease movement; not even able to twist your neck or limbs. 

You’re trapped. 

You can’t move. You can’t move. You can’t move.

All at once, the orange walls turn into the familiar grasslands of Wakanda. It’s hot. It hurts.

A scent that is so sickeningly sweet and leathery that hangs in the air like thick smoke. It mingles with the ash on your clothes and you can’t breathe. 

Screaming. You hear it in front of you. Around you. 

Breathe breathe breathe—

You can feel it—God you can taste it. Your own flesh searing off. It’s in your mouth, all over your body. You can’t breathe. Why can’t you breathe? Why can’t you move? 

You don't see the old creaky cot you’ve been sleeping in or the mirror next to the porcelain sink. You’re still on the field—no in the jungle. It hurts, it burns, everything is killing you. 

I want to leave. I want to leave. I want to leave—

The air hums with energy. The floor rattles and shakes. Someone’s—something’s panicking. 

Your body caves in on itself and your cheek smashes against cold flooring. 

You feel the strong pulses of energy flowing beneath you. It’s erratic. Alive. Your body tries to siphon it off. No, that’s not right. 

The energy is coming to you. It’s warm. Your hand reaches out, trying to meet it halfway. 

You see the door slam open, a rush of voices, and a burst of emotions mingling with the warmth. 

“You’re not meant for this.”

A voice. Familiar. It’s angry, bleeding with disdain and hurt. 

“Can’t you see this is killing you?”

Your mother’s voice sounds so clear. You miss her. Even if most of the words you spare to each other are angry. 

“Give up. Give up everything. This life isn’t meant for you.”

No. No it wasn’t. 

Only when you closed your eyes, and your consciousness slipped away, is when the taste of your flesh finally leaves your mouth. 

— — —

When you finally came to, it had only been a few hours since the Doctor had found you on the floor. 

He had parked the TARDIS beside the Ponds’ house, hoping to pick them up from their family reunion. The moment the three of them entered the console room did the TARDIS suddenly start acting up. Lights around the room started to flicker and the room seemed to pulsate with urgency. 

It wasn’t long before the med-bay materialized and the Doctor found you lying on the ground. 

There was a dazed look in your eyes, as if you were caught in a dream-like trance. Only when the Doctor came did the TARDIS return to normal. 

A quick scan of your body revealed nothing out of the ordinary. A temporary paralysis brought out by excessive movement. Or so the Doctor says based on what you told him. 

You were trying to gain movement back and became engrossed in your exercise. Not an outright lie, but you didn’t want to remember what transpired. 

You’re tired and you make it known. 

Thankfully, no dreams come to haunt you. Or the night after that. 

— — —

A full week has passed. At least, according to Rory. It certainly felt longer. 

You’re glad they respected your space and need to grieve silently. 

You reap what you sow. 

Today the voice is the sweet, gentle cadence of your mentor. Late mentor. 

Yesterday the memory was of an afternoon brunch with Stephen and Wong. Warm pasta with the side of your favorite juice. A rare day when the three of you forgo the sorcerer attire and wear something casual. Of course, you and Stephen transmutate your robes into jeans and a sweatshirt. Wong tends to spend his limited paycheck on “real clothing”.  

It’s only fitting that tonight’s memory is a violent contrast to yesterday’s serene moment. 

You knew it wasn’t real. All of this. The blood, the panic, the body, was all just a cocktail of chemicals made by your brain. 

You’re fine. You’re in bed, you’re safe.

The Ancient One lies a few feet from you. Her golden robes slowly turned a dark crimson from the gaping wound in her stomach. 

You’re screaming. The air cuts your throat, your lungs burn with the force you exert. An ear-splitting screech that pulls your entire body with it. 

Everything feels sluggish as you desperately try to crawl towards her. Your hand tries to stop the bleeding but the wound cuts through her whole body. The blood is cold, gushing around your trembling hands. You can’t stop shaking. 

Something in the air crackles. A twisting feeling in your chest.

“Does it pain you?” Kaecilius asked, bent down to the other side of the Ancient One’s body. In his hand was a bloodied time shard.

You can’t force a word out. Pitiful sobs leave you; tears slide onto the sickly skin of the Ancient One’s forehead. Every shuddering breath makes it harder to control your body. The Ancient One’s skin is cold, infecting your skin with chills. Why is it so hard to breathe? 

It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s—

Kaecilius hovers above you while the other Zealots stand by awaiting orders. 

No other master is around to help you. They’re guarding the Sanctums while the Ancient One tracked her former student. 

Except they knew you were coming. They knew that the Ancient One would try to fight Kaecilius one-on-one. 

She made you wait with the other Masters in the Hong Kong Sanctum, but something in your gut told you something was wrong. A cold feeling that spreads all over your body. 

It was too late. 

Kaecilius knew you would come. He aimed the very shard in his hand towards you. 

He knew the Ancient One would come to block it.

Your hand trembles in a way that makes you angry—boiling with rage. 

“I’ve heard many stories about you. How the Ancient One sends you away on long, grueling missions into the multiverse. How she makes you take powers from dimensions above without indulging the true secrets to her powers.” Kaecilius gently raises your chin upwards, forcing your eyes to lock. “You can be something greater. Join us and together we could bring Dormammu to Earth. He is a savior. Our savior against time. Against death.”

At this distance, you can see the flecks of brown in his light blue eyes. No regret whatsoever for the deaths and damage caused by his selfish actions.

There’s a sharp sting where your nails dig into your palms. Suddenly, everything hushed. The crushing despair and endless anger swirl in your chest.  

“What are you going to do about it, Seraph?” Kaecilius taunts.

Your body jerks awake, chest still struggling to inhale. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Glancing at the metal plating of the ceiling, you reminded yourself of where you were. Not in one of the Sanctums, or your lush room in Kamar Taj, or your room in your parent’s house. You’re a very long way away. 

You throw the blankets off your clammy skin. It’s cold, unbearably so. Every hair along your body stands and your skin rises with it. 

Forcing your body upright was a feat in itself. Your limbs are still numb with sleep and your head throbbed in pain. Bringing your hands to your temples, you tried to stop the panic rising or spreading to your head. The last thing you need is to lose focus. 

He’s gone. 

Dead, along with the others. You made sure of that.

You took a long, deep breath. The stitches along your ribs throbbed as your skin stretched. You let the breath go with a shudder. Repeating the process again, this time with less resistance. Again, again, again until you can stop the shaking. 

Control yourself.

Fear would only make you vulnerable. Others could die by your inability to control it so you smother the fear, the panic, the guilt until there’s only an ache left behind. A cavernous hole in your chest that weighs you down. 

The room is suffocating, the walls are too close, you can still smell the blood—

You need air. Real air. Not the recycled stuff coming out of the vents. Rising out of bed, you try to find some way out.

In your unrest you always find yourself wandering down the corridors of the living machine. Endless halls, geometric interiors. An almost sentient being confined in a box of wires and metal. 

Although you are in the depths of space, the TARDIS tries to mimic night on Earth with its lack of lighting. 

Your vision is hazy and grainy, greatly increasing the risk of your tripping over. Placing your hand on the wall, you let the worn pads of your finger feel the traces of the TARDIS circuitry. Energy, old and powerful, dances beneath the wires and metal. As if to sense your apprehension, the walls slowly glowed a soft orange. 

“Thank you,” a hoarse whisper of appreciation. Your throat is still dry and swollen.

Warmth envelops your spine and the rhythmic pulsing of energy beneath your fingers. A thanks back. 

With each step you take, the more your body seems to wake. Keeping your fingers on the wall, you let the TARDIS be your guide. There’s no words communicated between you, just instinct and feeling. 

The hallway is short, only one soft turn at the other end. You can hear a faint clattering of metal just beyond.

It takes you a long while before you reach the entrance of the console room. A wide room with various lights, colorful wires, meta, and glass. At the center of it all, a large contraption with a mix-match of levers, knobs, and buttons. It was unlike any spacecraft you’d ever encountered, and you’d seen many. You were sure Rocket would curse at the lack of standardized spacecraft mechanisms. 

Beside the entrance of the room—the front door to the TARDIS—was a large hole filled with more wires and more circuitry. You try to stay as quiet as you can so as to not disturb whoever was tinkering. As you approached the hole, to your surprise there was no one inside. 

The air shifted behind you.

“Can’t sleep?”

Spinning around you were face to face with the Doctor; in his hands a wrench and some alien-looking parts. 

“You scared the fuck out of me,” you grit, loud enough for the Doctor to hear. 

“Hey, what did I tell you about that, hm? No cursing. My box, my rules.” The Doctor passed you and tentatively stepped into the abyss of wires. The hole was only chest deep, but he bent down so he could fully disappear.

You followed him to the edge, but didn’t step inside. 

Sensing your staring, the Doctor turns slightly towards you, locking eyes for a moment. Turning back around, he unscrews a few bolts. “Are your arms bothering you again? I have some medicine stocked up in the back of the cabinet next to the sink.” 

Sitting down, bringing your knees to your chin. Phantom pains still come and go, especially after a rough night of sleep. No doubt the Doctor put two and two together. 

You pick at the exposed wires jutting out. The rubber casing rolling between your thumb and pointer. Bright red. The color of your robes, the color of blood. “You’re right, can’t sleep. I should be too old for nightmares and yet, here I am.”

The Doctor stops his tinkering, standing upright so he can peek up at you. Pity clearly displayed. You try not to scowl.

“No one’s too old for them. Dreams are a reflection of your life. Nightmares, as much as we hate them, do have their purpose.”

You grunt, half agreeing. Because to him, dreams are nothing more than a cocktail of bad memories and hyper-active imagination. Nothing you say will change that. 

So you wipe away the discomfort, the guilt that bleeds into anger. You remember why you left your room in the first place.

“I’ve been walking on my own for a while now. A week at least.” You continue to roll the wires and pick at the copper sticking out. You feel the Doctor’s eyes on you, but you don’t mind him. 

The Doctor catches on to what you’re implying. “You want to go outside. On Earth?”

You shake your head. Because what good would it do to bring you to an empty imitation of the real thing? “I don’t mind going on a different planet. I just…I’m starting to go a bit crazy walking down the maze outside my room.”

“Thought you liked walking aimlessly for hours on end,” the Doctor says, leaning against the edge. His voice balances along the edge of teasing. “I have a box that travels through space and time. Anything you want—anywhere you want, I can take you. Any historical figure, any future figure. We can go to the first pizza shop, y’know because you’re from New York.”

A breath of a laugh escapes. “Very observant of you Doctor. Truth be told, I don’t want to get back to Earth. Not for a while at least.”

You try not to think about what you left behind. 

They’re resilient, you often have to remind yourself, They will survive. They have to. 

The Doctor, either choosing to ignore your sullen words or just happy to have the chance to show you something new and fun, immediately gets out of the man-made hole with a broad smile. His hand, warm and inviting, takes yours and sweeps you off your feet. Giddy and mischievous, the Doctor tugs you along to the convoluted and intricate console. 

You’ve peered at it a few times, often when you perched yourself atop the staircase or in passing when walking through the TARDIS. Never this close. 

Knobs, dials, metal, plastic, glass, and other random items welded or bolted together. Either true engineering feat or complete nightmare, you don’t know. The way the Doctor immediately goes to press buttons and pull levers at such a speed to where there’s a gentle breeze when he zips past you is fascinating to see. The more you look, the more puzzling the mechanisms. Do your eyes deceive you or are you looking at a rotary phone that is bolted to the side of the console?

“Time and space, all within our grasp.” The Doctor rushes to your side and whips out a swiveling monitor and a mechanical keyboard. “Since it’s your first time traveling, I do have to lay down a few ground rules. Firstly, do not wander off no matter how many times Amy encourages you to.” 

The Doctor types out something on his keyboard, the monitor displaying characters in some alien language. Pictures of a planet and charts of data appear along with some notes. 

“Two, never ever drink what’s being offered. More often than not it’s going to make you puke and have an aneurysm.” The Doctor spins around to smack and pull whatever’s in front of him. All of which is nonsense in your eyes. When he turns back to you, his gaze is serious and his finger points between your eyes. “Third, the most important. Always have fun!”

A lever with a cherry red handle is pulled down and the room shakes with energy. The TARDIS pulses, sings with power that flows and ebbs in the air. 

Your hands clumsily find purchase on the edge of the console, bracing as the shaking worsens. The sparks of energy lap at your skin and trickle into your flesh. Warm, tantalizing energy that makes you feel rather than empower. 

The TARDIS is alive. 

As if reading your jumbled thoughts, the energy pools toward you. Caressing your shaking body, enveloping you in a comforting hug. It doesn’t seep into your body and get absorbed by you, but simply hovers. 

When the shaking ceased, only then did the energy rippled in the air, settling to a stillness once more. 

— — —

The door to the outside opens, and the bright light from a foreign sun momentarily stuns you. First, you feel the crisp air kissing your face. Next come the smells of dirt, ocean, and salt. Shouts of street vendors, ships docking in the bay, and children laughing. 

You open your eyes and the light settles. Colors bloom into your vision with colorful signs, exotic tapestry, and anything that could possibly be eaten or made being sold in crowded huts. Clear, open blue sky and buildings that remind you of the bustling coast of Greece. Vendors of varying species, colors, and size all hustle anyone walking in hopes to purchase their goods. An entire city, alive and thriving off the coast of a foreign land on a planet across the Milky-Way. 

“The Veskarla Markets from the planet Tresh,” the Doctor says with pure delight, “Haven’t been here in centuries. Met their queen once, she was a very nice lady. Though, she would later put a nasty bounty on me. It’s not my fault that I didn’t know chickens were seen as a declaration of war.”

Amy steps in next to him, observing the scene in front of her. “You really start cracking open history books before going to places. Would save us from all the trouble you keep bringing.”

The Doctor sniffs, fixing his tie. “Reading history is not my style. No, I would much rather experience history rather than think about it from a dingy old book. It’s good for you.”

You ignore the chatter, focusing on securing the black leather gloves you nabbed from one of the costume closets. The cloak you adorn is light with breathable cotton and slightly bigger on you. The color of the midnight sky, swallowing you from head to toe. A stark contrast to the lively colors that surround you. 

Taking in a deep inhale, you relish in the soothing the air gives your lungs. The stuffy ventilation from the TARDIS is slowly leaving your body. 

“Now remember,” the Doctor warns, pointing between the Ponds. “Stick together. We have fresh meat here with us and I don’t want to get into another nasty skirmish with Treshian royalty. No adventures today. Just simple, fun leisure.”

Rory scoffs, “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

Amy skips over to you and links up your arms. “You boys get more food and supplies. We’ll venture in the markets.”

The two men nod and scurry away into the depths of the city. The Doctor excitedly mouths off any fact he can remember about Treshian wildlife while Rory tries to read off a supplies list. It took only a few seconds before a current of people swept them out of your sight. 

You look back at the tall blue box that is parked in a very obvious area. It sat snugly beside two open restaurants facing the main road. 

“Wouldn’t someone notice the TARDIS there?” you ask, pointing at the very conspicuous timecraft. 

Amy waves her hand dismissively. “Trust me, the Doctor left it parked outside Buckingham Palace when Queen Victoria first ascended the throne. If no one on the streets of London cared, I think we’re safe here.”

That was another thing you were getting used to. The jarring recounts of time-travel that slip into every conversation. A part of you still doesn’t believe their stories or the figures they’ve met. You’re glad that the Doctor decided to simply travel through space rather than time; the mere idea of time-travel feels taboo to even think about.  

Weaving through the sea of people is difficult when Amy is speed walking effortlessly, practically tugging you by the arm. Your steps, whether it be from the lack of exercise or grogginess, are far less graceful. A few times your boot hits a stay cobblestone or your shoulder roughly hits a pedestrian. Somehow, you manage to stay linked with Amy. 

