#Sleepless in Stars Hollow

[stellaluna33]

Love that Luke brings up the idea of he and Jess watching "Sleepless in Seattle" together like that would be some sort of preposterous joke, as if those two weren't exactly the kind of saps who'd unironically live out the plot of that movie... 😂

[mxescargot]

ok fuck it im srbing this and tagging as many fandoms im in as possible in the vague hope that People Care About My Opinions

Fuck it

Send asks

[theonottsbxtch]

AMNESIA | OP81

a/n: y'all i am so sorry. i've been sitting on this baddie for ages and i just couldn't be bothered to edit it, this is top level oscar angst. it's based off of amnesia by 5sos. SORRY.

summary: one night oscar let himself think about the one who got away

wc: 4.6k

Oscar gazed out over Monaco's glittering lights, the city sprawled before him like a velvet tapestry studded with jewels. The night lay in deceptive calm; the sea mirrored the stars in a still, silken sheet, but inside him, a tempest churned. All the luxury, all the glamour that gilded his world now felt hollow—empty without her presence. His fingers brushed the cool glass of the window, tracing the outline of a city that seemed distant, belonging to another man, untroubled and free, unburdened by memories.

The places they once roamed together, the routines they’d crafted, played like a mournful melody on endless repeat. He’d passed by their café today—the quiet refuge hidden from the world’s demands, where they’d while away hours, lost in each other’s gaze. He could still catch the faint scent of fresh coffee, could almost see her across the table, her smile as warm as the dawn. Yet now, the café was just another reminder, another ghost in the shadowed gallery of what they’d been.

The memory of their last kiss lingered, a phantom warmth on his lips he couldn’t shake. He had been the one to walk away, thinking it was right, believing he needed to chase ambition. But the choice had hollowed him. Each race, each practice, each night spent alone in this lofty apartment felt empty, robbed of meaning in her absence.

Even his team had begun to notice the change—the sharpness, the fire that once defined him, had dulled, blunted by the ache lodged deep within his chest. But how could he explain it? How could he tell them it wasn’t distraction, but a haunting? That he saw her everywhere—in the empty passenger seat of his car, in the fleeting reflections of strangers, in the vast, cold expanse of a bed that was now too wide without her beside him.

Oscar clenched his eyes shut, hoping to block out the onslaught of images, the merciless surge of memories. He should have been fixed on the next race, on reclaiming his rightful place, yet his mind clung only to her—how she’d felt in his arms, how her laughter had once been the melody of his days, how he’d let it all slip away.

They’d said she was fine, her friends—moving on, happy with someone new. But the thought of her wrapped in another man's embrace twisted like a blade in his chest. Did she ever think of him? Did she lie awake at night, swallowed by the same hollow ache that now gnawed at him? Or had she truly found happiness, leaving him behind in the shadows?

He opened his eyes, gazing into the darkness beyond the window, his breath misting the glass. The city slumbered, but for Oscar, the night stretched on—a sleepless expanse, each hour chafing like a missing piece of himself. He wondered if she felt it too, this void, this yearning.

Pressing his forehead to the cold glass, he tried to silence the storm of thoughts that would not leave him be. His reflection stared back, but all he saw were the ruins of their love—cracked, scattered, yet searingly vivid in his mind. He’d tried to move forward, to focus on what lay ahead, but it was impossible when the past clung to him like a shadow he could not shake.

Sometimes, in the small hours, on nights like these when sleep eluded him, he found himself wondering if it was all some quiet fiction. If it had ever been real—how could she be at ease now? How could she smile, laugh, and carry on while he lay adrift, lost in the wreckage they’d left behind? He was the one who ended it, yes, but it made no sense—how could she be whole when he was anything but?

The memory of her leaving was burnt into his mind, sharp as a fresh wound. He could still see the tears tracing lines down her cheeks, smudging the makeup she’d so carefully applied that morning. She’d looked at him with those eyes—eyes that once overflowed with love—and told him she loved him, one last time, before stepping through the door. Her words had broken him, though he’d tried to hold steady, to let her go, thinking it was the right thing to do, for her, for himself. Only now did he realise, with an ache that sat heavy in his chest, how terribly wrong he was.

Now, he couldn’t help but feel that something precious had been left behind—something beyond recall. The dreams they’d woven together, the fragile plans they’d made for a shared tomorrow—all vanished, tossed aside as if they held no weight. But they mattered—to him, they meant everything. Every wish whispered in the dead of night, every quiet promise wrapped in the dark—they’d been the scaffolding of his life, and without them, he felt himself unravelling, thread by thread.

There were days he wished he could simply wake up with amnesia, that he could shed these small, lingering ghosts. The way it felt to drift off beside her, her warmth curled into him, the ease of knowing she was near. He longed to erase the moments that had become his prison, holding him captive in a past that no longer existed. But try as he might, he could not outrun them; they were carved deep into his soul, and the pain of them remained unyielding.

He wasn’t fine. He was far from fine. Each day was a struggle, a battle waged against the crushing weight of what he’d lost. And as much as he tried to tell himself it was for the best, that she was better off without him, the truth haunted him: he couldn’t stop thinking of her. He couldn’t stop wishing he’d done things differently, that he’d fought harder to keep his career alongside his life with her, instead of letting it all slip so easily through his fingers.

Now, all he had were memories—memories that lingered no matter how fiercely he wanted to leave them behind. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face, the sadness in her gaze as she walked away, the dreams they’d once shared now scattered fragments of a life that might have been. And the hardest part was knowing it had been his own undoing. He’d unravelled the best thing in his life, and now he was left alone, gathering up the broken pieces in silence.

Beside him, his phone began to buzz on the floor, its screen lighting up with a familiar name and picture: Mum. The ringing seemed louder in the stillness of the apartment, an unwelcome noise that echoed off the walls, rattling something deep inside his chest. He knew why she was calling—she’d fallen into the habit of phoning him at this hour because she knew he’d be awake. For him, it was the dead of night; for her, the garden back home would be bathed in sunlight. He loved talking to his mother, but tonight, the thought of words felt heavy, too much to bear.

He watched the phone vibrate, his thumb hovering over the screen, torn between the urge to answer and the weight of guilt that kept him frozen. It wasn’t just any call—it was his mother, the one who had stood by him through every triumph and every heartbreak, who had supported him in ways no one else ever could. But answering meant facing the truth he’d been desperately avoiding, the truth that gnawed at him in the quiet moments when he was alone with his thoughts.

A minute slipped by before he finally chose to call her back.

He leaned forward, his face buried in his hands, the cool press of the bracelet she’d given him once biting into his brow. He’d turned everything into a mess, and now he sat alone, left to sort through the pieces with only his guilt and the hollow ache of knowing he’d hurt the one person who mattered most. With a trembling breath, he lifted his phone and dialled her, listening to the ring on the other end, each sound stretching the seconds to a taut and silent ache.

"Hello?" Her voice came softly through the line—gentle, patient, as if she'd been waiting, as if she knew he would find his way back. A quiet relief coloured her tone, and it twisted something deep within him.

"Hey, Mum," he managed, his voice barely a murmur. "Sorry I missed your call."

"It’s alright, love." She paused, and he could almost see her there, sitting with a slight crease of worry between her brows, waiting for him to speak, to let her in. "I just... wanted to check on you."

He forced a laugh, aiming for something light, but it fell flat, hollow. "I’m fine, really. Just… thinking, I suppose."

But she sensed it immediately—the weight in his voice, the heaviness he hadn’t managed to hide. "It’s alright if you’re not, Osc. You don’t have to pretend with me."

He swallowed, his eyes pressing shut against the sudden sting of tears. She’d always been able to see through him, to know when his heart was shadowed. "I know, Mum," he whispered, feeling his walls begin to crack. "It’s just… I- I don’t know." He stopped, the words tangling and tightening.

Her voice was soft, urging him gently. "What is it, darling?"

He opened his mouth, but the confession he’d been burying for so long felt like a lead weight on his tongue. Finally, he managed, “She seems to be doing well, Mum,” he murmured, forcing a fragile smile, one that remained unseen. “I saw some photos on her Instagram… she’s smiling, with a new lad. It appears she’s finally moved on.”

A long pause unfurled, stretching until it became almost unbearable. Oscar shifted on the floor, the weight of silence gnawing at his insides.