“Two fish! Great price, the best in the galaxy!”

A vendor with purple hyde and jagged yellow teeth shove two fish in your vision. His many eyes on his face stare expectantly. You peek around the cramped shop, eyeing the walls of fishing rods and weathered nets. Clear basins filled with various marine life are tucked beside the vendor. All the colorful fish were clearly displayed, while the ordinary ones were stored in the depths of the shop. 

Before you could utter a reply, Amy manages to haul your body down the block. You force your stiff legs to carry you faster until you’re walking in tandem. 

“That vendor—Did he speak English? How come I can read the signs posted?” Your eyes follow the cluttered wooden huts and their weathered signs. On a different planet with various species that no doubt immigrated here, there should be shouting in different languages and tongues.

Amy laughs, bumping her shoulder with yours. “The Doctor didn’t explain? Typical. I can’t explain in detail, but the TARDIS can go into your brain and translate everything for you. Words, shouts, anything really.”

Everything you learn about the TARDIS, both from your own observation and tidbits of what others tell you, makes your decades of knowledge of the arcane feel rudimentary. Science that borders on sorcery would be revolutionary back home. A strange universe indeed.

The two of you continue down the single street along the edge of the city. Vendors continue to shout and shove. There seemed to be an endless, unbreaking street with hoards of people acting as a current to pull you through. The worn shoes you hastily put on were not ideal for walking. The tough soles of your boots feel more stone than rubber. You don’t complain, having needed the exercise after essentially being a human vegetable for a week. 

You quickly realized that Amy was looking to do more personal shopping rather than gather items from the Doctor’s supply list. Each shop you stopped inside was ornate and featured odd trinkets. While Amy converses with the vendors, you tend to hover behind like a shadow. 

For an intergalactic merchant hub, Veskarla lacked any shops for weapons or machinery. From the hundreds of shops you’ve passed through, there only seemed to be fish, jewelry, or clothes for sale. Any knives being showcased were for decoration only, often using shells for the blade and gold plated wood. Perhaps there was a different district that handled metal and tools. 

After passing by a myriad of fish sellers and net makers, Amy finally stops by a large shop. It’s lavish with teal paint and gold trim around the frames of the large glass windows. Large, chunky pearl necklaces the color of iridescent snow enticed your eyes. 

Amy lets out a low whistle, taking in the shiny entrance. “It doesn’t hurt to take a peek, right?” 

Amy’s sight has caught a beautiful bracelet made from pearls and gold. In fact, the entirety of the shop is dripping with dazzling gems and shiny trinkets. What made the pearls and gold special is that it lets out a twinkling sound whenever there is a breeze passing by. You seemed to have entered a more wealthy part of the markets as now the crowd has dwindled to about half than it was before. The people around you have more intricate clothing with gems and pearls sewn into them. Vesklara is a city of seafood and jewels, judging from how even the lower income district of the town seemed to also carry these goods, albeit at a lower quality. 

Immersed in the distinctions between Orthalian gold or Treshian silver, Amy doesn’t notice your wandering gaze. While the crowd had certainly diminished, it doesn’t mean there wasn’t a myriad of beings still pushing their way through the markets. Very little seemed to interest you. Most of the items sold were nothing you haven’t seen before. 

After taking a glance around the store, you ended up going back outside. A warm breeze brushed over you, carrying the smell of the sea with it. 

You were glad to have a change in scenery. The nightmare that befell you hours before is now at the back of your mind. Being grounded, tethered to a living, thriving city with people and stone to stand on brings an ease back to your body. It doesn’t replace the electric hum of the atmosphere back home, but it does allow you to feel connected to the space around you. You feel the rush of excitement, the displeased customers, the swell of pride for a city that is the crowned jewel of Tresh. So caught up in your musing, you almost failed to hear the stall across from you, across the sea of beings. 

A boy, whose back faces you is pleading with a grumpy vendor. His clothes are dirty and ragged with spindly limbs and matted hair. You peer over to Amy, to see her still obsessing over the bracelets. 

Without a second thought, you cross between the crowds of people. Limbs and pointed joints shove into your body, but you force yourself through. When you exit out of it, you find yourself next to the small boy. You can see just how frayed the edges of his shirt are. How the deep blue skin in his legs and arms are smeared with dirt and scrapes. His long black braid has leaves sticking out of it. 

“Please sir. Just let me try once,” the boy, who looked no older than ten, asks pitfully. “I’ve been saving for a while now and—”

The vendor grunts out, slamming his fist against the wooden counter. “How many times do I have to tell you boy? We don’t serve your kind here.” 

You see how the boy’s face crumpled. His shoulders cave and his lip wobbled. “Please…just once. If I lose, then you will never hear from me again.”

The vendor laughs at that. Cruel and full of teeth. You step back to see what the man is selling—or rather promoting. 

Proto’s Festivities! Try Your Luck or Buy Trying!

Three red targets are parched behind the counter, similar to ones in amusement parks. There’s scratches and indents, but more so on the wall behind them. When you look to the side, you see a stack of daggers hanging from the wall, blunt from repeated use. What really caught your attention was the ornate items dangling from the ceiling. Pearl necklaces, polished leather shoes, and laced fabrics encased in gold. 

“Can I help you lady?” 

Your attention snaps to the large alien who stands behind the counter. His face looked like an unholy union between a pig and a snake; reptilian eyes and mouth with a large snout placed in between. The collar of his shirt is stained with grease and the purplish hue of his skin glistened with sweat. 

Proto towers above you with a questioning gaze. 

“Do you serve humans?” you ask, sharper than you realized. 

Proto’s beady yellow eyes scan you from head to toe. A noise, something akin to a snarl, emits from his throat. Scratching at his chin, he answers, “Not my preferred customer. But I suppose money is money.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Then let me play in place of the boy.” 

The child’s eyes widened, mouth agape. He takes a small step towards you, a small look of hope graces his features. “Y-You would do that?”

Proto lets out another laugh, louder than the first. It drones on for a few seconds longer than necessary, and he goes to wipe his eye with a pudgy finger. He wheezes, “You—ha—You’re gonna play for him, yeah? You and your tiny human form? Is this a joke?”

You reach out your hand towards the boy expectantly. His hold on the gold coins in his hands tightens, just for a moment. Then, he relinquishes his hold, placing the heavy currency on your palm. The leather in your gloves squeaks when you close your hand. 

Slamming the coins down on the counter, you cease the light-hearted attitude of Proto. “The goal is to hit the targets, correct? Money is money. Let me play.” 

Proto’s eyes narrow at you in suspicion. Picking up one of the three coins, he holds it up to his face, inspecting every groove minted on the metal. Once he deems the coins genuine, he looks at you with wickedness on his face. A grin that shows the rows of teeth caked in plaque. 

His hand reaches for the knives hanging on the wall, picking off the shortest and dullest ones from the set. His face inches towards yours with a condescending grin. “Yes, you simply hit the targets and your efforts will be rewarded. Simple as that.”

There’s a concerning amount of insincerity dripping from his voice; glee and dishonesty practically oozing from every word. Proto slides the knives to you whilst pulling the coins towards him with his other hand. 

You take in one of the knives, flipping it in your hand experimentally. There seemed to be no weird center of gravity or any odd characteristics that might give away foul play. You can make do with the dull edge. Looking at the targets ahead, you can easily make the throw blindfolded. You move to raise the knife, but Proto stops you. 

His finger wags in your face. “Ah, ah, ah. I didn’t say we could start yet.” 

You hear the click of a button, then the whirr of machinery. 

The red targets seemed to jerk and slide, the machine beneath them creaking and groaning from overuse. Red circles move from side to side. There’s no pattern to the speed or direction of the targets’ movements. 

Your lips curl to a snarl, at which Proto starts laughing once again. 

“Oh! Is the tiny human regretting her choices already?” Proto slaps his leg as he wheezes out another belly laugh. “Look at that face! You’re practically seething! Ha!”

This son of a bitch.

You ignore the howling mass of scum behind the counter, focusing on the blurring vision of red targets. Gripping the tip of the knife, you steady your breathing, bracing your knees. A lingering, dull throb still haunts you, but you ignore it. Focus. 

Twisting the knife in your hands, you try to find the target with the slowest movement. Judging by the choppy movements and run-down shop, Proto might’ve never had any repairs. You can make out the large patches of rust and hear how the gears catch onto one another. A harsh, screeching sound that barely makes the targets falter. Click, click, click. You stand still, counting the gap between each miniscule falter of the machine. 

Ten seconds exactly. 

Proto’s laugh continues. He grins, wider this time. “Is the tiny human having second thoughts? I forgot to mention this before, but no refunds. Ha!”

You quell the urge to dig the blade into the gummy flesh in his thick neck. It might take some hacking, but it would be worth it to shut him up.

The squeaks of the machine snap your focus back. You take a steady inhale, clearing your mind of murderous thoughts. This wasn’t about you. 

Focus. 

Metal scrapes against metal in an awful pitch. The targets blur, and the laughing continues. 

You hear the familiar click, click, click. 

Inhale. One. Two. Three.

Quick as a whip, your body snaps in motion and the blade lodges cleanly into one of the targets. 

A gasp comes from the boy beside you. Proto’s howls of laughter cease. 

Another knife finds its way in your hand and you repeat the motions. You eye a target, trying to predict its motion. Whatever force you exerted on the first target had altered the motion of the machine. It was slower and the falter in of the targets’ movements were longer. 

Click, click, click. In another flash, the knife lands clean in the middle of another target. 

You hear the shuffle of feet and the whispers of passersby.

“There’s no way she would make that shot.”

“Isn’t that Proto? I thought he was still in jail.”

“Come on! Shoot it already!”

A crowd has formed behind you, but your sole focus is the last of the shuffling targets. 

Its movements are faster than the last two. Almost a blur of red that dances between one side of the stall to the next. Your body tenses, being still longer than previous tries. Your brows furrow, your muscles flexing beneath your skin. 

Proto seethes in his corner, nostril flaring like an animal. The crowd draws nearer, trying to get a better look at what you’re doing. 

Excitement buzzes in the air. Fueling you. 

The scrape against metal, and the tune of click, click, click. 

One.

Two. 

Three.

The knife whistles in the air, the crowd goes still. Wood snaps and buckles, caving under the pressure of your throw. 

For a split second, your heart stops. Then, a wild cheer erupts behind you. 

Under the sheer power of your throw, the target snapped backward, nearly breaking off the machine entirely. Still, your knife sits lodged in the wood, swinging erratically with the rest of the set. The machine lets out one last howl before the rust and age finally forces it to stop. The metal groans and creaks in protest before succumbing to its fate. 

Proto’s jaw unhinges, gaping at the sight. 

The boy with deep blue skin and rags for clothes is beaming. Tears prick his eyes and he’s jumping up and down in sheer joy. Before you could say anything, the boy leaps into you, giving you a bone-crushing hug. Maybe you were lucky that you heal fast. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” the boy squeals, pressing his face against your stomach. He releases you and points to an item hanging off the rack inside the stall. “That one! I want that one please!”

You follow his finger, trying to find what the boy wanted so bad. 

Red robes sewn with a delicate lacing of pearls and gold. Decadent craftsmanship that no doubt took months—maybe even years to create. You dare say more intricate than the attire you’ve seen around the whole market. 

You couldn’t fight the smug grin even if you tried. Proto looked furious. “You heard the boy. Give him the robe.” 

Proto huffed, looking monstrous and wrathful. If there weren't so many watchful eyes, you were sure that he would try to skin you alive with one of your dull knives. Begrudgingly, Proto marched up to the robes and snatched it off its hook. With a nose-flaring glare, he tosses it to the gleeful boy beside you. 

Above the cheers of the small crowd, you hear the familiar shouts of your group. 

Amy is jumping up and down, similar to how the boy was moments before. Rory hollers with the crowd, waving his hands in the air. 

The Doctor comes barreling towards you, clasping his hands on your shoulders. He shakes you with a big smile on his face. “Bra-vo! Splendid, that was absolutely—positively—brilliant! Well done!” 

Hands from the mass of people shake and prod you. Praise and cheer ring hollow in your ears.

When you turn to look at the boy, his toothy grin is aimed right at you. Only for you. Tears flow in rivers down his face, curving around his smile. “Thank you!”

Sincerity, joy, relief. It flows from the boy and straight to your chest.

Only for him do you smile. It’s small and beaten around the edges, but a no less genuine thing. Something warms the hollow in your chest. A crack in your armor, one that makes the pain erode away. Ever so slightly. 

— — —

“How on Earth did you manage that? I thought you would be stiff from sleeping all week.”

You take a bite out of your dessert, taking a moment to ponder Rory’s question. “One of the first things I learned when I started training. Knives were much easier to handle when you’re twelve.” 

The sky is turning a hazy orange and the shops along the coast of the busy town are still alive. The small café tucked away in an alley deep in the city where their hours of operation start when the sun lowers in the sky. 

After destroying Proto’s machine, you walk the boy to his family who live in a small house at the edge of town. Only when you arrived at his front door did he give you his name: Rivolo. His parents were both equally shocked at what the boy delivered and were eternally thankful for what you did. You were simply glad to give the boy a chance to have new clothes to wear. Though, the strain of your body lingers, especially in your upper back. 

For the first time, the four of you collect around with food and drinks, talking. It started with little stories about the last few hours when you departed. Rory bought a new weighted blanket with fabric that behaved like water. The Doctor tried bargaining with a seamstress for a new jacket and ended up being kicked out of the establishment. Supply runs and odd occurrences transitioned to earlier adventures. Mostly the Doctor talking about famous historical figures with such clarity it might as well have happened yesterday. 

“I did have a knife throwing contest whilst traveling during the Ottoman Empire.” The Doctor takes another heapful of shaved ice and condensed milk. His mouth is full when he speaks: “I still technically have another date set up. You’re going to come with me.”

“Is that a threat?” you muse, picking at your own bowl. 

“Most definitely.”

Streetlights that dot along the pier were the first to alight. Then the ones along the edge of town, until the cobblestone streets are bathed in warm light. Stars are beginning to twinkle in the sky and the ocean breeze makes the air drop significantly. It doesn’t stop the people who journeyed here from crowding around bars and enjoying the dusk. 

Rory is the first to groan out, stretching his arms over his head. He rubs his stomach, his eyes pinching close. “I think I ate enough for three. God, it feels like my stomach is about to burst.” 

Surrounding him were piles of fish bones and dessert bowls. At least he had the courtesy to stack them. Amy and the Doctor lean against one another, the former sharing her husband’s discomfort. You had the foresight to order enough to quell your hunger, not enough to inhibit movement. 

“I’ll clear these up, you guys get back to the TARDIS.” You take the hefty load of plates and bowls into your hands with little effort. “I can find my way back. Go before it gets too dark.”

The three of them huff and groan, slowly rising out of their seats as if it pains them to do so. 

Amy pats your shoulder with a grimace. “You’re an angel, thank you.”

Rory gives the Doctor his shoulder to lean on as Amy trails behind them. You couldn’t help but watch them stagger down the street. 

A family. A unit. Whatever the three hold runs deeper than friendship and would be an understatement to say so. 

Walking down the alley, you try to locate the front of the café. With the crowds of people blocking the entrances of any open building made it all the more challenging. You walk in slow, measured steps, careful to not trip over any wobbly stone that pokes out. When you do manage to slip into the right café, the sun has more than set. The chill in the air turns into a cold breeze that flutters your cloak and makes the hairs on your body stand on edge. 