When his mother finally spoke, her voice, soft yet sharp, sliced through the stillness like a knife. “No, sweetheart, she’s not doing well.”

Her words struck him like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe, the air trapped within him as if his lungs had lost their way. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the tide of emotion threatening to engulf him.

“What do you mean?” he whispered, his voice barely escaping his lips.

A sigh escaped the line, heavy with a lilt of disappointment. “She’s just… she’s not the same anymore, Osc. She wears a brave facade, but when I look into her eyes… I see the hurt. She’s been suffering for far too long.”

Guilt, which he had desperately tried to bury for months, clawed its way to the surface, tightening around his heart like a vice. His hand trembled as it pressed to his forehead, battling to hold himself together, but the truth was a burden too great to bear.

“It’s my fault,” he choked, voice cracking. “I hurt her, Mum… I did this to her.”

Tears began to cascade down his cheeks, unbidden, and he made no move to wipe them away. Deep within, he knew that no amount of regret or self-loathing could alter the past. The girl he had loved, the one who had given him everything, lay shattered because of him. And nothing, ever, would set that right.

His breath hitched as he fought to control the tremors coursing through his body. Tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and relentless, and he made no effort to hide them. “I messed up, Mum. I thought I could manage it all—balance my racing and us. But I was wrong. I didn’t realise how deeply I’d hurt her until it was too late.”

His mother’s voice broke through the haze of his despair, filled with a blend of concern and compassion. “Oh, Oscar… you were so focused on your dreams. You believed that if you succeeded, everything else would fall into place. But in your pursuit, you lost sight of what truly mattered. It’s okay.”

He winced at the truth in her words, the painful reality sinking in deeper. “I thought I could make it up to her later, that she’d understand. I convinced myself it was just temporary… but now she’s gone, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

The guilt twisted in his gut, a constant reminder of his choices. “I pushed her away. I didn’t see how much she was struggling, how lonely she felt while I was out there chasing trophies and glory. And now?” His voice cracked under the weight of his regret. “I can’t stop thinking about her. Every time I step into the car, all I see is her face, and it breaks me.”

“She was proud of you, Osc. She wanted you to chase your dreams, but she needed you too. You can’t forget that,” his mother said gently, offering solace amidst his turmoil.

“I should have been there for her,” he sobbed, shaking his head violently, as if trying to rid himself of the haunting memories. “Instead, I just kept pushing her further away. I thought I was doing the right thing, focusing on my career. I didn’t realise that she was suffering… that I was breaking her heart.”

His mother’s voice softened, filled with empathy. “It’s okay to make mistakes, sweetheart. What matters now is what you do next. You can’t change the past, but you can strive to make things right.”

He wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, frustration boiling beneath the surface. “But how? How do I even begin to make it right? She deserves better than what I gave her. I don’t know if she’ll even want to talk to me.”

“She might need time, but that doesn’t mean it’s over,” she replied, her tone reassuring. “If you truly care about her, you need to show her that you’re ready to listen, to support her, and to be there. It won’t be easy, but it’s worth it.”

Oscar looked up at the ceiling, wiping the remnants of tears from his cheeks. “I’ll talk to her, Mum. “

His mother’s voice came through the phone, steady and reassuring. “That’s a brave decision, Osc. But remember, you can’t expect it to go your way. She’s been hurt, and it’ll take time for her to process everything.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice steadier now, but tinged with uncertainty. “But I want her to see that I’m serious about changing, about being there for her this time. I just… I don’t know how to start.”

“Just be honest with her,” she advised, her tone gentle yet firm. “Let her share her feelings without interruption. If she needs to vent or express her pain, listen to her. Don’t try to fix everything in that moment. Just let her feel heard and understood.”

Oscar nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “You’re right. I’ve spent so long focused on what I wanted to say that I forgot about what she needs to hear. She deserves that.”

“Exactly. And keep in mind, this conversation might not go the way you hope. She may still be angry or hurt, and that’s okay. It’s part of the healing process. You have to be ready for any response,” she cautioned, her voice steady and comforting.

“What if she doesn’t want to talk to me at all?” The thought knotted his stomach again, a fear he couldn’t shake. “What if she’s moved on for good?”

“Then you respect her decision,” his mother replied, her tone still calm. “You can’t control how she feels or what she chooses to do. All you can do is be honest about your feelings and show her that you’re committed to making things right. If it’s meant to be, it will find a way.”

He took a deep breath, the reality of the situation washing over him. “I just want her to know that I’ve changed. That I see now what really matters. I won’t let her down again.”

“Show her, don’t just tell her,” she emphasised softly. “Actions speak louder than words, darling. If she sees that you’re genuinely trying to be better, it may help rebuild that trust. But remember, trust takes time to restore.”

“I understand,” he murmured, feeling a mix of hope and trepidation. “I just wish I could fast forward to the part where everything’s okay again.”

His mother sighed, a sound heavy with experience. “Life doesn’t work that way, my love. But taking this first step, reaching out to her, is where it all begins. Just be patient with yourself and with her.”

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Okay. I’ll reach out to her today. No more waiting.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said, pride shining through her voice. “And whatever happens, remember that you’re not alone in this. I’m here for you every step of the way.”

Oscar took a deep breath. “Thanks, Mum. I love you.”

“Just keep your heart open, Osc. You’re strong enough to handle whatever comes next.”

When he hung up, he looked at his phone, looking for her familiar contact. He’d never removed the heart from her name.

His thumb hovered over the text button and before he could second guess himself, he texted her.

Are you up?

He’d seen that she was in England on holiday, it was two in the morning, she probably wasn’t awake.

Then his phone buzzed.

Yes.

A surge of adrenaline rushed through him, and without thinking, he pressed the call button, the sound of the dial tone echoing in the quiet of the night. Each ring felt like an eternity, his heart racing with anticipation and anxiety. Finally, her sleepy voice broke through the silence.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and filled with unacknowledged tension. “Hey,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “How are you doing?”

There was a pause, a rustling on the other end as she shifted, likely pulling the blankets tighter around her. “Why are you calling, Osc? It’s three in the morning.”

His heart warmed at the sound of the nickname, a reminder of their intimacy, but it quickly sank as he realised what was happening. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to articulate his thoughts. “I just… I wanted to hear your voice. I miss you.”

The words hung in the air, vulnerable and raw. There was another silence, and his heart skipped a beat, fearing her response. She then spoke, her voice trembling slightly. “You can’t do that to me, Osc.”

“I know,” he rushed to say, desperation creeping into his tone. “I messed up. I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry. I just… I can’t shake the feeling that I need to talk to you. That I need you to know I care.”

Her voice cracked. “You can’t just call me out of the blue and expect everything to be fine. It’s not fair.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, the weight of regret settling heavily in his chest. “I thought focusing on my racing would help us, but I see how selfish I was. I should have fought harder for us.”

There was a long silence, and he could hear her breathing unsteadily on the other end. “I’ve moved on, Oscar,” she finally said, her voice steady but laced with a hint of pain. He knew she had, but he wouldn’t tell her that. “I’m in a relationship now.”

He felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs, those words seemed like there was a finality to them. “Are you happy?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“I think I am,” she replied, her words soft yet resolute. “It’s been a while since you left, and I’ve built a life for myself. I’ve found someone who makes me smile.”

Oscar’s heart sank further. “And us? Did I make you happy? Can I still-?”

She took a shaky breath, and he could almost picture her struggling to hold back tears. “You don’t get to decide that now. You can’t just call me and ask me to forget everything that happened between us.”

“I know,” he said, his voice filled with desperation. “But I didn’t call to erase the past. I just wanted you to know that I care, and I’m sorry for what I did. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I can’t keep going back and forth,” she said, her voice trembling. “You can’t just pull me back in when it’s convenient for you. It’s not fair to either of us.”

“I know it’s not fair, but please—” He stopped, the reality crashing down around him. “I just want you to be happy.”

He heard her wipe her tears through the phone, and he could hear the anguish in her voice as she spoke. “It hurts too much to think about us, Osc. I thought I could just move on, but then you call, and it all comes rushing back. You can’t do this to me.”

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his heart breaking for her. “I never meant to hurt you like this.”

“Do you even understand what it feels like to be in love with someone and then have them walk away?” she asked, her voice choked with emotion. “I had to put myself back together. I can’t just let you waltz back into my life and expect everything to be okay.”

“I don’t want to disrupt your life,” he said, anguish threading through his words. “I just wanted a chance to make things right.”

“I appreciate that, but it’s too late for us,” she said firmly, though her voice trembled with pain. “I’ve spent too long trying to heal, and I won’t go back to that place.”

“Are you sure?” he pressed, desperation creeping into his tone. “Is there no part of you that wants to try again?”

“I can’t,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tears. “I have to think about myself now. I deserve to be happy, and I’m finally starting to feel that way.”

The finality in her words shattered something deep within him. “I understand,” he said, his heart heavy with defeat. “I just wish things were different.”

“Me too,” she said softly. “But this is where we are now.”

The finality in her words shattered something deep within him. “And what if I quit? Could we try then?”

There was a pause, a moment where he hoped for a glimmer of possibility, but her next words were like a cold splash of water. “Osc, your career wasn’t the only problem. There was more. We were just two kids in love who ignored all the signs.”

He felt the weight of her words press down on him, the truth of their shared past enveloping him like a fog. “I know I was blind to everything else. I thought racing was all that mattered, but it wasn’t. It never was.”

“It was part of it, but not the only thing,” she said softly, the pain evident in her tone. “We had our own issues—communication, trust, the way we handled our dreams. I can’t just pretend those things don’t exist because you’re ready to start over.”

“I wish I could change everything,” he said, feeling the reality of their situation wash over him. “But I can’t undo the past.”

“Exactly,” she replied, her voice heavy with finality. “And I can’t keep holding on to what might have been. I need to let go.”

The ache in his heart deepened, a hollow feeling that filled the silence between them. “I understand,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I just wanted one more chance.”

“Sometimes, Osc, wanting isn’t enough,” she replied gently. “I wish you all the best. Truly. But we can’t go back.”

As the silence settled between them, Oscar felt the gravity of their words hanging heavily in the air. He took a shaky breath, gathering the strength to say what he had been holding back. “I love you,” he finally confessed, the vulnerability of his admission pouring out like a lifeline into the void.

“I hope one day you find someone who loves you the same way you love me now,” she replied softly, her voice tinged with sadness but also warmth. “You deserve it, Osc.”

The sincerity in her words pierced him, both a comfort and a heartache all at once. “I wish it could have been us,” he said, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill over anew.

“Me too,” she whispered. “But sometimes love isn’t enough. Take care of yourself, Osc.”

With that, there was a final, lingering pause before she hung up. The sound of the call ending echoed in his ears, a quiet punctuation mark on the chapter of their story that had abruptly closed.

Oscar sat there on the floor, phone still in hand, the world around him fading into a blur. He let the tears flow freely, each drop a testament to the pain and regret he felt. It was as if all the walls he had built around his heart crumbled at once, leaving him exposed and raw.

He hugged his knees to his chest, letting the sobs escape his throat uncontrollably. The quiet of the night felt suffocating, amplifying the silence left in her absence. Memories of their laughter, their shared dreams, and the warmth of her embrace flooded his mind, each thought a dagger twisting deeper into his chest.

He could still hear her voice, the way it had trembled when she spoke about moving on, and the way she had wished him happiness even as she let go. It felt impossibly cruel that she had found a way to be happy without him, while he remained lost in the wake of his choices.

Hours felt like minutes as he sat there on the floor, surrounded by the darkness of his room and the echo of a love that had once felt invincible. It was hard to imagine a future where he could love someone else the way he had loved her, knowing that part of his heart would always belong to the girl who had slipped through his fingers.

But it was his fault.

And there was nothing he could do now.

the end.

taglist: @iimplicitt @marshmummy @piastrams

[demonicbaby666]

Where I Don’t Belong

One shot | Supergirl Masterlist | Masterlists

Fandom: Supergirl

Pairing: Kara Danvers x fem!Reader

Genre: angst & smut

Words: 3.7k+

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, jealousy, spanking, oral, fingering, strap-on use, degradation (like a little tiny bit), daddy kink, overstimulation, implied squirting, top!Kara, bottom!reader

Summary: Never one to deal with rejection healthily, you find yourself moving from bed to bed, night after night, trying to find solace in the bouts of pleasure strangers offer. But when Kara, the person who drove you to commit such deeds, confronts you, the trajectory of your evening is completely altered.

A/n: I'm rewatching Supergirl, so reap the benefits, peeps, cause after this, it's back to my JJ fic! Also, @rafesgfs didn't let me smoke until I finished this, so it's thanks to her that this was completed today <3

Festering shame that started the night at only a simmer boils over and burns your whole body, sets your skin alight and sloshes the alcohol sitting in your empty stomach in tight circles, like that of a washing machine. It's fucking filthy. Hot, sticky and filthy being pressed up against a stranger, grinding against a hardening cock in hopes that maybe the moderate length of it will taper the resounding feeling you hold for another. 

Everyone deals with rejection in their own way.

Sweat marks your forehead, and the bitter smell of stale spirits permeates your nostrils. Somehow, you convince yourself all you know is the music and the empty promises the body behind you has to offer.

You hear him mutter something, groan in your ear at how you feel so good, how he can't wait to fill you, stretch you. The churning in your gut intensifies, and your throat is thick with bile. You force yourself to moan–ever the obedient woman. He wants to feel wanted; you want the same. It's easy to use each other, get lost in a bit when there will be no consequences, knowing the following morning you'll be gone, and two people will have a hollow sense of satisfaction buzzing between only their legs. It's what you tell yourself; 'It's easier this way', 'You're doing what you need to cope and survive', and 'You're only human'. 

The dancing - if it can be called that - continues with your eyes shut as you try to alleviate the steady burn of desire coated in sticky shame. Addled with flashing lights, the black behind your eyelids brings you little comfort, but you're no longer naive to think anything really will, other than sex, that is. 

It's mucky, the alleyway by the side of the club. The thick air smells like bad decisions and cigarettes, yet you haven't the mind to care. His lips are rough on your neck, stubble rubbing uncomfortably against your collarbone, and you're beginning to pick apart the scent of his sweat under the worn-out notes of cologne. Crazed hands palm at your breasts so manically it becomes hard to derive any pleasure from the act - you force yourself to try. 

Between all the frenzy, your purse slips past your shoulder, landing on the soggy ground, and you find yourself welcoming the reprieve the opportunity garners. 

You spin around, trying to squint past the inebriation to locate it. It's landed short of a murky puddle, and you thank your lucky stars that there were only a few specks of dirt littering the suede material. The effects of endless nights spent dancing and fucking echo in the cracks of your worn-out muscles, your squatting position not helping to dull the ache at all. You know the longer this position is held, the more it'll hurt to stand up, but your reflection stares at you on the surface of brown water, holding you hostage with a haunted picture painting its canvas. 

Sleepless nights tug at the bags under your eyes, leaving the skin gaunt. The colour does not show, but you know, under your concealer, it's tinged purple. There's no shine to your face; highlighter only takes you so far in accentuating your cheekbones and brightening your false smile, never filling the devoid look of a rejected, broken heart. 

The matter of fact is, even if your body is feeling the brunt of unfavourable coping mechanisms, it's better than lying awake in bed and relying on benign hope to see you through the dark hours of the day. 

Brushing the muck off your bag, ready to discover how you would end the night, you look to where your companion should be waiting. It would either be a cheap hotel or his place, never yours; there was something too visceral about doing a stranger in a bed that not even alcohol could mask. 

Except when you turn, it is not a gruff face you find but, "Kara?" 

Confusion marks your face, the question of where your soon-to-be fuck had gone evident because before you can quite finish, let alone begin to ask, Kara's already opening her mouth. 

"He's fine." 

"Where?" 

"What?" she feigns ignorance, picking at a pristine nail. 

"Don't be coy, Danvers," you spit out, trying to sound as authoritative as a whisper would allow. Angry as you might be, no amount of rage or blood toxicity could divest you of the need to keep her secret. "Where is he?" 

She doesn't even try to hide it—the disgust. Her face is awash with it, and her grimace would sting if she hadn't so wounded you already. 

"He's lucky I didn't-" She startles as you step forward, palms jabbing at her chest and knocking her back. If it weren't for the shock of your sudden strike, you're sure she wouldn't have budged at all, but you take the small victory point all the same and continue your mission of forcing Kara off her high horse. 

"You didn't what?" you ask through gritting teeth, "Beat him to a pulp? Drop him off the top of a building? Kill him?!" 