You don’t feel safe. If you had the thunderous power of the multiverse behind you, then you wouldn’t feel so paranoid walking through the narrow alley. No weapons adorn your legs, no phone to call for help. You cursed under your breath. 

Pulling on your hood, you let the dark fabric cover you completely. You keep towards the edge of buildings, always scanning ahead for any activity. Find a crowd, blend in. Easy enough when the entirety of the marketplace is still buzzing. 

It’s hard to pin down exactly where you are. Your eyes squint in the low light, trying to find any landmarks to help you journey back. You don’t realize how lost you are until the crowds slowly disappates and the lamps along the streets get fewer and fewer. 

Shit.

You should’ve swiped the knives from Proto. A dull blade is better than no weapon at all. 

Straining for any signs of life, you try to backtrack your steps. Maybe if you make your way back to the café, then you could wait for the Doctor to come get you. 

Your foot was already pivoting before you caught a faint glimmer of red fabric out of the corner of your eye. 

Turning around, you see a familiar cloak with pearls and gold stitched along its side. 

Rivolo!

What better way around the city than the boy who lived here? With newfound determination, you follow the trail of red down another alley. Your legs are loose from walking, already catching up to the fleeting figure. 

Your feet soundlessly trek the uneven streets, bobbing and weaving through tight corners and miscellaneous boxes lying around. Rivolo seems to dash just out of reach, always dodging out of sight whenever you cross another street. 

“Rivolo!” you call out, trying to keep the fabric in your sight. The boy is a few ways ahead, delving deeper into the city. You quicken your pace. 

In a matter of seconds, you’ve managed to close the gap between you two. The boy is fast but you have a decade or so of running through the boroughs of New York under your belt. You push through the burn in your muscles. Your hand stretches outward and you catch the scruff of the hood. 

With a twist, you reel the boy back and spin his small body around. 

Your chest heaves, putting your hands on your knees. “I’m so sorry, I tried calling you but you were too far away. I need some he—”

You freeze, the blood in your body running cold. 

The person you’ve tracked down wasn’t the innocent boy with a long braid and toothy grin. In the low light, you can clearly see the robe this stranger adorns. The intricate stitching, the same glimmering pearls that twinkle under the light. You reel back, as if the sight of it offends you. 

Whatever you caught looked almost human. Its flesh was a ghostly pale that looked sickly under the streetlights. Gaunt face with a long nose and bulging eyes. His iris looks like a small pinprick, wild and focused on you. No hair on his head or on his face. When you observe longer, you see the imprint of scales along his skin. 

You narrow your gaze, your voice an echo in the silent alley as a deadly whisper. “Where did you get that cloak?”

The alien eyes you up and down, tilting his head to the side. His words are impish, almost nasally in tone. “Hm? Who are you? You don’t seem related to that Ikrallian boy.”

“I’ll ask you again.” Your hands shoot out, gripping the color of the red cloak. The alien falters at your harsh movements. “Where did you get this cloak? A boy named Rivolo had it earlier.”

He didn’t seem frightened by your tone. Boredom is set in his features, as if you’re inconveniencing him. He ponders for a moment, only for his features to light up in mock realization. “Oh, that’s his name. Did he have blue skin and freakish hair? Y'know, introductions never came up. I could barely hear my own thoughts because of his screaming.”

Pure delight drips from his mouth. The thing in your hands snickers as if he’s letting you in on some inside joke. 

Your heart pounds in your ears. 

Something poked your ribs, and the man’s mouth curled to a sneer. “Now, now. Usually I don’t like fighting women. Gets too messy and there’s always so much crying. If you just walk away, go back to where you came from, I won’t have to gut you in this alley.”

The familiar heat of rage bubbled in your chest. Tension in your body cramps your muscles, threatening to snap.The knife the man holds starts dragging up towards your ribs, teasing the soft flesh there. The thing chuckles, his breath fanning your face. 

“Maybe I should. ‘Cause then you can see your friend…what’s his name again?” He tilts his head up, pretending to think. “Ah, Rivolo. He probably bled out by now. Oh—where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself. The name’s Beetle—”

Your fist connected to his jaw with a sickening crack. 

Beetle’s body flies out, landing into the ground in a heap. You take lungfuls of air, trying to cool down. The alien twitches before rolling back to his feet. Blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, but his grin still remains. 

Wiping his chin, he hunches down, the knife in his hand gleaming in the moonlight. His nasally, gruff voice cuts through the still air. “Just my luck, a lady who can fight. Now I won’t feel so bad when I drain you on the street.”

His body caves in before he launches himself. 

You stagger to the side before you twist around, dodging his slashes. When he gets too close, trying to aim for the spot where your heart lies, you grab his arm and pull him across your body. Using your leg and stiff muscles, you use his momentum against him and slam him to the ground with his arm twisted behind him. In the quick second that he’s off-guard, you stomp on his hand, forcing him to let go of his knife. The knife, you realized, had dark substance caking it. 

Blood. 

You hear something crack before Beetle’s body rotates beneath you. Dislodging his arm out of his socket allowed him to sweep your body off balance and bounce back up. You land on the ground, your jaw connecting to stone with a pained groan. The stitches under your clothes throb painfully. 

Beetle swings his dislocated arm back, forcing it in the socket once more. He laughs at the face you make. 

A dull cramp locks your joints. Cold air and strained tissue squeeze your nerves, sending pain throughout your body. You try to brace yourself on your forearms, but a heavy foot stomps on your back, forcing your back down. Your chin collides with stone and your teeth rattle in your mouth. 

“I’m starting to like you like this.�� He raised his foot from your back momentarily before slamming it down. Air is forced to leave your chest as you cough beneath him. His other foot is planted just beside your head, the other digging between your shoulder blades. “Maybe I’ll let you go just so I can chase you down the street. I’ll let the fear settle in, then delight in your screams when I finally catch you—”

You put every ounce of strength into maneuvering over to his ankle and bite. Your teeth sink into skin, catching the tendons of his foot. Warm liquid gushes in your mouth, spilling between your teeth. A shrill howl of pain and the weight lifts off your back. Beetle falls, desperately grasping his ankle. Blood seeps, coloring the pavement beneath him. 

“You fucking cunt!”

You roll to your side, hacking out the bitter blood into the cobblestone. With a grunt, you rise to your full height, swaying slightly.

A mouthful of iron is on your tongue. It mingles with the ocean breeze and sours in your mouth. Your steps are silent and methodical. Half limping, half striding to your target. 

The red cloak Beetle wears beckons you closer. Your heaving comes from the barely hidden wrath that bubbles. You reckon you looked more like a rabid animal than a human. When you approach Beetle, you grasp the back of the hood and yank it. His smaller, stout frame unraveled from the flowing cloak and you held it tightly against yourself. 

Something warm trickles down your abdomen. Bringing your hand to the bottom of your rib, you feel the cotton of your shirt being soaked. Your stitches torn and the thin skin broken. All the energy you had gained this past week has been sapped, leaving you trembling. 

You spare the alien a cold, withering stare. Your bloodied mouth is twisting to a snarl. “Thank every single star under this sky that I am not in full health. If I see your wretched face ever again, I will not hesitate to rip you apart. Bone by bone.”

Kill him, leave nothing behind.

Your voice sounds unfamiliar in your own head. A monotone, apathetic edge, almost clinical in nature. 

Another voice rings over. Young, still full of life. 

Don’t be the monster everyone expects you to be.

Peter did not understand the beaten path you’ve forged for yourself. Nor did he understand the continuous nature between black and white; to him, good deeds and bad ones are objective without nuance. 

Beetle is hunched, body held taut with caution. Gauging to see what you’ll do next. 

No matter how much you want to wring his neck like a stubborn piece of cloth, you can bring yourself to spare mercy. Just this once. You will alert the proper authorities and hope that Beetle is injured enough to not stray too far. 

Karma will see to it, sparing you of the role of judge, jury, and executioner. 

“(Y/N)? Is that you?”

A voice, accented and childlike. 

You back straightened, whipping around to the entrance of the alley. A shallow breath escapes your throat and relief washes over you. 

“Rivolo, y-you’re safe.” Your voice is raw around the edges, and you catch the unease in his face. You stagger towards the boy, bleeding and hurt. When you grasp his narrow shoulders, you utter a rushed, “What happened?”

The boy maneuvers to your side, pulling your arm over his shoulder. “I went to get food for my family. I was trying to get back home before a strange man tried taking my food. He stabbed me, but it didn’t matter. My species don’t bleed out easily.” 

At the sound of his voice, Beetle thrashes around. His head jerked and his mouth frothed in fury. 

“Of course you survived. Of course! Even after I went after your heart—just my fucking luck!”

Beetle rolled to his stomach with a murderous gaze. His teeth bared and his back hunched like a prowling animal. 

So much for mercy.

You hurriedly unlatched yourself from Rivolo and shoved his cloak in his arms. “Go find the Doctor and the Ponds. Run as fast as you can from here and whatever you do, don’t look back.”

Sounds of bones cracking turns your attention to the heaving alien. Beetle’s finger is shoved in his ankle, forcing his bony finger into his Achilles tendon. Blood gushed out more, spilling over his leg and arm. With a strained growl, Beetle rearranges the fiber in the back of his ankle.

Anger and determination pulse in the air. A warning.

“Go, go, go!” You shove Rivolo into the open street. He scampers away, and you see him retreat out of sight. 

You couldn’t anticipate the speed at which Beetle came at you. Without warning, Beetle sent a punch straight towards your stomach. As if his punch was a singularity, your body caved inward, warping around his balled fist. You slam against the wall, not even a moment to think before another punch lands squarely on your cheek. Whipping your head to the side, you feel your skull throb painfully and the vessels inside your face break. 

Beetle’s hand wraps around your throat and slams your head into the stone wall behind you. His hold constricts, closing your windpipe as he kneed you in the abdomen. Once. Twice. You try to squirm out of his way, blocking his repeated attack with your hands but you’re losing strength.  

You’re getting lightheaded. Everything hurts. Bile tries to climb its way up your body, but Beetle’s hand prevents anything from getting in your body or getting out. 

The sickly creature looms over your face. His earlier grin and playful façade completely wiped clean. “Do you know what I hate more than cunts who fight dirty? Hm?”

Another kick. Your organs contort inside your body, trying to accommodate the point of Beetle’s knee. If choking you out won’t kill you, internal bleeding certainly will. You try to muster a cough, only to choke on your own mucus. 

His face draws closer, into your ear as you desperately gasp and thrash in his hand. His words sliding across your skin like sandpaper. “An ugly, bleeding woman. No matter where I stab, you’ll always look gross and disgusting when you die. I suppose it isn’t such a loss though. I do enjoy watching your life get snuffed out. And once I dump your body on the street, I’m tracking your little friend next.” 

You don’t stop writhing, even when he keeps slamming your head against the wall. Even when he sends another punch to your face, bursting your lip open. Even when the next one lands in the middle of your face and you feel blood gushing out. It hurts, your lungs burn. Your soul rams against the confines of your body, trying to break itself free. 

His laugh is cold, void of any real humor. 

“What are you going to do about it?”

The words cut through your mind like an arrow. Everything stills, and for a moment Beetle's eyes morphed into a light, steely blue. 

Glass and stone contort, fractals that dance in the background with magic humming in the air. A blade made of air and crystal that drips crimson blood, the markings of Dormammu's power etched in your mind forever. 

“What are you going to do about it, Seraph?”

The hush of the world around you. A moment where nothing exists but the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your head. 

A goal carved its way to the forefront of your mind, silencing all other thoughts, wants, needs. 

Make him bleed. Make him suffer— 

The heat came first. A thunderous roar that synced with your heart, it flooded your body with a burn. Energy that lights up your cells and singes the ends of your nerves. 

Grasping the thin, pale wrist of your attacker, you focus the energy that’s building. It lights up your body with a crack. Beetle’s smug face falters. The bones in Beetle’s wrist snap and crumble. You feel the fragments ripple beneath his skin and his tendons bunching as your grip gets tighter and tighter. 

A blood curdling scream rips through Beetle as he jerks away from you. With his weight finally off your throat, you collapse against the wall trying to catch your breath. Releasing the hold on Beetle’s wrist, you stagger to your feet. Every ragged inhale sends shocks of pain from your midsection. Using the wall for support, you lift yourself up. Everything feels numb, your legs and arms feel like static. 

You watch as Beedle clutches his swollen hand. When he jerks his body, his hand rotates dramatically, detached from the forearm entirely. You give no warning, no ounce of preparation. Before Beetle had a chance to blink, you were already towering over him.

The first punch made Beetle’s head turn so sharply that you thought you’d broken it. A loud, thunderous sound came, echoing in the narrow back alleys. The sounds of Beetle’s ragged breathing and heartbeat were the only indications that he still lived. The next hit was just as hard, with no time to react. Each blow you deliver slices the space between you, turning his skin to paper and bones to glass. A precision that comes with years dealing with the worst outcome possible. A lingering notion that each blow you deal is fatal. 

Sometimes the flesh caves and splits where you hit. Blood splatters on your gloves, making it increasingly difficult to continually land punches. When the blood in his face makes your fist slide off his skin is when you move to kicking his body. Over. And Over. Wherever your foot lands, his body jerks accordingly. Again and again.   

Only when you stop your onslaught do you manage to get your heartbeat to steady and your breathing to even. 

Your body is a furnace. It trembles trying to keep whatever power lies in your veins. When you move, it feels distorted in a way. Your mind is still hazy from the oxygen deprivation, near floaty in feeling. One foot in front of the other, you move through the stagnant air. The thrashing, bleeding alien tries to crawl away from you. Your hands shoot out from your robes, catching his ankle and dragging him close to you. 

Mixing in with the salty ocean air and the blood coating your teeth is a taste you’ve come to hunt for. It’s sweet, addictive and delights you so. 

Beetle’s fear is palpable. As he lays shaking below you, he doesn’t tear his gaze from yours. 

“You hurt my friend.” Beneath the soft whisper of your words, an undeniable edge of wrath can be felt. “I gave you a chance to run and you used that as an opportunity to attack me. You’ve made your decision and I have no choice but to see it through.” 

The scum twisting and groaning doesn’t get a chance to fix his mouth before your foot connects with his sternum. Not enough to break it completely, but enough to knock all of the wind out. You can’t move effectively without the entirety of your midsection erupting in pain. You crept your foot up Beetle’s chest, seeing the realization hit him.

A barbaric move. But it’s clear that Beetle has already done more, if not worse, on innocents. When your foot meets the middle of Beetle’s neck, you ignore the spark of delight at the sight of his terror. You slowly apply more of your weight as thin hands try to wrap around your shoe. 

His feet kick wildly trying to land a hit but his strength is weaning. You offer him no taunting words, no remorse for what you’re doing. Beetle was trying to kill you from the start and it would be dangerous to let him wander. 

You didn’t want to spill blood on your first day out, but you’re too worked up to care. What’s another death to you? 

Beetle squirms, trying desperately to throw you off. Murderous intent swallowing his eyes, directed only at you. Whatever good he managed to do, it will never balance the harm he confessed to doing. He would be better off as fertilizer, the only way his existence would ever be a net positive. You wouldn’t mind if his dying breath lingers in your dreams. 

You don’t find it in yourself to care. 

Movement dwindles and the fiery passion is slowly dying the longer your foot lingers. Copper and sugar invade your nose in harmony. 

Beetle spasms and gargles. His already pale skin gets impossibly more stark.

Just a bit more—

You feel the air shift, a presence just beside you. But you felt it a second too late. 

A blur of black and a crackle of light is all you see before a powerful punch sends you flying backwards. Your body tumbles down further into the alley, rocks and sharp debris awaiting you with each hit. Your momentum finally stops when you collide into a stack of wooden crates, splintering the wood upon impact. You let out a pained hiss through your teeth, trying to move.  

Moonlight scatters where the streetlamps fail to illuminate. Shadows bend and warp most of your vision, but you spot the imposing figure easily. It’s tall, whatever it is. Humanoid in shape, covered head to toe in fabric. You’re too far away to see any clear details, only a vague, smokey outline where light manages to hit. 

Something else invades the charged air. For a moment, the pent up anger and murderous intent evaporates leaving behind something primal. 

Hairs on your body stand on end. Dread suffocates you. It surrounds the cloaked figure and you wonder how it managed to sneak up on you. 

Your body trembles, nearly collapsing down into the pile of broken wood again. The energy you’ve mustered up has already started to disperse. 

Beetle gasps loudly, wheezing with such ferocity you think his heart would climb up his throat. The pungent smell of blood and sweat hangs in the air, encasing him. 

The imposing figure doesn’t spare him a single glance or word. No mask or identifiable features could be seen, but you feel the weight of his gaze. An inhuman, powerful energy accompanies it. Grasping the leftover wood that surrounds your body, you force your weakened body to get up. To fight, to stand your ground. 

Beetle hacks and coughs. “You were there the whole time?” His voice is raw, his words barely intelligible. “Why didn’t you come sooner?” 

The figure offers no words or acknowledgement, never turning its head away from you. Your skin prickles and a dull instinct makes your hand twitch. 

Beetle turns his head, ready to mouth off to his companion. When he sees the figure’s hard gaze fixated on you, Beetle’s face morphs to a furious sneer. 

“You’re my assignment! Are you kidding me? What about the Ikrallian boy?” 

Your ears perk up, your body on high alert. They wanted you here. Beetle may not have realized, but he wasn’t just a simple passerby. Assignment…had they…planned this? 

Then it clicked. Maybe it was your proximity to the Doctor, perhaps they believe they could kidnap you to have leverage over him. You did spend a good few hours with him and the Ponds, traveling around the market. Why would they target him? For the TARDIS perhaps? Amy did say that it was the last of its kind. A powerful machine that could travel anywhere would be a target for any criminal worth their salt. 

But why Rivolo? Why target him? Cruelty for cruelty’s sake?

“(Y/N)!” A startling loud echo of your name, one that seems to have a series of footsteps that follow. It was behind you. “(Y/N) are you there?” 

Before you even had the chance to turn your head to the direction of the voice, you hear the thundering steps halt behind you. 

The Ponds are out of breath; Amy grabbing onto your shoulder for support while Rory has his hands on his knees. Their skin glistened with a mixture of sweat and humid air, their chests heaving with exhaustion. 

“We…Rivolo…help…” Amy could barely muster up the words, her head hanging low, trying to even her breathing. Whatever relief she had when find you was wiped clean when she got a look at your face. No doubt the blood from your nose had already crusted on the lower half of your face. “What the hell?”

Rory was already tensed beside you two, staring at the two figures in the alley. He cleared his throat, gesturing towards Beetle. “Is this why you couldn’t find your way back?”

You move out of Amy’s concerned hold, putting yourself in front of them. “You shouldn’t be here. Go find the Doctor—”

“There you guys are!” 

As if the mere mention of his name summons him, the Doctor rounded the corner also out of breath with the familiar blue alien boy behind him. The Doctor’s arms flail as he forces his feet to stop. “How many times do I have to have the talk with you two? Hm? No wandering! No running off in foreign lands! It’s rule number one when traveling. I don’t expect much from (Y/N)—”

His tangent stopped when his mind finally caught up with the present. His face frozen, looking over your newly battered face. Rivolo cowers behind him, clutching his jacket in a tight fist. 

You cursed under your breath. It’s one thing to have to fight, it’s another to look after four individuals who don’t seem capable of fighting. You’d barely healed enough to walk properly and now you could look forward to another week of mindless wandering in the sterile hallways of the TARDIS. Great. So much for a first day outside. 

Beetle hauled up his shaking body, his two legs appearing as though they might snap under his own weight. Hunched and heaving, Beetle clutches the midnight fabric that encases the figure. Even from this distance, you can clearly see the pure hatred plastered on his face. “Why wasn’t I made aware of this? I thought the boy was the target!”

It was then that the dark figure finally directed its eye-less gaze to the trembling alien beside him. Beetle doesn’t falter, instead gripping tighter on the fabric to stabilize himself. 

When the figure spoke, it was a deep, rumbling sound. Smooth and unhurried. It carried through the salty breeze as if they were speaking right next to you. “Target the young Ikrallian and remain in the city thereafter. Your duty has been fulfilled.”

There was something in the tone of his voice. Such finality, a sureness that everything that has happened was meant to be. Dominos falling into place. 

“Target the Ikrallian boy…” you thought, everything rushing in your head at once. I was their target. By attacking Rivolo, it would guarantee that I would try to follow him. Why me? They don’t know who I am. 

The eye-less figure slides his head in your direction. You feel its glaze stripping you, peering through skin and muscle. It shakes off Beetle’s grip like he’s nothing more than a speck of dust, stepping towards you. Feather-light steps with only the sound of plated armor clinking together being heard, its glaze holding yours. 

You force yourself into a defensive position, trying to lock into every movement. The figure stops a few feet away from you and you can make out the reflective surface of armor underneath a billowing cloak. There’s enough light to show the texture of the cloak and the buckles along its waist, but the place where a face should be is pure darkness. No curve of a nose, or sockets where eyes would be, nor a mouth to speak from. A smooth, glossy surface that reflects your bruised face. 

“Who the hell are you?” you hissed. Your warped reflection moves, highlighting the swollen jaw and caked blood across your face. “Did you purposefully lure me out here? Am I some unlucky passerby you just so happen to choose for your sick little game?”

The figure takes a few, slow steps towards you. The way his body moves seems streamlined; no unnecessary sway of his arms when he stands still nor any miniscule movement of his chest to indicate that he’s breathing. 

When he speaks, it’s calm, barely passing a whisper. Still, you hear it loud and clear. “We know what you are. Where you are from. What you will become. You will come to shape my past; I too shall shape yours. You will fight me, here in this city. It would mark the beginning of the end.”

“End of what?” you demand. You try to shake off the way his tone makes the hair at the back of your neck raise. The total resolve of his voice, as if whatever you do will make no difference. 

“The end of everything.”

taglist:

@angelxx7 @namenotimportant1373 @mxacegrey @krokietino @kanemxyoo @talia-the-gemini @floyd-le @fandom-lover-4 @ainttalkinboutlovesblog @dap11 @loliakeoghan23 @redsakura101 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @animatronicanime @venomsvl

[deathnguts]

I think because Barty and regulus are friends a lot of people I’ve seen overlook that like, to an outsider, their relationship is textbook Romeo and Juliet.

Bartemius Crouch Sr is a muggle sympathizer, super anti dark magic, and he probably worked so hard to become minister to try and sift through the corruption and change how the magical board regulates such taboo magic and the pure blood ideals that often comes with it. I can’t imagine he would be passive in the face of the Black’s control of the ministry, or particularly like them much. Mrs Crouch (no canon name) was a good mother who cared for her son but was probably too meek to outright stand up to her husband, but she tried to make up for it by making life when he wasn’t home as good as she could. I don’t imagine she would have much of a high opinion on Walburga if she ever found out what sort of mother she was.

Orion Black is the exact corrupt, dark magic wielding, pure blood supremecist that the Crouch’s hate so much, and I imagine that he doesn’t take too kindly to Crouch coming in and outweighing him in political power just to change the magical world the Black’s used to practically own in favor of the ‘woke’ agenda. Walburga Black was not a good mother even if she did care for her children and she was not meek. While she respected her husband for being the man of the house, she knew she outweighed him in power over their children and she was not timid around him. She punished she children as she saw fit and instilled impossible expectations and ideals on them that they never had a break form even when she wasn’t home. I imagine she would find any ‘lesser’ woman weak.

So when they’re at school, away from the prying eyes and controlling hands of their parents, and they choose to spend that time together? They take on their completely opposite expectations wearing the mask they need to and go back to the same four walls to take it off and only be truly themselves with each other?? If their parents ever found out they’d be fucking livid???

Barty is the Crouch’s only child, a perfect son. Him being a death eater was a surprise, they never imagined he was someone else behind closed doors. Or who was with him when he was.

Regulus was the second, but still perfect choice. Whether you imagine him being cis and simply thrust into being the new heir and knowing he can’t afford even a small mistake lest he be compared to who he’s replacing; or you imagine he’s trans and was simply the perfect daughter that they planned to marry off to who they wanted to choose to become the new heir Black, he still couldn’t afford to be seen as any lesser or bring any more embarrassment to the family and ruin their reputation more.

The two perfect children that no one expected would act out, doing so together.

[redheadspark]

Hello! Can you do Druig with 2 and 20?

Maybe include a way to make Ikaris an asshole in it? 🤭

A/N - Hooray for Druig! I love this, thanks for requesting this, friend!

Joy

Summary - You hate hearing negativity against your husband. It was your job to bring him joy again.

Warnings - Angst and mostly fluff :)

“I swear, the guys doesn’t know when it stop talking,”

“Well I choose to ignore those words,”

“And I don’t, not when it comes to my husband,” 

Druig poked his head up from his book, seeing you pace back and forth in front of him while he was occupying your shared bed on The Domo.  You were fuming, your mind was racing at just an alarming rate from what you were told minutes before on the ramp going into The Domo.  One minute you were returning from a patrol with Kingo around the city, wanting to kick up your feet and relax with Druig for the rest of the night. But you overheard what Ikaris was saying to Sersi and Ajak, about the small ambush of Deviants that were seen to the South.  

Druig was helping relocate the humans that were stuck in the ambush, he was better at corralling the humans and making sure they were safe and away from the chaos.  Ajak and Sersi were telling Ikaris of the hard work Druig was going and all the lives he saved, no human was killed.  But of course, Ikaris being Ikaris, he never saw the positive with your husband and best friend.

“A Simple Mind Control trick is nothing sort of a magic trick.  Anyone of us could have done that,”

One black eye and a scolding later from Ajak, Ikaris was ushered away to his room with Sersi looking after him.

“Something tells me he deserved it,” Druig almost teased as he thumbed another page through his book while you were still walking back and broth and attempting to calm down. You hated hearing that from Ikaris, he had no right to say such things from one of the kindest and selfless beings on the ship.  Although he was a strong Eternal, Ikaris would be lost as well, too driven and too invested in the goals in front of him compared to all that was happening around him.  He had blinders on, plain and simple.  Sometimes when he said something that was rude and almost uneasy with you, you wished to put him in your place.  But you also had respect for Ajak as your leader, never wishing to ruffle feathers or make waves.

All of those hesitance went out the window at the mention of your husband and his worth in the group.

“Of course, he deserved it!  He spoke about you like you were dirt below his own boots!” You huffed, Druig slammed his book closed and watching you as you were glaring at him with heat still under your skin and your fingers baling into fists, “He doesn’t know the true worth that you have and what you bring to the family, to the humans,”

Druig said nothing, which made you a bit cornered since Druig have good confidence in himself and what he could do.  You wanted the confidence that he had, though he would pour that back into you and make you feel your self worth when you were not yourself.  Yet there were times, very briefly but they were evident, that Druig felt low.  He was amazing at hiding it from the others, even from his best friend Makkari who could read him like a book.  Most of time it came from Ikaris, from his judgment in Druig’s performance and to how he was said undertones statements that seemed more hurtful than they were.

“Druig,” You said his name, being that he was still quiet.  It made you walk over to the side of the bed, taking the book out of his hands to lace your fingers together and stare at him gently in the eyes, “Don’t ever let Ikaris get you down with his words and what he says: You have so much talent.  Not only with your abilities, but how you can help the humans who need it, truly need it,”

Druig searched your eyes, squeezing your hands from the sweet words you were tell him as you smiled widely.  You loved pouring out your love for him, something Druig was not used to himself.  He would do it with you all the time and admit it was just as natural as breathing was.  He adored making you blush, bring you joy, and especially building your confidence and self worth.  

Now it was his turn to take in all of those praises and words.

“We are so lucky to have you,” You explained to him calmly, though you were feeling a bit emotional when you were talking to Druig, “I am lucky, honored, to have you in my life as my husband.  If Ikaris can’t see that about you, then he doesn’t deserve the breathe the same air as you.  Okay?”

Druig smiled from ear to ear, the glow that was now on his face and almost hovering about him made y9our heart soar as he leaned over to kiss you boldly on the couch.  You cupped his face in your hands, feeling the warmth of his cheeks along your palms.  You would tell him every time when anyone, even Ikaris would knock him down and bring him to his knees.

If that would ever happen again, you would take his hands and bring him back on his feet, to his strength again.

The End

April Prompt Sessions

[joverflowers]

Ultimate Jinmin Fic Recommendation pt 1

Detective/Crime

how i find my way home by cosmiicashes

summary: Jimin has spent years trying not to look at Seokjin, terrified that his feelings will be written on his face, that by looking Jimin will be the one revealed. When their most recent case leads them to an artifact that binds them together, he and Seokjin are forced to confront their feelings and find the artifact before its side effects leave them dead or worse.

Don't Want a Drive by junmoney

summary: Kim Seokjin is part of Seoul's best street racing team. He's comfortable being only second-best to others in his team, until Park Jimin comes to Seoul and puts a dent in their ego.

Eyes on the Prize by burnerphone

summary: It's not that he needs Jimin to be his moral compass or anything like that, it's that Seokjin was about to collapse from trying to keep all the parts of his life separate from one another. Jimin, delicate, pretty, capable Jimin, was more than willing to help.

Of Crystals and Pearls by vminjoongie

summary: As one of the S ranked hunters tasked with killing King, Seoul's most notorious vampire, there is very little Park Jimin doesn’t know, but after having his son Soobin lead him to his boyfriend's boba shop to celebrate the finalization of his adoption, he’s not quite sure what to make of the blood red pearls.

honeypot by twinklearium

summary: Park Jimin pouts, and Seokjin has never killed a target who pouts before. It’s insulting.

Apocalypse/Dystopian

Maybe Today Is The Day My Life Has Meaning by DaydreamNoona

summary: Jimin and Seokjin both have dark secrets that eat away at them, and they have to learn to trust one another to forgive themselves and begin healing.

Strike At Seven by Cxrflow

summary: What can something as minute as love be worth to someone who already owns the world?

the other side of the earth by stickyrum

summary: Jimin believed he was a typical pawn in the bureaucracy of the First Order but found himself trapped in the Minister's office with an insurgent, willingly forfeiting state secrets.

Superhero/ Vigilante

you reel me in by wegonchange

summary: Nurse Jimin has a crush on his neighbor, Jin, but then he finds a masked, injured superhero in his living room and finds himself torn between two men.

nights with you by muhammie

summary: Jimin wishes he didn’t have to face his past.

But being a hero makes you do terrible things, and this is just one of those troublesome things. so he wraps his hoodie tighter around him, some semblance of protection against the harsh cold, and wishes that he had ridden till here in a cab instead.

Space/Sci-Fi

(verb) know; to know by 55cancrie

summary: Do lost memories matter, when it comes to human desire?Park Jimin can run in all the circles he wants—Kim Seokjin will always chase him. When drunken nights become drunken regrets, paid vacations turn into aliens storming your house and, of course, revealing your big fucking secret to your pining ex-husband.

thieves in the night sky, stealing the light by ellievolia

summary: Seokjin & crew get themselves a new job - a jewel heist, one they can only perform on the big gala night where said jewels will be showcased to the aristocratic cream of the crop of the system. The kind of heist that could mean retirement for the crew of the Persona, and lots of nice drinks with little umbrellas in them. The most important job of their lives.