Aware you were now raising your volume to a level bystanders would be able to hear, a fact proven by the far-off looks of a group of young women, you reined your fury in, taking a deep breath and squaring your shoulders. 

"Do you know what you've put me through?" she asks without malice, her choked voice chinking your amour. It seems a genuine question, born from betrayal. Her eyes are wide and waiting, incredulous to believe you'd ever knowingly hurt her in the way you supposedly had. 

"What are you talking about?" 

"Every night," she begins, her jaw twitching. "I have to listen to you with them." 

"You're the one that said we wouldn't work. I'm trying to move on," you sigh.

There's a change in her, a nerve hit, partially hidden by the darkness of the night, but you can sense the change. You see it dance in the narrow shadows of her face, the street lamp illuminating the crux of her soured expression. It's the same stance she's practised over the years, standing before a foe, sizing them up that she now models. Her pupils dilate as her gaze turns predatory, and her nostrils flare to accommodate the substantial drags of air she inhales. With a single stride forward, purpose chiselling at her grinding jaw, fingers move to your hips and hold you firm enough to leave bruises. 

She pulls you into her. The bump of your hipbones clashing against each other vibrates down your legs and weakens your knees, leaving you at the mercy of Kara's hold. 

"By sleeping with the whole of National City?" she seethes, her sharp remark losing more and more of its potency with each puff of exhaled air landing on your lips. 

"What was I supposed to do? You made it perfectly clear you don't want to fuck me!" you yell, the pugnacious timbre of your voice unrecognisable in your ears. 

Gasps bounce off the narrow walls of the alleyway, and incoherent whispers promise gossip will follow you and Supergirl for the next few weeks. You can see it now: a hot news story, the presenter dissecting a blurred image of you and Kara, berating, conspiring, and alluding to anything that will bring in more viewers. 

"I never said that." 

She has you off your feet in less than a second, one arm wrapped around the back of your knees and the other raised skyward. You're off the ground, soaring up and up, till the bodies below turn to ants and the city their humble colony. 

"Kara," you screech, throwing your hands around her neck and holding tight. "What are you doing?" 

"I think what I'm doing is pretty obvious." She's got a smug smile tugging at the corner of her lips that's both titillating and vexing. 

"You're being obtuse on purpose, and it's not nearly as cute as you think." 

Kara at least has the decency to look a little sheepish at that. 

You know the city's landscape well enough to gauge where you're headed. Once a sanctuary, the lofty apartment greets you with its open windows and dim lighting. The TV is on. The faraway laughter of a sitcom audience grows louder the closer you get, igniting a flame to shed light upon shrouded memories once untouched by melancholy. Buttered popcorn still lives in the cracks of that grey couch, the longevity of their stay prolonged by a burning need shared between two people to laugh a little louder and forget the world around them for a little longer. 

You're helpless to the flood of emotions that sweep over you the instant your feet touch solid ground. So much so that when Kara grows bold, dragging you closer by your hips and crashing her lips onto yours, you do nothing but cling to her. 

She's warm like the first fire forged on winter's night and as dangerous as the spitted flames that crackle through damp logs, leaping towards any surface they might set alight. No matter how often the licks of fire eat away minuscule patches of skin, the brief bouts of pain they elicit will always win out in favour of staving off the cold. 

The delve of Kara's tongue into your mouth seeks to devour you, plunging your stomach into the fiery pits of hell, and you let yourself believe, not for the first time, that the only way you'll ever feel alive is to live in heated moments like these. 

The strangers you'd laid with took and took, using your body in much the same way you used theirs, imagining you were someone else, or happily viewing you as no one at all, just a body bred for pleasure. These dalliances may have been brief and fleeting, but they were safe. By morning, it wouldn't matter if expectations weren't met; there would be no discourse about seeing one another again. The sex was transactional. It was a dynamic you'd never have and would never want to have with Kara. What you feel for her runs deeper than one-night stands and self-destructive choices. 

"Stop." You step away from the blonde, unaware of how close you are to the edge of the windowsill, until it's too late and the sharp corner of brick bites at the back of your ankles, knocking you off balance. 

You want to fall, feel the wind against your back as you wait for the inevitable end. Kara doesn't let that happen. She doesn't even allow you the grace to right yourself before her hands are back on you, this time at your waist, whooshing you away from the cool breeze of the open widow. 

"Are you okay?" she asks, holding tighter than strictly necessary, eyes frantically searching for any signs of distress. 

"I'm fine." There's an urge to have her closer again, to feel her pressed firmly against your front, trace the seam of her lips with your tongue and discover how pliant the Kryptonian would become under your touch. 

"Tell me you don't want this," she whispers, lowering her gaze from your eyes to your lips. 

"I-"

"Tell me you don't want me, and I'll take you home. Pretend that none of this ever happened." 

You want so badly to do that, to rein in your desires and do the sensible thing that would save you from bludgeoned heartbreak. 

"You know I can't." 

A beat passes, charged, and laden before the both of you pounce. Kara drags you forward, melding her mouth to yours, encouraged by your hands at the back of her neck. 

"I've missed you," she mutters between kisses, holstering your legs up around her hips. 

It's a puzzle how she manages to continue winding you up into a mess, nibbling and suckling at your neck whilst simultaneously navigating her way through the apartment, all the way to her bedroom. On her unwrinkled sheets, she sets you down, prying herself away long enough to rid you of your clothing. There's a flicker of something dark in her eyes as she casts her eyes up and down your naked body, stopping at the places you know your previous lovers had marked. 

Cords strain in her throat, and you know she's fighting to keep sane at the sight of her property being tarnished with ugly bruises and clumsy scratches. You yank her forward, digging your fingers into the space between her gold belt and the blue fabric of her suit, aimlessly trying not to think about how vulnerable you are sitting stark naked whilst she presides over you, judging you for your poor decisions. Pleading silently for clemency, to be absolved of a crime you never knowingly committed, you stare up at Kara. You urge her to see the fidelity in your heart that will always gleam brightly in your eyes the second she comes into view. Her features remain stoic.

"You knew, didn't you?" 

"I don't-" She cuts you off, ripping your hands away, flipping on your stomach and pinning you down to the bed. 

"You knew that I would be able to hear you. That I would be listening to the sounds of you getting fucked over and over again." The harsh bite of her palm rings in the gelatinous flesh of your ass. 

A perverse pang of pleasure shoots straight to your core, tearing a muffled moan out from your throat. 

"You like that, don't you?" Kara questions, her self-satisfied lilt a clear sign she's already aware of the answer. "You want me to punish you, don't you?" 

"Yes," you weakly admit, burying your shame in the sheets below. 

"Don't move." 

A gust of chilling air is all that's left of Kara. You can feel her moving around the room in bursts of movement, hear the drop of her clothes, and the opening and closing of drawers. A niggling need coaxes over your limbs, tempting them to wriggle and writhe with each new sound that piques your interest. You're getting wetter by the second, imagining all the ways you'll finally find your release with the only person you've ever wanted it with, the imagery enticing enough to send your want into overdrive and your hips angling forward, seeking any friction you can get against your aching clit. 

"Don't even think about it." The blonde tuts, her presence welcome as she settles behind you. A hand clasps around each ankle, and Kara drags you back with little care for the hiss you make as cotton brushes against your sensitive nipples. "Get on your hands and knees." 

You follow her orders, waiting for her touch that never comes. Instead, Kara crouches down, keeping a hair's width away from where you need her most and blows lightly over your sex. You shiver, trying your hardest not to flinch as her breath cools your warm slick. 

"You're dripping," she comments lowly, teasing a single finger through your slit. 

It's impossible not to lean back into the much-needed touch and command more with the insistent rise and fall of your hips. But Kara's prepared. She withdraws, maintaining her proximity to you. Another puff of air bristles against your cunt, this time colder. 

"Kara, please," you beg, shaking with ardent need. 

There's no warning to her tongue delving into your pussy, no preemptive to her harsh approach and fast licks. Left to your own devices, your arms give out. You're left crying into a pillow and gripping onto sheets as Kara runs a muck of your mind and body. The pressure's teetering on the brink of being too harsh, and no matter how much you try to pull away–ease the sting of her pointed tongue against your clit–Kara holds you open, gripping onto your thighs like a vice. 