But are those jewels really the loveliest things on display, the night of the heist?

to infinity & beyond by haejungg

summary: Seokjin controls time, and Jimin is just along for the ride.

of black holes & black magic by strawberryvmins

summary: “you’re so fucking dead.”

“me?!” seokjin gasps and jimin shushes him. his voice is quieter when he continues, “this was your idea, for the record. you were the one who insisted we pretend to date!”

“i didn’t think they’d proposition us for sex!”

Guide Me Through Your Galaxy. by symphonic_army

summary: The world ends and Jimin finds out that he only has half a soul, and his boyfriend is not exactly from earth.

Canon Divergence

vitamin sea by orphan_account

summary: now, jimin isn’t a gold digger, but if the gold mine looks like that, then he might reconsider.

Part of Your Slice of Life by starcasticallyyours

summary: Travelling businessman Jin becomes a regular at the diner Jimin works at, developing an impressive reputation amongst the staff for the sheer amount of food he can put away in one go - which includes the pies Jimin bakes himself each morning. With each new flavor Jin samples, the more they get drawn into each other's hearts and lives.

tracksuit hot by mintea

summary: "What if this is my fate now?" Seokjin laments. "Cursed to have a handsome face and a blue tongue?”

Jimin gives him a wry smile. “Honestly, I think you’re even more handsome like this.”

I live (to be close to you) by Screaming_Void

summary: Having survived a life-threatening car accident, Seokjin decides to take the reigns of his life and do what it takes to pursue real happiness.

Taking the leap sure is frightening, but everything is possible with Jimin by his side.

nighttime loving by seokjininheaven

summary: Seokjin and Jimin sleep the days away. Jimin's schedule is backwards. Seokjin is just a vampire.

World Alone by ultjinmin

summary: Jimin has never been in love before, and no one has ever been in love with Jimin. No one can blame him for being just a little bit curious. So when an equally curious stranger wearing a pink cowboy hat and boots shows up at his house in the dead of night, asking him to fall in love in just a week, how could Jimin say no?

Circus/Pirates

madhouse by handseom (jingko)

summary: a lifetime investment in acrobatics has taught seokjin how to land on his feet after a particularly tricky backflip, not how to land a place in one of cirque du soleil’s circus shows.

so here he is, given a chance to hop on board a local low-budget circus with a killer clown, a baby-faced strongman, a dead-eyed ringmaster, a sex-crazed contortionist, a farm animal tamer and quite possibly the love of his life. where the fuck does he sign up?

Green on the Horizon by hobimo

summary: “The rumours don’t do you justice, Kim Seokjin-ssi,” Jimin purrs, "You’re far more than the man they make you out to be.”

Seokjin feels frozen, barely managing to bite out, “Throw him in the brig."

The rest of the room snaps into action, Yoongi jumping up and roughly kicking Jimin away with a boot to the shoulder, and the two pirates gathering Jimin between them and roughly pulling him out of the room.

And still Park Jimin is smirking at him.

Established Relationship

My Dear by IndiraIshra

summary: Seokjin is a married man now. It'll take more than day for it to sink in - but that first day is still so beautiful.

sending my love up at night by hobijaye

summary: Jimin watches Seokjin turn away from him to look beyond his window, beyond the dark of the evening and up to the moon. Following Seokjin's gaze, Jimin's tears finally fall at the sight of what's keeping Seokjin from being entirely his.

The moon- Seokjin's moon- winks down at him.

A Little More Sweetness (with Cherries on Top) by xiujaemin

summary: A peek in the life of a mukbang star.

The Wedding Guests by goodmorningeveryone

summary: “You did! You cheated!” Jin screams. Jimin is trying to shush him, but Jin no longer cares about propriety. He lunges at his husband.

Jimin’s eyes go wide and he rolls backward out from under the tablecloth. Jin gets himself tangled in the fabric, pursuing his husband in a blind rage. When he gets his head out in the open, on his hands and knees, he sees Jimin giggling and weaving his way between tables and chairs.

Only a Small Comma in Our Story by Koofishy

summary: Seokjin is in the military. Jimin misses him tremendously.

All the Zest by uhnxtgood

summary: “I know you Park Jimin, and I know you’re not thinking holy thoughts right now.”

Jimin scowls up at Seokjin on the top rung of the farm ladder, squinting in the sun, “Come down and I’ll show you what I’m thinking.”

so many smiles (begin with you) by stickyrum

summary: Jimin's lease is finally up.

sand-witch by caprikoya

summary: “It’s not what it looks like,” Jimin blurts.

“Well it can’t be what it looks like,” Seokjin responds. “It looks like you’re doing magic.”

“Okay,” Jimin laughs, high and slightly hysterical. “It might be what it looks like!”

my love, my life by asteriafics (orphan_account)

summary: Jimin thinks he and Seokjin are made from the same star. Seokjin just thinks they’re soulmates.

truly, madly, deeply (i love you) by kraj

summary: Seokjin wants his words to be the last, but then he notices something. Jimin's cheeks became pink, and oh, isn't that interesting and wonderful.

"You're so cute," he mutters, kissing Jimin's cheek.

bloom with me by galaxiesjin

summary: Seokjin and Jimin start the day by planting blooming flowers in thier garden and end it by Jimin placing blooming marks on Seokjin's thighs

My Husband's Lunch by loquaciousEscapist

summary: “Boss, Jimin’s smiling at his lunch again!” Taehyung calls across the office.

“For the last time, you don’t need to call me ‘Boss’,” Yoongi says tiredly, pulling up one of his headphones and letting it slap roughly against the side of his head. “And if Jimin-ah wants to smile at his sappy husband lunches, well, that’s his business.”

I'll Be Home Soon by mellzmallow

summary: Seokjin is away for five months for a film shoot in Europe and Jimin misses him terribly. (ft. Jin's adorable Sugar Gliders)

Alt Fictional World

Middling Auspices: The Objectively Horrifying and Often Misleading Prophecies of Kang Seul-gi, Witch by raviolijouster

Summary: “Oh, so now you have a sense of propriety?” Jimin says, tart as he wrestles himself out of Seokjin’s grip and places himself in an aisle seat. Seokjin sprawls out opposite him.

“What? No, I just don’t think we should be using the ‘a-word’ around the…” Seokjin lowers his voice and winks broadly, “‘h-words, if you catch my drift.”

후늬시티, city of otherworldly dreams by monbon

summary: Jimin hits a roadblock in his League Challenge in the form of Kim Seokjin, Laverre City gym leader.

The Waiter by alluric

summary: Park Jimin's life doesn't lack theatrics, especially after he meets Kim Seokjin.

hell and high water by slytherminie

summary: There’s magic in the air, the prickling sensation ever present since Jimin put his feet inside Seokjin’s small cottage, since he appeared at his doorstep with those enchanting blue eyes and a smile over his plump lips, and Seokjin never ignores the signs when they are so blatantly clear. Help is what he will give to Jimin, even if his future doesn’t look promising.

earth and sky, it's you and i. by orphan_account

summary: “I know so. You and I are going to last for a long time.”

building up walls, breaking them down by jnkkgay

summary: two strangers meet in a liminal space, in a liminal time, but sometime during the one night they are allowed together, they stop being strangers. will they find their way back to each other?

Horns, Guppies, Pudding, and Other World Ending Things by glitzenhobi

summary: Suddenly called into Upper Management, Jin is assigned to an extremely classified and dangerous case: The Parks.

The reason?

To stop three children from possibly ending the world. The children being: a tween half demon, a very odd alien, and the most mousy demigod he's ever met.

Maybe the world won't burn?

the beginning of everything by superdairytuna

summary: jimin is charmed by the stranger who offers to take him on an adventure on his tardis.

Royalty/Nobility

opened my heart (found you there) by burlesque

summary: Seokjin was supposed to heal Jimin's heart, not steal it away and make it his own.

Tea & Paper by graciouskoo (moonymiel)

summary: Jimin and Seokjin find 50 year old love letters written between two princes in their boss's belongings. As they read them, they start wondering about his past, about who he might really be, and maybe- just maybe- they start to feel differently about each other as they try to unravel the secrets hidden in the old paper.

[jeffffffffest]

Io SSSSSSSSaturnalia Prompts

The time has come! Below are the prompts for our Saturnalia event.

A huge thank you to everyone who submitted prompts! As a reminder there is no limit to the number of prompts you choose to fill and works can be as big/long or small/short as you'd like to make them. The goal is to be creative and have fun!

We'll be accepting works to our AO3 Collection until January 1st.

Prompt List by prompt type:

Any Medium

“In Roman mythology, Lua was a goddess to whom soldiers sacrificed captured weapons of enemy combatants. She is sometimes referred to as "Lua Mater" or "Lua Saturni", the latter of which makes her a consort of Saturn.” Source

“The Night We Met” by Lord Huron

All of the other Jeff’s seem to have a signature color. But not him. He is all colors and none.

Art from dr-Lemurr, used with permission.

Bacchanalia. Someone (or several someones) gets drunk and makes questionable decisions, and/or is indulged and looked after by the others.

Bonfire and/or campfire

Ghost and Lucid. I adore their cottagecore-earth magic vibe. Something to do with the fae folk, Lucid and his flower tree, Ghost burying seeds under the earth, and their own fairy tale. Rain is always welcome, either as part of the triad or another part of the fairy tale.

Ghost going non-verbal as he processes and heals, learning to trust and speak again with support.

Ghost tends Lucid's wounds

Ghost/Husband/Wife THROUPLE domestic bliss

Heavy is the crown

Howl's Moving Castle AU. Enchanted Fest promo Howl? Demon of Fire Calcifer? King of Darkness Witch of the Waste? I know this has been done before, but it cannot actually be done enough. If there are other characters that tickle your fancy for a Howl AU, please go wild. Ghost realizing he's not human and finding a doorway to another world where he can be a wizard instead of a clone? Sunshine wreaking havoc in 4 worlds at once? Interpret "AU" as liberally as you like.

Jeff learns he is an incarnation of the Roman god Saturn. With each of the characters (manifestations) that he shows the world, Jeff’s fans (worshipers) and his creative powers grow. He fears this as much as he loves it, but cannot stop now.

Like bats, all of the Jeff’s can use echolocation and they have their own instinctive language of nonverbal sounds It’s part of what makes them uncanny to humans. But Jeff doesn’t realize he does either until he encounters Sunshine and Moonshine. (Feel free to swap Jeffs to whomever works for you)

Lucid only exists in dreams. Every time he meets another Jeff in his dreams, they've forgotten about him, but Lucid remembers. He always remembers.

Moonshine services Sunshine's implants. All of them.

One of the Jeffs exploring gender. Maybe they’re nonbinary or are a dude that likes to wear clothes that would traditionally be confided feminine

Passion experiences bouts of euphoria and then drops. Again and again until…

Portrait of Dorian Gray, except it's Passion (Steal the Show) or Black (Black Tie) who is indulging in hedonism and has hidden away an old mirror with a withered and ghostly figure trapped inside.

Red lipstick. Beautiful. Messy.

Role reversal

Sentinel/Guide AU

Siam (vampire) hasn't seen their own reflection in centuries. One day they see a familiar face smiling at them through a mirror.

Sipping the red wine, just like your black lies what's a little Saturnalia celebration without wine and lies? Someone makes some bad (but fun?) choices.

Spicy the horse's interactions with various Jeffs. (Does she adopt them all? Are there any she can't stand? Who does she manipulate into giving her extra treats?)

SS8 finds a grimoire with a spell that will let the caster meet other versions of themself.

Sunshine and Moonshine are two people sharing one body: how do they decide who gets to be in control and when? What do they do with the body as soon as they regain control? Do they have pet peeves about what the other one does while in control? Do they run commentary for each other while they're not in control?

Sunshine finds 008 chained up in the basement.

Sunshine has always been a trickster. But he was not always in the pantheon with Coyote, Anansi and the rest of the trickster gods. This is the story of how he became deified.

Sunshine’s tattoos (one or more) showing up on other Jeff’s and them trying to figure out why.

The incarnations each receive an invitation to a mysterious Saturnalia celebration.

The writer feels things for his creations. They might be romantic. They might be sexual. He’s not sure because he’s never felt such things for people in real life.

Their various personas are not inclined to be romantically interested in each other, despite what they may lead their fans to believe. It’s more of a creative synergy. Their acting partners though are a different story. They fall in love a bit with every one.

This jacket.

vampire siam jeff in this corset

Waking up to a cuddly and happy Lucid is always nice. It’s the nights he disappears that are worrisome.

Waxplay

When you’re (a Jeff) at a pub and there’s another person who looks like your sort of person (and maybe sort of like you?) reading a book at the bar and you’re thinking… we could be friends but… bugging someone while they’re deep in their reading is so rude!

Who are two characters you think would really not get along, put them in a room together, what happens?

Who are two characters you think would get on really well, how did they meet and how often do they hang out?

You said you liked it so I found it for you.

Audio and Video

A fictional SS8 'movie trailer' conveyed through a combination of music, sounds, audio and video clips, quotes from interviews, etc.

Visual Art and Written

Rain God the divine. Being worshipped, accepting tribute, descending to interact with mortal followers. Being almost too much/too intense for human lovers in a religious ecstasy sort of way. Being above mortal life and concerns but still sampling them through his worshippers. As long as it's fully consensual, this can be as graphic as you want to go. >.>

were!lucid but instead of a wolf he's a deer (or some other woodland creature)

Visual Art

Modern interpretation of a 'Narcissus' painting and spin on reflections in the MVs, with one of the characters gazing into a mirror and a different character appearing in the reflection. (Black Tie? Passion? Sunshine and Moonshine? JS and Ghost?)

The Court of Rain' as a classical painting, with Lucid, Sunshine, etc. depicted with their symbols/attributes, like the flower crown--mythological/religious vibe and poses.

Wings!

Thanks again to everyone who submitted prompts! We can't wait to see what everyone comes up with!

Happy Jeff-ing! 🪐

[msshadowqueen]

 “Have any of them told you, their respected High Lady, that the babe in your womb will kill you?” -Nesta Archeron

So, what if this was the moment Nesta decided to destroy the Inner Circle? Part 1

Nesta stormed away from Amren’s house. She had no regrets for what she had said or done. Her only regret had been hurting Feyre’s feelings. But her sister deserved to know the truth. Even if it was in the harsh manner Nesta had delivered it. The cold rage was still riding her, dulling her other emotions. It was decided: she was going to destroy the Inner Circle, with Cassian at her side. Her little sister had kept them alive for years. The least she could do was save her from that awful man who claimed to be her husband and his horrible court. She wouldn’t let him ruin her life. He was a master manipulator, the bastard. She had met Tamlin, who had seemed more pathetic than anything. But Rhysand…he was the real villain. Nesta had no idea if Rhysand was using his daemati powers on Feyre or if he had manipulated her thoroughly that he needed no mind-manipulating powers to control her. She stormed through the small side streets of Velaris. She sensed, rather than saw, a large, winged figure swooping down on her. She said nothing but did not protest when Cassian took her in his arms. Her rage instantly subsided.

“Cassian,” Nesta murmured into his chest when they were up in the sky. “You know this is wrong. We can’t let my sister be with Rhysand. We can’t let him rule any longer. Help me free my sister. Rid this court of his evil.”

Cassian said nothing, only continued to fly. Nesta sniffed the emotions rolling off of him and was stunned. She had expected fear and sympathy on her behalf. And indeed, there was a whiff of fear there, but it was mostly something red-hot, like…

Anger. But at whom? Amren? Rhysand?

“It’s alright, Cassian,” Nesta murmured. “I’m here, I’m ok. I’m safe with you.”