Your moans carry. They vault through the bedroom and ring between the obscene wet sounds coming from between your legs. There's barely time to release another before lips surround your bundle of nerves and drag the abused bud into a waiting mouth. It's painful and perfect all at once. There's no break from the pleasure. It's all-encompassing, surrounding you like morning fog seeping into the pores of your skin, covering every inch of your bare body in a blanket of sheen sweat. 

A scream tears from your throat when Kara plunges two fingers inside you, and you use the last dregs of sanity within you to bite down on your arm. She's picking up speed faster than you can adjust. The brief milliseconds between every jagged thrust dwindle until all you feel is a constant vibration, a never-ending hum expanding over the entire length of your sopping cunt. 

The coil in your stomach is wound so tight you can feel your muscles contract, and the pressure grows rigid like a metal rod along your spine. With one sharp slap to your ass, you break. Moans are pouring out of you, and your pulse is racing, but where you expect relief to flow, you only find more tension. It doesn't stop. The roaring waves of pleasure keep growing and growing and growing till you're screaming and shaking and begging for reprieve. 

"One more," Kara pants, replacing her mouth with a thumb. "Give me one more baby." 

How anything can hurt so much yet, yield such strong undercurrents of insurmountable bliss is mind-boggling. You're in limbo, stuck on the edge of euphoria and torment. It's a fine line that Kara forces you to walk, but with no other option, you absorb yourself into the pleasure and leave behind the bite of overstimulation. 

You know you can, that you'd cum however many times she wanted. You've been riding the aftershocks of your orgasm for no less than a minute, and already you recognise the signs of your impending release. It happens fast, but what it lacks in duration, it makes up for in magnitude. Every part of you quakes, from your wobbly lip to your unsteady knees, that collapse beneath you. Thankfully, the sturdy mattress catches you, greeting you with its cool exterior–a welcome change from the heat emanating off your body. 

Floorboards creek behind you, dulled by the non-stop thud of blood pumping through your ears. You want to tell Kara that she needs to stop. You need a break. The command dies on your tongue, melted into a contented sigh by the warm lips pressing along your spine and the puffs of cool air following each peck. 

"Tell me when you're ready," she croons hot and heavy into your ear, sending another chill down your spine as she continues her mission of being your personal air-con. 

"I don't know if I can," you reply, turning to face her, but the action is cut short when you feel the end of her prodding at your entrance. The only thing left for you to do is whimper. 

Kara doesn't push any further. The tip of her faux cock leisurely slides between your slit, swinging up and down. Warmth circulates low in your stomach, and small jolts of gratification swing like a pendulum against the walls of the enclosed area. Her hands clasp around your waist, and you brace yourself for impact, expecting Kara to sink into you. The chime of your rough breathing fills the silent space. Nothing happens for a few seconds, then Kara firms her grip and guides you onto your back. You let her, unopposed to finally seeing her golden locks, shimmering eyes and bright smile. 

She's hovering, holding herself on sturdy arms and waiting for the go-ahead. Even now, with desperation etched into her features, looking almost pained at having to wait, Kara still puts you first. Your wants, needs, and desires all outrank reason and logic. It doesn't matter that all she's known the past few years is heroism and gallantry–that she yearns to separate herself from all of it–she'll be Supergirl for a few seconds, applying that restraint she's had to use since the day she landed on earth. She'll hold herself back for you. 

Looking into her crazed eyes, you nod. She's held back long enough for you, her family, and the world. 

"I'm ready." You place your hands on her lower back, pulling Kara forward till she's fully seated inside of you, stretching you so wide it almost burns. "Fuck me like I'm yours." 

The world fades away as you watch Kara's eyes harden, two piercing sapphires eclipsed by blackened lust and an impassioned demand to possess. Immediately, she begins pummeling into you at a brutal pace. 

"I heard what you called them," Kara grits out, her eyes red, her hips stilling the moment her cock roots itself as far into you as it can get. "What you cried out when you imagined they were me."

"Don't stop," you plead between guttural breaths, scratching at her impenetrable skin. 

"I want you to say it. I want you to tell me how you're going to cum on daddy's dick." 

This is all so unlike Kara, and that very thought–that this version of her is all yours and only yours, that you get to see her feral and unencumbered by the scruples of morality and duty–has you beyond desperate. 

"Yes." You hiss at the blunt edge of Kara's hip, knocking against you as she forces herself impossibly deeper. "I'm going to cum all over your cock, daddy." 

Your complacency draws rewards. Kara is back to pounding into you. 

There's something new occurring within you, a sudden pressure forcing Kara out. You can't understand it, not between the shudders running rampant through your body, so strong they feel more like convulsions. Her thumb is steady and swift over your clit, circling the swollen nub till everything becomes too much, and all you see are blazing white lights scattering and interspersing themselves across your vision. 

You can feel your cum rush out of you, spraying onto Kara's cock the moment she leaves you. With every added second, her thumb stays working over your clit, and the push to release everything in you is flooding through the bedsheets, soaking the material through to the mattress. The white lights fade, and Kara's face emerges for only a brief moment before all you see is black. 

—

"Kara?" 

"Mmh." 

"I won't wait forever for you to be ready," you say quietly, fingers skimming through the valley of her breasts. "I can't." 

"I know," she sighs, burrowing her nose into your hair and inhaling. She closes her eyes, and you feel her puckered lips on your scalp. "I know." 

Taglist: @iliketozoneout @homo-oddity @noahrex @lovelyy-moonlight @yeaiamme2 | Click here to be added to my taglist

[connorsui]

"In Every Thought, You’re There"

Hajime Umemiya x reader

Synopsis: Hajime Umemiya struggles to express the depths of his love for you, finding solace in quiet moments under the stars as he yearns for the courage to confess.

Genre/ warnings: Romance, Slow Burn, Fluff, Pining, Emotional Intimacy, Mutual Longing, Slice of Life, Domestic Vibes, Tender Moments, Unspoken Feelings, no warnings tho …ume ain't a heart breaker ..

Note: I always wanted a soft boy like ume to confess to me …like instead of teddy bears and store bought flowers, this man would grow that flower instead to show dedication 🍒

w.c: 1.8K

Hajime Umemiya, the embodiment of unrelenting force, was known for his quiet determination and fierce resolve. In the heat of fights, with adrenaline coursing through his veins and his blue eyes blazing with intensity, he was untouchable. Every punch, every strategic move, had a purpose. Yet, beneath that exterior of control and power, there was a different kind of vulnerability that came alive only when it came to you.

As the final blow landed, securing his victory, the rush of the fight still pulsing through him, his thoughts—inevitably, irresistibly—turned to you. The cheers of the crowd, the adrenaline that made his heart race, all of it was hollow until he saw you. His triumph, no matter how hard-fought, wasn’t truly real until he spotted you in the aftermath, your smile like a beacon that softened the edges of the fight. The bruises and exhaustion faded in your presence, the grin that tugged at his lips incomplete until you returned it with one of your own—a smile that made his heart stutter in a way no battle could ever manage.

And when the fights didn’t go his way—when the world felt heavier, the pressure of expectations became suffocating—it was your presence he sought. A rough day out in the streets or a sleepless night spent replaying the fight over and over in his mind would lead to a simple message: “You awake?” The words were plain, unassuming, but beneath them was a desperate hope for the comfort only you could provide.

Your replies,

no matter how mundane, always seemed to calm the tempest within him, and he found his mind quieting just at the thought of you.

In those moments when you were with his friends, laughing and fitting in so seamlessly with the people he called family, Hajime would catch himself watching you more than anyone else. There was a glow in your laughter, a kind of joy that struck him harder than any opponent’s punch ever could. From across the room, he’d pretend to focus on something else—his plants, his cooking, anything to distract himself from the urge to close the distance between you. But his heart betrayed him, his chest tightening with each moment you smiled or glanced his way. If you only knew how many times he’d almost crossed that line, almost let his guard down enough to tell you the truth.

But instead, he stayed silent, fumbling with excuses or averting his gaze when your eyes met his. It was maddening. For a man so accustomed to strength, so sure of himself in front of his formed “family”, this weakness—this inability to say what was lodged deep within his heart—felt foreign, terrifying even.

And then there were those nights, those sacred moments under the stars on the rooftop. The air was calm, the sky stretching endlessly above, and beside him, the sunflower you’d grown together blooming quietly in the corner. Each snapshot he sent you was a fragment of himself, a part of his heart conveyed through something as simple as a growing flower.

“It’s blooming more,”

he’d text, hoping each time you’d come sit with him under that open sky.

Lately, his thoughts about the future always included you. When he talked with his friends about life or what his next move would be, your name would slip into the conversation so naturally it felt inevitable.

“ — Do you think she will like a garden in the back or the front of the house?”

“— I wonder if she would like to plant another set of tomatoes with me again”

“ — She will like this tulip as a gift, right? ...I mean! Besides the sunflower, right?.....Sakura! What do you think?”

he’d muse, imagining it already—having a life so perfect with you by his side as though it was the only way anything would truly matter. And his friends, ever perceptive, would groan, knowing what even he couldn’t quite bring himself to say aloud.

Everyone could see it, except for you.

“Why doesn't he just ask her out already?”

“I've been questioning that too”

“Does she already know?”

“Nah she's as probably waiting for him to say something”

“Hey, Ume, if you don't ask her out, I will!”

But in the quiet, after the fights and the plans and the teasing, when the world finally slowed, he knew that one day he’d tell you. One day, when the right moment came, when the words no longer seemed like a fight he couldn’t win, he’d let you know what you had been to him all along. Until then, he would let the quiet moments and unspoken feelings say what his voice still couldn’t. Because you—just like every victory, every fight—were worth waiting for.

Though, the confession almost happened one evening, after a ride that felt like freedom itself—gliding along the coastline, the wind in your hair, laughter floating effortlessly through the air. As the day bowed out, the sky turned soft, all hues of peach and lavender, like the world was exhaling after a perfect day. You stood there, by the sea, framed by the horizon, and it struck him all over again: just how impossible it was not to love you.

You always had a way of looking at the world that left him speechless, as if the very act of seeing was somehow more profound when you did it. The way your eyes lingered on the waves, how your lips curved just faintly into that peaceful, distant smile—it was as though you belonged to the sunset, as though you were woven from the same golden thread that unraveled across the sky. He couldn't remember a time when looking at you didn’t make his chest tighten with a familiar ache, like the air had turned too thin for him to breathe. But this time… this time it felt different.

He’d watched you the entire ride, trying to swallow down the way his heart surged whenever you flashed a grin over your shoulder at him. It felt like trying to hold back a storm. You made him feel reckless, alive in a way that had nothing to do with speed or competition, and everything to do with the way your laughter wove itself into the air around him. With every passing moment, his carefully guarded composure chipped away, until he felt exposed in the softest, most terrifying way. His friends had teased him relentlessly about you, nudging him toward what everyone else had already seen. But tonight, he thought—no, he knew—it was time.

He walked toward you, his steps slow, like each one carried a gravity that pulled him closer to something he couldn’t walk away from. His hands, always so steady, felt oddly uncertain as they hung at his sides. Hajime wasn’t afraid of much—he was confident, even reckless at times—but when it came to you, the stakes always felt so much higher.

You turned at the sound of his approach, and when your eyes met his, he felt that familiar tug in his chest, the one that made him wonder if you had any idea what you did to him.

“It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?” you said softly, your voice a delicate thread against the hum of the sea.

“Yeah…,” he answered, though he wasn’t looking at the sunset, not really. His gaze was anchored on you, as it always was, and the beauty of the moment paled in comparison. The word ‘beautiful’ felt inadequate when it came to you, but it was all he had, so he let it settle between you, hoping you wouldn’t notice the weight behind it.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world around you was quiet, save for the rhythm of the waves, and he thought that maybe this was what peace felt like—this soft, quiet knowing that in a world full of noise, you were his only constant. He wanted to tell you then, to lay his heart bare and let you see just how tightly it beat for you. But the words—like so many times before—stayed tangled in his throat, held back by the fear that they might not be enough.

Instead, he fumbled for his phone, his fingers clumsy as he pulled up the latest picture of the sunflower you both had grown. "I wanted to share this with you ...its blooming more,” he said, his voice softer than usual, as if speaking too loudly would break the spell of the moment.

You laughed, that same lilting sound that always made him feel like he could conquer the world. “It's stunning, Ume! — I didn't think you would cherish it for so long?” you teased, but your smile held something warmer, something deeper.

He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling, though the nerves still coiled tight in his chest. “How couldn't I?, it's a part of you, isn't it?” he confessed, the words slipping out before he could stop them. It wasn’t the confession he meant to give, but it was a piece of it—his way of saying that you were the root of everything good in his life, even if he wasn’t brave enough to admit it yet.

The two of you stood there, wrapped in the golden glow of the fading sun, and though the air had cooled, there was a warmth between you that neither of you acknowledged. He wanted to say it ...to tell you how his future felt incomplete without you in it, how every thought he had these days revolved around you like you were his North Star. But the words, still clumsy and unpolished, stayed lodged in his throat.

Instead, Hajime just stood there, his gaze steady on you, his heart heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. The way he looked at you—like you, were the very axis around which his world spun—was louder than any words he could have spoken. Because in that moment, in the soft, dying light of the day, you were everything to him. And that, he promised himself, was a truth he would say aloud one day. When the time was right. When his words could match the depth of what he felt for you.

But for now, he’d keep sharing those quiet moments, sending you photos of blooming tomato plants and planning trips that always had you at the center of them. Because, like love itself, sometimes the things left unsaid were the most profound.

Ugh, someone gimmie a Hajime

[the-heros-sidekick]

❝ went looking for a creation myth, ended up with a pair of cracked lips. ❞

He feels it first at the back of his neck. A buzzing, like the crackling of electricity underneath his skin, reverberating against the hollow of his skull. Something is knocking, making its presence known: A particular kind of evil that had snuck into Stiles’ mind once already, stealing away control over his body. Condemning him to sit back, trapped in his own mind, rendering him powerless. Doomed to watch in horror as his  blood-stained hands wielded sharpened blades against those he loved. They’d gotten him out, though nearly at the cost of his own life—a sacrifice Stiles had been more than willing to make, so long as no one else would get hurt because of him. And yet something must have stayed behind, lodged into the membrane of his skull like a shard of glass. For the longest time he’d managed to keep the horrors contained to only haunt him in the dead of night, leaving him sleep deprived and wrung out, every nerve ending scraped thin. But now, even the light of day no longer offers refuge for Stiles to feel safe. Long gone is the once obnoxiously loud, carefree kid—left in its stead is a man carrying himself with caution, treading quietly across the space between other people’s reality and what lies beyond. He knows there are demons out there listening, waiting for an opportunity to exploit any sign of weakness—a door left slightly ajar, perhaps, much like the door to Stiles’ mind they’d never managed to close. The feeling of impending doom crescendos and Stiles, feeling sick to his stomach with fear, clings desperately to the words he repeats to himself like a mantra. "Nothing gets in unless you let it.” But the words turn to ash in his mouth, memories of past experiences proving him a liar. 

an exploration of Teen Wolf's 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐊𝐈—𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐄 who, after leaving Beacon Hills behind, settled down in New York where he's now considered the FBIs golden boy ― crafted for @fakevz. following canon events of the show with additional headcanons. low activity & very crossover friendly. minors dni. this blog operates in english only. est. 2014 ♗ ©

𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘 𝐈𝐍: loss of innocence ⊹ comedic sidekick ⊹ overcoming demonic possession ⊹ a morally gray world ⊹ undying loyalty ⊹ survivor's guilt ⊹ agent of chaos ⊹ deflecting with humor

✧  𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 ✧ 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 ✧ 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒

I think I've loved you since I met you. I just mistook it for curiosity.

Ever since I first laid eyes on you, I felt this unquenchable need to know you. I blamed it on ulterior motives, justified it because I needed something from you, because you held the answers I was looking for, because no one else was able to help but you. Looking back on it now though, I'm starting to think that maybe some part of me knew right from the start, that first night I stumbled upon you in the woods, what took me years to see: Maybe my heart recognized that it was going to love you right away, and I spent the years to come catching up with what it knew right from the start. That it was always going to be you. How could it ever have been anyone else? Through mayhem and bloodshed, through fear and loss, through grief and sleepless nights, you were the one constant that remained. When I lost sight of everything—first myself, then reality, then hope—you were the one guiding my way like a beacon, or a north star. If I've ever known peace, it's in all the moments that your hand has touched mine and that your arms have held me tirelessly, putting your body like a shield between me and every inkling of danger. Of all the late-night wonderings of trying to make sense of the last decade (and failing), what remains is this singular thought: At least it was you. At least it was me. At least it was us, together. I'd bear it all a million times over if it meant I got to hold your hand at the end of it all. You are the moment of quiet at the end of a long day, you are breathless laughter, you're the patch of sunlight filtering in through the window that I stand in to warm myself. You are everything good in this world and living proof that there is hope despite it all, and I love you beyond measure.