He still said nothing. Unnerved, Nesta enquired, “Cassian? Are you alright?”

Still nothing.

“Cassian, you’re scaring me. Please say something.”

“How could you,” Cassian said, deadly soft. Nesta stilled.

“How could I what? Feyre deserved to know about her pregnancy, did she not? Just like I deserved to know about weapons I had made.”

He shook his head, seething. “You told her to hurt her.”

“And I regret that, but the truth hurts sometimes. Rhysand was wrong to keep it from her!”

Cassian didn’t reply.

“You agree with me, right? Cassian?”

Finally, they landed. “Cassian. I don’t understand why you’re so angry at me.”

“You would turn on my High Lord?” Cassian asked in that quiet voice again. The hairs on Nesta’s arms stood up. “I won’t let my sister suffer at his hands,” Nesta snarled. “Surely you can see how horrible he is, Cassian. Come on. Together, we can destroy him.”

A pause. Then a sigh, pained. “Nes,” he murmured, “why couldn’t you just obey?”

“What do you mean?” Then, swift as lightning, Cassian grabbed her. Nesta screamed and thrashed, but Cassian held her in a vise-like grip. Nesta reached for her power, but it had retreated to its silvery depths. She had no magical training, no way to summon that power. And suddenly, Nesta was wondering if that was on purpose.

“Cassian, you’re hurting me!” Nesta cried. She managed to elbow him and tried to slip away, but Cassian tackled her. Nesta was screaming, sobbing, she lost track of everyone and everything as Cassian pressed his thumb to her pulse. “I trusted you,” Nesta whispered, heart breaking. Then she blacked out. When she woke up, her head was throbbing, her throat was dry, her body aching. Nesta shifted, trying to sit up, and found her body resisting. Frustrated, she shoved again. Again. And then, with no small amount of horror, she strained her head to look down at herself. She was in the House of Wind, in her bedroom. Shackles adorned her wrists and ankles. She was chained to her bed. No no no no no no no no. Nesta let out an ungodly scream. She was trapped again. She was drowning. She was in that Cauldron again, trapped with no way out. She was under the lake again with the kelpie, no way out. She couldn’t breathe. Breathe breathe breathe. She desperately tried to still her mind. But the thoughts raced, rapid as a rushing river. Trapped trapped trapped trapped. Cassian had done this. To her. She had trusted him, and he had taken advantage of that. He had chosen Rhysand.

She prayed to gods that would not listen to free her from her cage. She writhed, trying to pull the chains off their hinges. Then suddenly, she got an idea. “House,” she whispered, “give me the keys to the chains.”

To her delight, the House dropped a key onto her lap. The House, who had always supported her. Had become her friend in these weeks. Nesta strained her neck, bending over to reach the keys on her lap, but it was just too far off. Cauldron save her-

“Nesta!”

Nesta let out a sob as Elain rushed into her room. She had a set of keys of her own in her hands. She rushed over to the manacles and began to unlock them. “Hurry, the others will be back soon,” Elain said. Elain, her soft and sweet sister. The sister Nesta had spent her whole life protecting, but now barely spoke to. She had come for her, to save her. And Nesta realized that Elain wasn’t the loyal dog that she had thought she was. Elain had acted complacent, but there was a sharp mind working under her gentle demeanor. She was stronger than anyone gave her credit for. Including Nesta. “They didn’t tell me about you,” Elain whispered as they snuck out of the house. “I saw you, though. In my mind.”

She had had a vision about the Inner Circle locking her up. So, she still retained her powers. Nesta’s head pounded insistently, getting worse with each step.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Elain said. She pulled out a syringe and plunged it into Nesta’s vein. “Ouch! What was that for?” Nesta rubbed the ache in her arm. Elain put a bandage over the mark.

“The headache is from faebane. They injected it in you so you couldn’t use your powers to get out. This is the antidote. I snuck it from the kitchens.”

Nesta stared at her sister in horror. The Inner Circle had done unspeakable things, but to chain her to her bed, to inject her with faebane… What kind of horrors had Feyre endured at their hands? “We have to save Feyre,” Elain said, as if she had read Nesta’s mind. “From all of them.”

“What of Az, Elain?” Nesta whispered. Elain’s mouth tightened ever so slightly. “He is nothing to me. Not anymore.” Nesta sensed there was a story there, but decided to save it for another time, when they weren’t running for their lives.

At least, they reached the 10,000 steps that would lead them to Velaris. Nesta shook her head. “It’s hopeless,” Nesta whispered. “We’ll never make it.” “We will,” Elain said fiercely. There was a steel in her voice that Nesta had never heard before. Determination. And together, they began the descent.

[animeprincessforever]

Lady Tamayo X Dead Human Child Reader Together Again

Child can be boy or girl whatever you are! Enjoy!

-WAY BACK WHEN TAMAYO WAS HUMAN-

YEARS AGO

Your POV:

It was a normal day at home. I was cooking, mom was resting due to her illness and dad was at work. As I finished making shrimp and miso soup for my dinner as I walked to Mother’s room however I heard an unrecognizable voice. ‘Who is that?’ I thought. I peaked to see a man that looks like MICHEAL JACKSON?!?! (LOL HAD TOO SORRY) ‘is that Micheal Jackson? The king of pop? Why would a man like that be in our house? Is he paying my mother a visit to hope she gets well?’ Millions of questions flooded through my head. When I looked through the door the man was gone. ‘Maybe I am seeing things’ I thought I went into my mother’s room and gave her dinner. “Anything else you need mother?” Mother looked at me and weakly coughed “everything is fine my love. Thank you.” 

“Are you sure mother? Who was that man? Is everything okay? Was th-“

”That man was a ‘old friend’ of mine and came to discuss some things so no need to worry my dear (Y/n).”

I sighed and nodded “good night mother. Enjoy call me if you need anything. I love you mother!” as I walked away and got ready for bed and got in my pjs.

The pjs: www.google.com/aclk?sa=l&ai=DChcSEwj3rZOpycCEAxXXAa0GHWONAIMYABAtGgJwdg&ae=2&gclid=EAIaIQobChMI962TqcnAhAMV1wGtBh1jjQCDEAkYBSABEgKUJfD_BwE&sig=AOD64_0V0NGtiEtgMiZwRpUZObJYCEkMnA&adurl&ctype=5&ved=2ahUKEwimj4GpycCEAxU0O0QIHUKbDYcQp6wHegUIARDwAg&nis=8

I was nice and comfy as I sat on the couch and waited for father to get home. When father greeted me I hugged him and said good night. So I went to bed.

TAMAYO’S POV:

My husband lied beside me asleep. I got up and went on my balcony and side. ‘I feel weaker and weaker. Is it almost my time? T-o d-I-e?’ I thought till I heard that man named Muzan again. “It’s not to late for my offer you know?” He said. “How exactly does this cure work?” I said. He looked at me and smirked and said “like magic” I was desperate I thought about my beloved child ‘if I die I’ll miss things’ I thought and so I looked up at him and said “I agree to your deal.” All the sudden I felt weird as my body felt like it was changing. ‘What’s happening?!?!’ I thought. All the sudden this hunger came inside me and I did something unthinkable. I attacked and started devouring my beloved husband. I tore him to shreds and ate him. ‘STOP! STOP! STOP PLEASE!’ I thought and begged but I couldn’t control myself. I hear my child coming ‘NO GO AWAY (Y/N)! DON’T COME GO AWAY!” 

YOUR POV:

I was a woken from a blood curdling scream coming from my father I jumped out of bed and ran to their bedroom. As I opened the door my eyes widen to the scary sight of my mother?!?! NO! A MONSTER! Killing my father. When the thing looked at me I gulped as I realized it was my mother. “Mom?!?! What are you doing?!?! Is everythi-“ I screamed as she attacked me and things went black.

BACK TO PRESENT

POSSIBLE SPOILERS FOR SKME

TAMAYO POV:

I thought about my beloved daughter and husband. I hate myself everyday for it. However today is the day I am working with Shinobu to make a potion that will permanently destroy him. 

CLIP FOR REMINDER: twitter.com/tanijrou/status/1234157626633707521

As I slowly left I saw my beloved child and husband smiling “we were waiting for you mom” my daughter said. I replied “why?” My husband said “did you really think we will let you go to hell without us? We love you.” My daughter hugged me and I started to cry and apologize over and over again. My daughter said “we don’t blame you mom. We love you after all we are together as a family again.” I smiled as flames slowly appeared bringing me, my husband, and beloved child into the cruel darkness where I was forced to go. ‘Why did they forgive me?’ I thought. As my daughters words “we love you” repeated over and over in my head I smiled as we faded away together.

THE END 

TYSM FOR READING

[swirlbeatz]

CHARACTER INFO: MAKURA TSUMI

Emoji: 🩸

Color: Red

MBTI: INTP

The age of these characters changes over time, but her physical/mental ages are as follows: 12 (PS1), 16 (PS3), 20 (PS5 P.1), 23 (PS5 P.2)

For her chronological age, +100 years

TW: Cannibalism, emotional manipulation

Novel-length lore drop under the cut! I just...get a little excited when I get to talk about my silly guys...

Primarily for @tuliplover08 :D

BIRTH/CHILDHOOD

Makura Tsumi was born in the year 1907 in Japan (think of Demon Slayer time period) to Emi and Ankoku Tsumi. Not long before Makura was born, however, Emi fell deathly ill, putting her life and her daughter's life in danger. Ankoku was always described as a kind soul, always helping out others in need--it was like he didn't know how to say "no." So when he overheard a rumor about a mystic flower that could possibly heal his beloved, he set out to find it. After a few days' time, Ankoku found it--it was a spider lily with a strange aura to it.

What exactly was the spider lily? The spider lily was a magical charm left in the human realm by the Goddess of Darkness and Death, Seirei Yoru, before she departed for the heavens. You could commonly find it as a hairpiece that she wore all of the time. But ingesting it would give you Seirei's powers, rendering you the next in line to take her title.

Emi ate the spider lily and recovered overnight, albeit with a few changes--she now had red eyes instead of black, and the strange ability to control blood. Not only that, but it was as if she could barely...feel any more. Emi decided to keep this a secret from Makura when she was born, so that she could prevent any worries (Ankoku was aware of it, however, as her husband).

Makura's birth was a blessing and a curse. Emi knew that she was probably going to inherit the strange powers that she'd received prior, but she did her best to defend her from the dangers that came with it. Unfortunately, it didn't last long. Bad luck seemed to follow Makura wherever she went, and it affected her and her family drastically. A small cult following in Seirei Yoru's name hunted down the man who stole the spider lily, and years later, finally found the village, killing all of the adults and keeping the children alive. Their goal was to single out the one who was going to become their new god.

How did the cult manage to do this? Technically, they never found out. Their plan was to first figure out who was emotionally numb--a telltale sign of the powers coursing through their veins. They did this by forcing the children to eat their parents' bodies (Emi, however, could not be found after her death). Of course, all of the children were affected, especially Makura and her younger sister, Shiro. They then decided to hold a "game" where the children had to try and survive in the forest, but almost all of them died. It's because of this that they couldn't figure out who Makura was. Shiro died because of this.

Makura was close to dying in this game, but Emi used divine power to trap her child inside of a blood capsule and keep her in stasis for the next 100+ years (however long it would take before Emi deemed Makura to be safe). Eventually, Makura was found by a mysterious group of scientists and taken to their facility...

PROJECT SAKURA 1 (2019)

Makura was hollowed out from her stasis and brought to this strange laboratory for testing. She was reasonably freaked out, since she was now in America and didn't understand a lick of English (and also there was technology?). The project lead that dealt with Makura was a woman by the name of Ianira Damon, who helped Makura learn English, gave her modern clothes, and took her outside for outdoor "learning."

It is at this point that Makura's eyes permanently turn red.

(Think something similar to this scene from Honkai Star Rail when Fugue/Tingyun first wakes up in Ruan Mei's laboratory.)

Makura would commonly escape the lab, even before Ianira first gave her clothing and taught her English, and this is when she first met Swirl, who was training in the park. She simply watched the hero, a little worried since this was an eleven year old girl with a sword. Ianira found her and brought her back to the lab, scolding her for leaving without her permission. Makura would leave maybe one-two more times (Project Sakura 1's rewrite is still in progress. As of writing this post, Makura has only met her twice) before staying in the lab with Ianira.

While in the lab, Makura gained a deep understanding of her strange powers, growing by leaps and bounds with Ianira's help.

How did Ianira know to help Makura? Ianira has connections with Swirl and Spiral's father, the king of hell, Vesper. They've entered a relationship with a sole promise of bringing Swirl (and eventually, Spiral) down to Hell. Of course, she was made aware of Makura's existence, and planned to use the girl as a tool (since Emi was unreachable).

Makura was rebellious and uncontrollable at times, and Ianira combated this by tapping into the powers that Vesper gave her, creating stitches all over Makura's body that would suppress her emotions/feelings (she gained more and more over time, more on that later).

PROJECT SAKURA 3 (2023-2024)

Makura's next appearance was Project Sakura 3, where she properly becomes an important character. She's finally permitted to attend school, specifically Cosmos High School--where the Sakura twins are attending. She's a grade above the twins in question, but shares a few classes with Swirl, and the two become fast friends. Mainly because Ianira ordered Makura to get closer to the twins, but also because Makura, oddly enough, enjoyed the girl's company.

Swirl and Makura developed feelings for each other. Swirl was a little too nervous to act on it, and Makura was scared of what Ianira would say if she admitted to having feelings for the target. To Ianira, they kept their relationship on the down low, but eventually, the woman found out, and added many more stitches to Makura, changing the poor girl's demeanor and leading to a brutal breakup that left Swirl mentally damaged for a long time.

Makura was then officially old enough to work as a member of Ianira's Assassins Order, becoming stone faced and emotionless. She became the "Shinigami."

PROJECT SAKURA 5 PART 1 (2027-2029)

After the Warpdrive incident (Project Sakura 4, Makura was not involved), the Assassins Order started to commit more and more atrocities against humanity. Swirl, now a member of the Hero Association, was the main lead on the Assassins Order case, eventually running into the mysterious "Shinigami" and her fellow elite assassins.

These other assassins are actually inanimate puppets, failed test subjects from Ianira's research who died. Ianira has reanimated "copies" of these people, imitating their personalities. The puppets could still grow and develop as actual people, but once Makura proved worthless to her, she killed them all off.

Swirl eventually learns that the "Shinigami" is Makura, and Makura gains leverage over the heroine, taking advantage of her mind by psyching her out (from Ianira's influence). Makura was becoming less like herself and more like the "Shinigami" mask that she was forced to put up. Their exchanges were common for a time, and eventually led to Swirl's eventual kidnapping and brainwashing to work as a member of the Assassins Order. This period lasted for 2 years.

During this period, Makura saw what Ianira was doing to Swirl--how the girl began to lose the light in her eyes and believe every single lie that Ianira was feeding her--and began to recognize the parallels. It's at this point that Makura first develops the urge to break free. Swirl's always been her polar opposite as the daughter of the Goddess of Light and Life, Lynette Sakura, but after seeing this, she couldn't bring herself to let it go on for any longer.

Makura goes behind Ianira's back and assists the Hero Association (Spiral and Co.) in their mission to bring Swirl back, finally earning her freedom. It's a little confusing, however--how is she going to remove the strings that held her under the woman's control?

PROJECT SAKURA 5 PART 2 (2029-???)

Makura reforms and lives in the Hero Association dormitories as a freelance/vigilante hero. She's forcefully ripped out all of the strings that Ianira had on her body, so now her skin is littered with large, rough scars.