[callsigns-haze]

Memories Fade VIII

Eris x Rhysand's Sister!Reader Summary: Not so long back Rhysand lost his sister. Years after Helion and Elain can raise her memories from the past to see what truly happened to Y/n. Warning: Mentions of death and drinking, mentions of violence, murder, blood, poison, CHARACTER DEATH

Part 1 here

Previous

The forest cabin stood silent and still, a stark contrast to the vibrant life that had once filled it. Eris sat on a worn wooden bench outside, a bottle of whiskey in hand, its contents steadily dwindling. His disheveled appearance mirrored the turmoil within him. His hair, once meticulously groomed, hung in tangled locks around his face, and dark circles shadowed his eyes, evidence of countless sleepless nights.

He took another long sip from the bottle, the whiskey burning its way down his throat, but it did little to numb the pain. The world had changed dramatically in the four months since Amarantha’s death at the hands of Feyre Archeron. The courts were free, the High Lords had reclaimed their power, and yet for Eris, nothing felt right. Everything had gone back to normal, but without Y/N, normal was a hollow, meaningless word.

The memories of her haunted him, vivid and painful. He could still see her smile, hear her laugh, feel the warmth of her presence. But now, all of that was gone, ripped away by the cruelty of Amarantha and the viciousness of fate. He stared out at the forest, the trees swaying gently in the breeze, their peaceful rustling a mockery of his inner turmoil.

The cabin had been their sanctuary, a place where they could escape the demands of their courts and just be together. Now, it was a mausoleum of memories, each corner a reminder of what he had lost. Eris took another swig of whiskey, the liquid sloshing in the bottle as his grip tightened. He could almost hear Y/N’s voice chiding him for drinking so much, for wallowing in his grief. But he couldn’t help it. The bond they had shared was a gaping wound in his soul, and nothing seemed to heal it.

A rustling in the trees caught his attention, and for a moment, a flicker of hope sparked in his chest. But it was only a deer, wandering through the forest, oblivious to his pain. He let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and broken in the quiet evening air.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I don’t know how to do this without you."

He leaned back against the cabin wall, closing his eyes as the weight of his grief settled over him like a suffocating blanket. The world had moved on, but he was stuck in the past, unable to let go of the love they had shared. The whiskey offered temporary oblivion, but it couldn’t fill the void left by her absence.

As night fell, the stars began to appear in the sky, twinkling coldly above. Eris stared up at them, remembering the nights they had spent together, lying on the grass, gazing at the constellations. He could almost feel her beside him, her hand in his, her laughter echoing in his ears.

But when he reached out, there was nothing. Just emptiness.

He took another drink, his eyes blurring with unshed tears. "I miss you," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Every day, I miss you."

The cabin and the forest bore witness to his sorrow, their silent presence a testament to the love and loss that had defined him. And as the night deepened, Eris sat alone, clutching the bottle of whiskey, drowning in the memories of a love that had been taken from him too soon.

Eris took a final, deep swig of whiskey before setting the bottle down with a heavy thud. The burn did nothing to ease the ache in his chest. He stood, swaying slightly, and ran a hand through his tangled hair. He couldn't stay here any longer, wallowing in his grief and guilt. He needed to talk to someone, anyone who might understand the torment he was going through.

With a determined, albeit unsteady, breath, he made his way down the familiar path that led to the village. His destination was the forge of his friend, a blacksmith named Garrick. Over the past few months, Eris had spent many evenings there, seeking solace in the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal and the quiet understanding of a friend who didn't press him for details.

The walk through the forest was a blur, his mind a swirling vortex of memories and regrets. By the time he reached the village, the sky was dark, and the forge's warm glow was a welcome beacon. Eris pushed open the door, the familiar smell of burning coal and hot metal filling his nostrils.

Garrick looked up from his work, his expression softening with concern when he saw Eris's disheveled state. "Eris," he greeted, setting down his hammer. "It's good to see you. Come in."

Eris nodded, the effort of a smile flickering briefly on his lips before disappearing. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The heat of the forge was a stark contrast to the cool evening air, and he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

Garrick gestured to a stool near the forge. "Sit down," he said gently. "What's on your mind?"

Eris sank onto the stool, his elbows resting on his knees as he buried his face in his hands. "I can't do this anymore, Garrick," he admitted, his voice muffled and raw with emotion. "The guilt, the pain... it’s too much."

Garrick wiped his hands on a cloth and leaned against his workbench, giving Eris his full attention. "You've been through a lot," he said carefully. "But talking about it helps. You've told me bits and pieces, but maybe it's time to let it all out."

Eris looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted. "She died because of me," he whispered. "Because she was trying to protect my court. I should have been there. I should have saved her."

Garrick's gaze softened with sympathy. "You can't blame yourself for what Amarantha did," he said. "She was a monster. Y/N made her choices because she loved you, because she was brave and strong."

"But it's my fault she had to make those choices," Eris insisted, his voice breaking. "I feel like I’m drowning in this guilt. Every day, I wake up and I think about what I could have done differently."

Garrick sighed, placing a reassuring hand on Eris's shoulder. "Grief and guilt can eat away at you if you let them. You need to find a way to forgive yourself, Eris. Y/N wouldn’t want you to live like this."

Eris closed his eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks. "I don’t know how to move on," he confessed. "It feels like a part of me died with her."

Garrick squeezed his shoulder gently. "Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting her," he said. "It means honoring her memory by living your life in a way that would make her proud. You’re stronger than you think, Eris."

Garrick watched Eris for a moment, his eyes filled with understanding and compassion. He took a deep breath before walking over to a chest in the corner of the forge. "Eris," he began, his voice steady, "there’s something I’ve been meaning to give you for months now. I’ve been waiting for the right moment, and I think it’s finally here."

Eris looked up, his brow furrowing in curiosity. "What is it?"

Garrick opened the chest and carefully lifted out a long, wrapped object. He brought it over to Eris, the weight of it evident in his careful handling. "This blade is forged from Illyrian metal, sparked in the Autumn Court," Garrick explained as he unwrapped it. The blade gleamed in the firelight, intricate engravings of phoenixes running along its length, their wings spread wide as if ready to take flight.

Eris’s breath caught in his throat as he took the blade, the craftsmanship exquisite and the symbolism profound. "It’s beautiful," he whispered, running his fingers over the phoenixes.

Garrick nodded. "I made it for you. The phoenixes... they’re a reminder of rebirth, of rising from the ashes stronger than before. You’ve been through hell, Eris, but you can find your way out."

Eris swallowed hard, the weight of the blade grounding him. "Why now?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

Garrick met his gaze, his expression serious. "Because I’ve seen the darkness you’ve been drowning in. This blade is a symbol, a way to channel your grief and guilt into something positive. But before you do anything drastic, I need you to do one thing."

Eris raised an eyebrow, waiting for Garrick to continue.

"Visit Y/N’s grave," Garrick said firmly. "Talk to her, let her memory guide you. You owe it to her, and to yourself, to find some measure of peace before you make any decisions you can’t take back."

Eris’s grip tightened on the blade, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. He nodded slowly, understanding the wisdom in Garrick’s words. "I will," he promised, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Thank you, Garrick."

Garrick offered a small, reassuring smile. "You’re not alone, Eris. Remember that. And remember, Y/N would want you to live, to find a way forward."

Eris stood, the blade feeling like an extension of himself as he sheathed it carefully. The journey to Y/N’s grave wouldn’t be easy, but it was a necessary step in his path to healing. With a final nod to Garrick, he set out from the forge, the night air cool against his skin.

--

The moon cast a silvery glow over the landscape as Eris made his way to the secluded grove where Y/N’s grave lay. Each step felt like a pilgrimage, a painful yet cathartic journey toward the heart of his grief.

When he finally reached the grave, he knelt beside it, the weight of the past months pressing heavily on his shoulders. He placed the blade gently on the ground before him, its phoenixes seeming to shimmer in the moonlight.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I’m so sorry. I should have been there, I should have protected you."