While Makura is now beginning to thrive, gaining popularity as a hero (since nobody knew "Shinigami's" true identity), Swirl is now suffering, on the receiving end of all of humanity's hatred for her time as an Assassin. Makura and Ceri (Swirl's girlfriend) primarily help Swirl work through this rough patch, only contributing to Makura's redemption arc.

Along with the scars on her body, though, removing the strings came with another price--Makura lost most of her control over her hemokinesis abilities, so now she has to start all over and build her abilities back from the ground up. It's another part of her struggle, but she learns how to use her abilities to help others instead of hurt them. It takes a while for all of the members of the Hero Association to accept her, but once they do, Makura knows for sure that she's found her new home.

But what of Emi Tsumi, her mother? Well, Makura and Emi's relationship becomes...quite complicated. Emi is proud of her daughter for taking the stand and going against Ianira's control--she'd rather have her daughter develop the powers on her own than artificially--but she's quite disappointed now that she's working alongside those "damned goddess' offspring" (Emi and Lynette have a terrible relationship, more on that in another post or something). She still loves her child, but she doesn't show it as often anymore. Makura can visit Emi and Shiro by visiting the abandoned ruins of the old village that she used to live in. Their spirits still reside there, along with the spirits of the other deceased who ended up in Hell (Ankoku was one of the rare few among them who went to Heaven). It's the only connection she still has to her old life, a fleeting memory.

Okay, that was pretty much Makura's whole story/timeline/lore summarized to all Hell! I tried to include as much as I could without boring anybody, sorry if I lost you all halfway through 😅

Makura also plays a semi-important role in the next generation stories (Project Sakura 6 and Project Sakura 7) but it's not a major part of her lore or anything I felt I needed to include here.

!! All of this could be subject to change whenever I feel like it, but this is all I have solidified for now! If you want to ask questions, please go ahead !!

And if you want to hear about another character, give me some asks! Asking about these guys is the best way to learn about them (especially through the asks box :3 )

[reggieswriter]

Zoya Zabini is a queen. A woman who did what she had to survive. A woman who protected her son and herself when she had no one. A woman who had so much love to give and no one to accept it.

A mother.

A daughter.

A fighter.

A lover.

A friend.

An allie.

A widow.

A mourner.

But most of all,

A survivor.

Zoya Zabini is born on a stormy night. No one knows her birthday. Nobody cares. She was first born in her pureblood family. This would've been fine. Except she's a girl. The one thing her family didn't want. Her mother went through 9 months of pregnancy just for disappointment. Her mother never lets her live this down.

At age one Zoya Zabini is being taught by her mother to be the perfect daughter. Even at age one she can fully crawl and walk. She's already beginning to piece words together. She's dressed in frilly dresses and expected to giggle when handed to a random man. She is only 1 and can't comprehend what is going on but she adapts.

She is only one.

Zoya Zabini is five when she realizes she won't learn anything unless she teaches herself. Yes, she is a firstborn in a pureblood family but she is also a woman. She will be taught to sew and sit perfectly at tea but not magic or how to do math equations like in the muggle world. She begins to walk quietly at night into her father's study (not like he's home anyways) and reads each book in the office. She teaches herself to read, write, and anything else she can find. By the time her fifth year of life is up she has an IQ of 150. There is only up from here but she must make the hike herself.

Zoya Zabini is ten when she gets her first period. Although extremely young and unexpected she does indeed get it. It's taboo. She's taught she is to hide it to the best of her abilities. Even when she is aching on the ground from stomach cramps and getting waves of nausea her mother glares at her and screams at her that a lady does not lay on the floor. She is then forced to stand. While in pain and experiencing something new and terrifying for her, although she already knew what it was, she is forced to stand perfect. That is the day she loses all trust in her mother.

Zoya Zabini is eleven when she boards the Hogwarts Express. Her mother has pruned and fixed her to how her father and her believe she should look and act. Zoya plays her role. Though she has a plan. She no longer has parent supervision. A large library. And a chance at surviving. She will sculpt her plan. She will be strong. She will survive.

She meets Bellatrix Black on the train. She's heard and seen her a few times. Only stories mainly and glimpses but they always shared a feeling. Something traded without speaking. They sit quietly before Zoya grabs out her book she stole from her father's office. Bella grins and pulls out her father's. This is the day their friendship is officially cemented.

Zoya is thirteen when she practices her first dark spell. She feels the power. She feels in control for the first time. Completely and utterly in control. She won't let this get away from her grasp. She shows Bella immediately who begins practicing. While Bella practices spells beside her she practices potions. More importantly, poisons. Their bond is forged in treachery, madness, and survival. This is when Rita comes in. She walks in on them practicing forbidden spells and potion making. Before Bella can threaten her she smirks and holds up her magic pen. It begins to write and all she says is "How about we help each other?". This is the day the blonde haired witch is added.

Zoya is only sixteen when she earns her first husband. She is a profound witch and professors constantly tell her parents she has potential. But no. She is a woman from a pureblood family. During the school year before she must see her husband on summer break she cultivates her potion making skills and quick wit. She works on what she needs to work on before telling Bella of her plan. Zoya Zabini's first husband is dead a month into summer break. They say it was a heart attack. Zoya, Bella, and Rita know better. Zoya is happy for once. Her two best friends are dating and she's free. For now.

Zoya Zabini is seventeen and on track to graduate soon when her best friends break up. They have hurt each other over and over again out of fear. Zoya comforts both but it is never the same. Bella begins to close off and Rita digs deeper into her writings. Soon enough. She is alone all over again. Her mother has found another husband. She has lost everything. She will not lose her freedom. The man is pronounced dead the next morning.

Zoya Zabini is twenty two when she is held down by her fifth husband and brutally raped. She doesn't cry. She fights and fights. This man is found brutally murdered and hanging from a tree a week later. It is too late. She is pregnant. She doesn't tell anyone for a week. This man took something from her so she took something from him. She has nothing but her will to fight. She decides against an abortion. After much thought the baby is hers. Not his. She is alone. This baby will not be alone like her. No matter what.

Zoya Zabini is twenty three when she gives birth. All doubts and fears disappear just for a bit when she sees her son. He may have been made out of hatred and disgust but he will not be raised as such. He is her son. Not that disgusting man's son. Her son. He doesn't even look like him. She names this boy Blaise. He is her fire. He is what keeps her going on her lowest days. Becoming a mother wasn't part of the plan but fuck it. It is now.

Zoya Zabini is twenty four when she cuts contact to the bare minimum with Rita Ms. Skeeter and Bella Mrs. Lestrange. She attends balls with them at most and converses if needed. The only reminder of her friends is the small glimpses they all share. The memories and laughter. The plans. That is it. They share a past. Too bad we are in the future. She is known as Ms. Zabini. She has accumulated lots of success and money after killing her husband's passings. She has set her and her son up for life.

Zoya Zabini is thirty three when she sends her son off to Hogwarts. He is equipped with anything he might want or need. He is a respectful young man. She stays to the side of this war. She knows of Harry Potter and the dangers he brings. She has taught her son to choose which side he believes in. To form his own opinion. But she has warned to have an opinion you must be educated and ready for the consequences. She is fairly happy when she gets a letter home addressed to her immediately. It reads :

Mom, you're right. I got Slytherin. I am proud of my house. But I am not proud of their beliefs. I will fit in. I will play the part just as you taught me.

She is proud of her son.

Zoya Zabini is the epitome of love trapped in a cage. She fought and fought and eventually made it out alive. She lost people along the way. Important people. Those memories will never leave her. She knows this. This does not discourage her if anything it pushes her. What would that little eleven year old girl want? She pushes and pushes because she can.

Because she is Zoya Zabini.

She is a dangerous woman.

@aesthetic-writer18

[damnedspots]

cis woman. she/her. 42. ⸻ king roberon cole welcomes yvonne robertson to fabletown—or, as they were once known, lady macbeth from macbeth. before the magic mirror, they come glamoured in the mirage of a padlock upon a door lock to keep herself within, silk slip night dresses, one in black and one in white, interchangeable with a day and night wardrobe, a box of keepsakes secured on the top shelf of a wardrobe, sharp shoulder pad fashion pieces, a lipstick stain on her hand from smudging makeup, unable to fight an eyeroll when faced with statements deemed without merit. the tale from which they hail exalted their ambitious and decisive, but decried their hypocrisy and volatility in equal measure. no matter; this time, they shall write their own. in accordance with the fabletown compact, they are granted amnesty for any and all transgressions, even that which is little known: that her marriage was indeed a convenient arrangement to gain control.

mentions of child loss, grief, murder, mental illness, depression, psychosis, sleepwalking

it had all been an arrangement - two rather ambitious individuals wanting to rise up together. yvonne was hardly going to be able to do it on her own and the quicker she accepted it, the better off they'd be. the two would rise through their ranks and after several years, that thrill she felt would coincide with the attraction she felt for her husband. of course, she was more attracted to him when he was using his head and wasn't moping about but she'd grown to be slightly more accepting of his sensitive side. they were a good team.

societal pressures would always eat away at her. her own mother wanted nothing more than to have a grandchild, a grandson to succeed his father. she wasn't so sure of it - was she cut out to be a mother? every time she saw a child, lady macbeth wanted to run in the opposite direction. had she an aversion to them or was it because she wanted to get as far away from her 'rightful place', if possible... she'd managed to avoid the prospect for so long but inevitably, she fell pregnant. it was something that made her more worried than anything, when her gentlewoman made a comment that she was glowing, that she must be with child. her husband was elated with the prospect of a child, particularly a son - she shared this outlook as women couldn't get anywhere, not really. she was by his side but she was now more an accessory.

a week after their son is born, her husband has to go fight a war, bravely, willingly but that meant it took him away from the both of them. something was wrong. the child passed and he wasn't there. just when she had accustomed herself to taking a feminine role, to accept it, it was all taken away from her. she had to write to him to inform him of the news, something that she shouldn't have had to do but he still had to fight if he wanted to get the crown in the future.

her staff attempted to support her but it wasn't enough. still, they held out on fetching her a doctor for her mind in order to preserve both her image but also the grief she was feeling. he needed him back - she felt incredibly let down by him for not being there and would never quite be able to move past it. of course, her husband was heartbroken upon return, he was sensitive, but it hurt him to also see her in that way. she did need to pull herself together so she'd tap into her masculinity during the day to try hide it all from others but especially him. however, she had no control over what happened when she was asleep.

the sleepwalking would start but be sporadic, her gentlewoman keeping a watchful eye over her to make sure that she was safe. it was clear that she was suffering from an illness of the mind but approaching her could have cost them heir job or worse. she had a temper and her husband would see that when she started to emasculate him, to push him into being king because it's what they both wanted. despite this, she still saw herself as weak because she could feel it, how ugly she was on the inside so she needed to lean into it, to accept it so that both of them could come out on top.

feeling stuck with nowhere else to go, yvonne focuses on the plan - to push him so hard that he'd actually do it and they would come out on top. she'd always thought of him as quite the p*ssy... she wasn't well but he hadn't been privy to that as he knew it was always inside her, or perhaps he was but he'd chosen to ignore it. people would say that it was the guilt that 'drove her to madness' but it was already there. she'd comfort him, knowing that he'd gone through with it but then more crimes would follow and she'd be left with blood on her hands.

things took a drastic turn for the both of them and they ended up in fabletown. neither of them would utter a word about what transpired. they would get her a doctor and leave it at that. it was what was unspoken that would eventually pull them apart. there was a hatred coming from her side and her issues had been far from resolved. there had been multiple instances where he'd wake up and she'd be gone, walking in the streets somewhere as she slept. kind people would help her when they saw her laying on the streets but it was a stark contrast to how she was in her position as mayoral secretary.

her ambition was something she leaned back into, what she aspired to be like once more before she had seemingly lost it. she made sure she was still close to the power. perhaps that wasn't a good idea but she was positive she could pull it off and gain the trust of the king and bluebeard - she just can't let things go... apart from her husband. recently, she'd just had enough, completely broke down and told him that she couldn't do it anymore, not right now anyways. they're separated and yvonne always felt like she'd feel liberated by not being an extension of him but that's not entirely translated in real life. it had always been the two of them and without him to pile all of her shortcomings on, she was forced to look in the mirror and see a shell of the woman she once was - a force of nature.

now that she's alone, she's taking extra care to lock herself in at night - no one's going to notice if she's out when she's not supposed to be. her struggles at night have got worse but she's trying to manage it the best she can. it is exhausting but she has to push through to carry on proving herself. she's a control freak - she always has been and she's trying to reclaim as much as she possibly can.

there is talk that she has dabbled in magic in the past and whispers say that she could have previously been in alliance with the witches, however, none of that has ever been proven.

[thefiery-phoenix]

YANDERE PETER QUILL X SHY READER (GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY)

You promised yourself that you wouldn't fall in love with anyone and yet here you were day dreaming and fantasizing about the star lord who was none other than Peter Quill. You just couldn't help yourself, you still remembered the time he saved you from some inter galactic beast and he made sure you were all right. That moment was magical for you because that was the first time you've met him. When you joined their team you were thrilled,you could prove your worth to Quill and impress him with your skills. It also gave you the chance to be more closer to him but however there was a tiny drawback to this wonderful plan of yours: You had a feeling he liked Gamora and KEYWORD, I said FEELING

You saw how close they both were with each other and you could understand why he'd chose Gamora. She was strong and skilled and extremely tactful. Not to mention she was pretty good looking too and she made you feel like an idiot most of the times. Gamora was never mean to you of course but her skills made your powers look like an absolute joke next to her. She was pretty friendly to you as well which was why you didn't really have the heart to split Peter and Gamora's relationship with each other so you just had to push your feelings deep down inside you and forget about Peter. However Peter wouldn't forget about you though

Quill was getting worried with the way you were acting these days. You barely talk to him now and it's making him go crazy and insane. He loves hearing your voice and when you talk about something you're passionate about your eyes sparkle and light up with joy. He found that endearing and it takes him all his self control to pinch your cheeks and hug you. You used to bring him coffee whenever he'd stay too late and convince him to sleep and get some rest. He was touched with your kindness and soft caring nature. Overtime he's become increasingly possessive of you of course but you haven't really noticed it. Whenever you talk to someone else he'll either interrupt the conversation with something he's done better than the other person or he'll just drag you the heck away from there and spend time with you instead

He doesn't mean to be a nosy snoop but it's hard not to when you leave your cute little black diary sitting out in the open like that. He tried to resist reading it since you know he was supposed supposed be your hero and heroes don't look at other people's things without their knowledge and permission. But temptation eventually got the better of him. Insecurity does wonders to a person in the most desperate times. He didn't see what he was doing was wrong because in his eyes he was just making sure his darling angel that is you was safe and nothing bad was happening to you else he'd go nuclear

He took it to his room and plopped down on his bed and started reading your diary. You wrote about this fictional character and how he was really cool which made Quill jealous. The only person you should be thinking about his him, your future husband. He got extremely irritated when you even wrote about Thor, he was itching to barge into your room at the moment to show and prove to you that you're only his and no one else's. He flipped through some pages and stopped when he saw his name. He was curious to know what you've written about him and he started reading

'I can't believe Quill actually made me dinner today that was really sweet of him. I really wanted to eat it with him and talk about the most random stuff but Gamora would probably hate me for this and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't really want to be caught dead hanging out with me anyways not when someone as strong as Gamora is there for him compared to my childish immature self'

His eyes couldn't believe what he was reading. Childish? Immature? You most certainly aren't any of the above mentioned words. You had a crush on him which he found endearing and was glad you felt the same way about him and the thought of him being in a relationship with Gamora was extremely amusing to him. True Gamora was nice and all but she was a bit unpredictable at times. He preferred to just stay friends with her and he felt bad that you were ignoring him because of this little misunderstanding. But not to worry he'll prove and show you just how much he loves you

He went out and saw you looking for something and he could guess what you were looking for, your diary. He decided to play the role of the knight in shining armor and return your diary back to you and when you got it your face beamed with joy as you hugged him and thanked him for it. "Oh, I'm sorry" you mumbled sheepishly after realizing what you've just done but he just pulled you back into the hug and replied "Don't be. I love this. I love you Y/N, you're mine" he said in a possessive manner and you couldn't help but blush. "Quill are you sure you're all right? This most certainly is a prank isn't it?" you asked him hesitantly and he grabbed your hands in his and replied " Darling, I love the way you look at me and smile. Your smile is the most beautiful thing for me in the world. The twinkle and the sparkle in your eye when we talk about something you're passionate about makes me want to listen to you for hours and hours as I get lost in your mesmerizing spellbinding eyes. You're the reason for my courage and determination. You're the only one I wouldn't mind losing my sleep for, I'll never let a tear fall down your cheeks and even if it does it'll be tears of happiness and not sadness. I love you Y/N" and you couldn't believe what you were hearing

"Quill... I didn't know you felt that way" you blushed but he replied "Y/N there isn't anyone I'd choose over you, you're made for me and I for you" and you felt happy. He confirmed he was very much not into Gamora and he admitted that he liked your soft and silly nature. It hurt when you're insecure of your own self but Quil would change all that. He loves you no matter what and he's willing to do whatever the hell it takes to make sure you stay with him. Even if he has to commit a few murders here and there but it's all in the name of love

[vivianbernadetteaurora]

Cassie ventura

If you look at this, it's so sad what this woman endured while being with diddy, and the fact that she had to testify in court while she was heavily pregnant is also a bit of a horrible thing I think, why couldn't they do a video link? Instead of her being worked there in front of her abuser, who made her go through doing native drug use with sex workers, male sex workers, and then making her testifier about all these horrible things, and then the footage of him beating her up, it's all too much especially for a woman who's pregnant and hormonal. Luckily, capacid with somebody now who is a lot nicer to her, did he literally pick her up and was like, IM choosing this girl when Rihanna shaved her head? He thought, "Oh, I'm gonna make Cassie do the same thing," and he did. He shaved her hair even though it was like a rihanna thing, and you see them together. Just know that even with Beyoncé Kim Kardashian and all of that crow, Alicia Keys with Swiss beats, they might not all want to be in there. They might be going through the whole same thing with Beyoncé. I think she's got so indoculated into it that she got accused of killing a woman's cat doing satanic magic. So maybe it's a bit different with her and Kim, and that's why her and Kim don't always get along or she shapes her in some form or another even though they know all the same people, it's like Beyoncé doesn't want to attach herself to that even though. She's a huge part of that system. Especially if that husband and first he thinks he's best yet now in these breadlocks, he is the ugliest black man I think I've ever seen in my life. But black, many usually black people are usually much better looking anyway, but he is just a doozy. But yeah, I want to add some pictures of Cassie. Over the years and what she I'm free people who is in control, like I'm surprised he's not a place, he's me in the way he's dressing them up to look at certain Y and BA certain way he did. It was with importer, right, and jado went out of a different version of puff, definitely. Because I don't think she injured views. There's that situation with the nightclub, but yeah, they definitely didn't go out of the same Sean diddy Combs. They had a completely different relationship, Cassie. See, the thing is with these famous people. Do they look down on us? Individuals who they don't seek out of being As worthy as m, that's how I see it, because marilyn manson did it with every rachael wood, the yeah, the list is goes on and wrong, really. I love it that jaguar wright turned up to the courtrooms and not taken a shift from nobody, because in the past she worked with Jay's young's song cry and she was newly common as well. One of many others in the music industry. She likes black China's mum, who I don't take her word as well. It like I do jaguar, and I do with orlando brown, these are all the people who didn't make it, and they're the people who didn't want to go into that world of dirtiness and ego. But they have the support for the people who got trapped in it. E g cassie. Also, like Kim Porter, Jay-Z had a mistress called Kathy White, who suddenly died. Owing Kim Porter died of pneumonia, but who knows? It makes me think about britney Murphy and her husband and them dying of pneumonia, and what they know it really opens up a massive rabbit hole . And her thumb before she got with Eddie, it's me and you, and there was another one that was really catchy. you've got a long way to go. They were nothing to do with Puff Daddy. They were all her. I know whoever she was working with at the time, so I Ve added pictures of Kim as well. Rest in peace and rest in power

[vex-bittys]

Bittyswap (part 26)

My version of Bittyswap involves full-sized bittybones (and other monsters) living in the Underground and getting miniature humans as pets.

———-

As a true testament to Brassberry’s exhaustion, the scent and sound of a potential house fire didn't wake him. It did, however, summon our remaining housemates, who made their entrances to the scene of the crime against breakfast in a rather grandiose fashion. As a side note, this also did not wake Brassberry though YanYan and Cap must have passed right by his prone, drooling form on the couch during their heroic charge to the kitchen.

Cap exploded through the doorway, blue and orange eyelights darting frantically around the kitchen warzone that Cherry and I had created. The moment he spotted me in all of my wearing-the-ingredients glory, he rushed over, scooping me into his hands and lifting me up to his face to scrutinize me for injuries or impending death. With a surprising gentleness, his large thumb wiped the flour from my face. I saw actual tears in his sockets as he gave me a relieved nuzzle with minimal bitty-crushing involved. I guess he took his bitty protection assignment really seriously, so I patted him and murmured reassurances about my safety and his diligence.

My vantage point pressed against Cap's cheekbone also gave me an unobstructed view of YanYan in all of his dramatic glory as he very literally swept into the room like a Southern belle descending a grand staircase to swoon over the news of her husband's untimely death… complete with ensemble. Yanyan wore an absolutely normal black satin teddy, the pinnacle of comfort and luxury, but he'd also thrown on a sheer black floor-length cover-up complete with feather trim. He delicately fished a slice of lime out of one of his sockets, tossing it carelessly into the sink before assessing the situation that must have dragged him from his requisite beauty sleep. Wait, did skeletons use limes on their sockets instead of cucumbers?

I held back a hysterical giggle imagining tiny pancakes instead of limes or cucumbers.

Yanyan sighed, then strode over to the counter to peer at the singular pathetic not quite pancake. "SOMEONE OTHER THAN BRASSBERRY TRIED TO MAKE BREAKFAST AGAIN, DIDN'T THEY?" His tone held absolutely no surprise. How often did this happen?

Cherry sniffled from his spot on the floor, trying to control his sobbing enough to squeak out an apology, but Yanyan quickly shushed him.

"IT LOOKS A LOT BETTER THAN MY LAST ATTEMPT," he commented, actually kneeling down to place a hand on Cherry's shoulder. That’s right, Yanyan knelt on the dirty kitchen floor, in the rubble of our disaster area and actually initiated a comforting touch on our smallest (aside from me, of course) housemate. Cherry leaned into the touch, and Yanyan swallowed his uncertainty and let him.

Lil Bro grabbed a mug, and a bottle of syrup from the cupboard. He filled the mug with syrup, then tore up the failed pancake and tossed it in as well. I got strong "hot cocoa with miniature marshmallow" vibes despite the unusual substitutions. There’s a thin line between “not a picky eater” and “consuming actual garbage,” and Lil Bro shuffled past that line, mug in hand.

We all watched in horrified awe as Lil Bro chugged his beverage.

When he finished, he laid his hand on Cherry's other shoulder. "tastes a lot better than my last attempt." The magic words soothed Cherry’s panic to a controllable level.

Cherry let out a wheezy little chuckle, and Lil Bro and Yanyan shared a quick glance over his back that clearly stated that they'd accomplished their mission of consoling Cherry for the low, low price of a bit of humility and choking down a mug of syrup-lubed inedible pancakes.

With the entire crisis now truly averted and nobody eager to start cleaning up the mess, we discussed some alternatives for breakfast. Unfortunately, breakfast time slipped away during the course of our misguided cooking attempts, but that also meant that restaurants were now open for the early lunch crowd. Cap suggested grabbing some Grillby’s to go, and with only one house member abstaining from the vote (due to sleep), the decision was unanimous. 

I doubted Brassberry would've dissented anyway. He loved Grillby’s, and even if that fact had changed since yesterday morning, his only other choice for a meal had been utterly destroyed by culinary ineptitude. Collectively, the housemates and I opted to close the door on the kitchen and simply leave the problem for the future, a future in which we move to a new house with a not-ruined kitchen.

These aren't the droids you're looking for. Ignore that man behind the curtain. There is no war in Ba Sing Se. What kitchen disaster? Now, I have no idea how those pop culture references played out due to limited TV access, but I'm sure things worked out just fine with minimal effort from those involved. I'm usually right, except when it comes to pancake measurements. 

In hindsight, Cherry and I probably would've gotten the same results if we just used bombs like Mettaton suggested….

READ ON AO3

PREV | INDEX | NEXT

[sailtomarina]

A New Year's Eve to Enjoy

The start of another new year meant black and white tie attire, political rivals sharing sneers behind smiles, elven champagne raised in a toast, and wizarding fireworks with all of the impressive fanfare and none of the choking smoke.

The start of this new year marked Hermione’s first as the British Minister of Magic. The role was 20 years in the making, after one marriage and one divorce, strategic promotions up the government ladder, and several landmark cases won in the Wizengamot. As the youngest Minister in history, a woman, and a muggle-born, Hermione was a household name. 

She had never felt lonelier.

Funny thing was, she was never actually alone. Aurors shadowed her every step from her London flat to her office doors to weekends away at a cottage secret-kept by Luna Scamander. The head of her security detail stood just off to the side of the podium behind which she gave her speech, his hair as milky white as the lilies lining the path to her cottage and his eyes clear and pale as they scanned the ballroom and took note of every single face and name.

Hermione raised a celebratory toast, sweating past the useless cooling charms and hoping it didn’t show in the photographs. Her manufactured smile held firm at the sight of her ex-husband with an arm around his thrice-pregnant wife and Harry commiserating with the Longbottoms and Minerva near the back doors, likely ready to return to Hogwarts the moment their glasses were empty.

Her schedule, which her assistant Dennis had carefully planned to the very last second, mandated she remain in the public eye for a few hours yet, past all the dancing and midnight celebrations of kisses and fireworks. She’d agreed to the itinerary as was expected of the Minister and had worn the dress set out for her by her stylist, allowing her curls to be controlled and her face glamoured until she barely recognized herself.

What she wouldn’t give to kick off her heels in the privacy of her home and curl up in front of the fireplace.

“Minister.”

A cool hand engulfed her shoulder and the comforting scent of Malfoy’s cologne, all heat and spice, invaded her senses. His voice was low, the exhale tickling her errant curls.

“Is everything alright?” Alarm spiked along the surface of her skin, but she allowed none of it to show on her face just as he’d trained her.

“Yes, but I’ve spoken with Mr. Creevey and he’s agreed that your presence is no longer required should you prefer to retire for the evening.”

Hermione scoffed. Was this Malfoy’s way of suggesting she wasn’t strong enough to last the night? “I assure you that I’m perfectly capable of proceeding as scheduled.”

She couldn’t see him with how he stood behind her, but she could imagine the quirk of his lips. She could also see a certain persistent wizard making his way through the crowd in her direction.

“Are you sure about that? It looks like McLaggen’s about to ask you to dance,” he teased, hand still cupping the bare skin below her neck.

“It’s a good thing I have you here then, isn’t it?” Before Cormac could step up to her and open his mouth, Hermione pivoted to face her bodyguard and offer him a hand. “Why yes, Malfoy, I’d love to dance.”

Ever the actor, he didn’t bat an eyelash as he gripped her fingers and bowed his head to brush them lightly with a kiss. She might have heard a choked sound behind her, but Hermione was too focused on the man bent before her. Even though he was on duty, he wore formal robes designed to strip away as needed to the uniform hiding beneath, his wand hidden in the sleeve. All black should’ve made him look nearly vampiric, but all it did was emphasize the impressive figure he cut next to their peers.

Looking at Draco Malfoy now and after interacting with him these past several months, Hermione had to admit the git had grown on her. They had history, yes, but they’d put it behind them over a decade ago. She trusted him now. He often anticipated her intentions before she’d even formed the thoughts to do so—if he agreed to them, she found her way unimpeded; if he disapproved, he was ready to provide a handful of reasons for her reconsideration.

It was infuriating. He was infuriating. He was also a fabulous dancer.

He led her in an effortless waltz across the floor like they were the main feature. Considering her position, perhaps they were. Hermione loved dancing and appreciated an experienced partner, but Malfoy took her tendency to backlead right out of her control. With him, she let go in a way she never did, allowing him to path and spin and dip to his heart’s content. She felt as light as a fairy, as graceful as a Veela.

“You finally look like you’re enjoying yourself.” His observation came as the strings brought the song to a close, her body still close to his as he turned to murmur into her ear as was his habit, as if the words were hers alone.

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?” He pulled away to smile innocently down at her, the flash of his teeth blinding as a camera flash went off in their direction.

“You dance extremely well,” she said begrudgingly, refusing to turn and give her own smile. Let the newspapers paint her however they pleased. She’d already given them plenty of material for the night.

“I’ll pass along your compliments to my mother,” he quipped. 

He let go and bowed deeply, and Hermione tried not to miss the warmth of his arms. It was just a dance. She waved away the approaching reporter and made her way back to her table where her assistant promptly appeared.

“Dennis.”

“Minister, in ten minutes you’re scheduled to cut the cake—”

“Oh, for Circe’s sake—” This wasn’t a wedding! She knew she approved the schedule, but the act still seemed so silly.

“—but, I can just as easily have the elves do so and serve them directly to everyone. Did Mr. Malfoy speak with you?” Dennis cut her off in the no-nonsense manner he’d adopted in his time spent working with her. 

“He did, but there’s no need to bow out early. I can stay.”

The younger man narrowed his eyes at her and she almost smiled affectionately back at him. He really had come into his own—she wouldn’t be surprised if he followed in her footsteps some day.

“Minister, with all due respect, the schedule was more of a suggestion. This is a celebration and you deserve to enjoy it just as much as the rest of us.” He continued to stare at her.

Damn him and damn Malfoy. They both knew her too well.

Hermione sighed. “Alright. How should I make my exit?” If only Harry hadn’t already disappeared with his cloak.

“I believe a witch of your standing can leave in any way she deems appropriate. Our team is ready and waiting.” Draco and Dennis exchanged nods.

As she walked away, head held high and flanked on all sides by security, she raised a hand to wave idly at the masses in her wake.

“Where to, Minister?” Draco asked once they came up to the Floo.

“Granger Cottage.”

She stopped him with a hand on his arm just as he prepared to toss down the powder. “And Malfoy?”

“Yes, Minister?”

There were a million and one reasons why she should take her leave as she did every day. They included notions of responsibility, loyalty, professionalism. Through them all, Dennis’ words echoed in her ears, ones that sounded suspiciously like Luna’s all those years ago, or perhaps like the small voice Hermione squashed underneath the weight of her lifelong vision.

…you deserve to enjoy it just as much as the rest of us.

“Come alone.”

His eyebrows jumped high, but he didn’t question her. With a quick order and a flash of green, the two vanished into the flames.

WC 1353

DHRMonth Prompt: Week 3 - Celebrations, September 16 - New Year's Eve

As hot as I find the idea of Draco calling Hermione "Minister", I'd like to think he drops the title the moment they walk into her cottage. I'm imagining a loveseat for two, hot chocolate in front of a fireplace, and a foot massage. Of course they'd want foot massages after all that dancing.