The wind rustled the leaves around him, a gentle reminder of the world’s ever-changing nature. He closed his eyes, letting the memories of Y/N wash over him—her laughter, her strength, her unwavering love.

"I miss you every day," he continued, his tears flowing freely now. "And I can’t bear it any longer."

With a trembling hand, he picked up the blade, its weight both comforting and condemning. "Garrick said this blade was a symbol of rebirth, but I... I don’t have the strength to rise from this."

He stood, the blade now a symbol of his final resolution. "I’m so sorry, Y/N. Forgive me."

With one swift, determined motion, Eris plunged the blade into his own heart. The pain was sharp and brief, a final release from the torment that had plagued him. He collapsed beside Y/N’s grave, his blood mingling with the earth that covered her.

As the night grew colder, the grove remained silent, a somber testament to the tragic end of a love that had been tested by fate and torn apart by cruelty. The phoenixes engraved on the blade glinted one last time in the moonlight, a haunting reminder of what could have been.

--------

Back in the room with Rhysand and the Inner Circle, the silence was palpable. The air was thick with shock and sorrow, each member processing the tragic end they had just witnessed through Eris’s memories. Rhysand's face was pale, his eyes reflecting the depth of his own guilt and grief.

Cassian was the first to break the silence, his voice hoarse. "I can't believe it... Eris..."

Feyre reached for Rhysand's hand, squeezing it tightly. "This is too much," she whispered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Helion, who had been watching the memories with them, stepped forward, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "There’s something wrong," he said, his tone more certain than questioning.

There was a beat of tense silence as everyone turned to Helion, a flicker of panic in their eyes. They then all looked to Rhysand for guidance, the weight of expectation heavy in the air.

Rhysand’s mind raced as the pieces began to fit together, the echoes of an ancient story surfacing. His eyes widened as the realization struck him. He took a deep breath, his voice barely more than a whisper yet filled with conviction.

"The Phoenii," he said, the words hanging in the air like a prophecy.

"They are alive."

A/n: Sequel anyone?????? because it's here! (link attached)

Tagging some:

@callsign-magnolia

@kmc1989

@hardballoonlove

@senawashere

@hookslove1592

@marvel-molly

@lucky7rosie

@daughterofthemoons-stuff

@lilah-asteria

@crossfandomslut

@pit-and-the-pen

@inky-sun

@the-sweet-psycho

@why4anne

@bunnyredgirl

@rcarbo1

@pandabiiissh

@adalia-jaycee

[alec-volturi]

LAMENT | Alec Volturi x Fem!Reader

This is chapter 1 to this series.

Summary: Drawn by reports of a violent string of murders plaguing Seattle, you take a detour to uncover the truth for yourself. But in the shadows of the chaos lies a sinister secret: a newborn army of vampires wreaking havoc on the city. As you navigate the perilous streets, you must stay hidden, evading not only the feral young vampires but also the relentless Volturi, who have been trying to track you across the years.

Pairing: Alec Volturi x fem!reader Genre: angst, romance, drama, fantasy, suspense, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark academia, gothic horror, canon divergence Word Count: 2k Warnings: This will have the lore of both films and books of the Twilight Saga series but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of witches, witchcraft, burning at stakes, devils and demons, vampires. And ofc NSFW so minors don’t interact. All characters in this series are aged up or are above the age of 18.

A/N: Reader description not described besides having red/gold eyes, clear/blemish-free like skin, and having some abilities as canon to all vampires in the books. And clothing from time to time. Dividers by @cafekitsune ♡

Stories usually start with a "Once upon a time," a simple phrase that loosens the veil between the familiar and the forgotten, leading listeners into worlds safely confined to dreams. But this story was different; it felt like a secret, like shadows pooling at the edges of your vision, waiting to pull you into a night where time doesn’t pass, where mysteries linger, and every whispered word tastes like something forbidden. This wasn’t just ink on a page; it was a door to someplace half-real, someplace where darkness wrapped you close and left you wondering whether you'd ever find your way back.

This world isn’t like that. Instead, it’s a place where time stands still, its hands frozen in a perpetual twilight, neither moving forward nor offering escape. For some, it feels like eternity, an endless stretch of nothingness where the hours blur together, unchanging. But for others—those who wander the shadows or fall prey to what lurks within—it’s a once upon a nightmare, a story where the darkness never relents, where hope is a fleeting, hollow echo swallowed by the night.

In the year 1663, as dusk painted the sky in blood and shadow, the people of London knew better than to linger outside. Each night, as the first stars appeared, every family bolted doors, snuffed candles, and whispered fevered prayers as they hid behind thick walls. Beyond the windows, darkness belonged to those who had vowed to fight it: priest with holy scriptures clutched tight, town braves with sharpened stakes and pitchforks dispatched in blind white anger, sworn to rid the world of creatures who defied mortal law. Blood demons, shapeshifters, and witches—they were all condemned as sin’s cruel agents, hunted as monsters by men who claimed their duty was divine.

As the town’s lamps extinguished, the silence was cut by hounds howling at the scent of something unnatural. The synchronized march of boots clattered against the cobbled streets, while shouts and commands ricocheted off stone walls, penetrating even the thickest household walls and rattling the bravest hearts. Fear and faith held sway in equal measure as the men marched, some clutching crosses while others wielded silver weapons they designed thinking it would pierce the skin of creatures they had never truly seen.

But beneath the city, where no torchlight reached, another world had been hiding—a world of thirsting hunger, of whispers, of sleepless dark eyes. Through the damp and nearly caved-in sewers, slick with grime and infested with rats, a vampire coven had staked their claim. For months, they’d made their den in this forgotten labyrinth of foulness, surviving in silence, drinking only when the thirst grew unbearable. They’d kept to themselves, unnoticed by the townsfolk above, their existence a secret safeguarded by shadows and silence.

Yet tonight, their precarious sanctuary would be breached. The hunt’s new leader, a young man, by the name of Carlisle Cullen, had taken over from his now deceased father and previous Anglican priest, saw the world through different eyes. Only twenty-three, bold and relentless, he refused to limit his search to open fields or deserted woods as his predecessor had. People would whisper that he was smarter, shrewder; that he sought darkness where no one dared look. And tonight, that unyielding curiosity and grim resolve drove him down, down into the labyrinth of decay beneath London where he’d sworn he saw the monsters lurk. A little far behind him, lanterns casting jagged shadows as his men held their breath and followed.

With each step, the air grew colder, thick with the stench of age-old rot and black mold everywhere. Carlisle pressed forward in step much faster than the others with only two other men at his side, determined until he found it: the coven his father had hunted for two decades and never found was but three arm lengths away from them.

Chaos erupted as soon as the men were heard by this coven. They saw their bright burgundy eyes and weakened bodies suddenly stirring with a vicious, desperate hunger faster than their eyes could keep up. Blood splattered the stone as some of the creatures broke away, dragging one man into the darkness while another, a man speaking in Latin, lashed out on the spot, jaws bared, too starved to hold back. And amid the frenzy, she appeared.

She stood apart from the others, more kept and clean, her form delicate yet unyielding, framed by a grey gown that looked lavish, handmade of silk and cotton. Her skin was impossibly clear, like striking stone, and her fathomless eyes gleamed with something between rage and sorrow. Her lips, faded smooth, curled slightly into frown as she observed the slaughter around her, a cruel beauty etched in her features that seemed both ancient and timeless. She was like a statue come to life, a creature of elegance wrapped in death's chill, and as her gaze locked onto Carlisle, the air thickened.

Carlisle, though terrified, refused to flee. Heart hammering, he charged forward, blade in hand, toward one of the creatures—the one who chanted something fierce in Latin, rallying the other swift, chilling figures that blurred through the shadows as they ran away. But then, in one brutal moment, the world tilted; he was thrown to the ground by the man who had gone into a sudden frenzy, his side searing with pain. Blood seeped from his wounds, pooling on the grimy stone, and his breaths came shallow and sharp. He opened his mouth to scream but bit back the sound, fear taking hold as he thought of the townspeople—would they turn on him, claim he was infected, cursed by the vampire’s disease?

As he clawed at the ground, desperate to pull himself to safety, his gaze drifted upward, and there she was. He could do nothing but stare. Her form seemed to emerge from the darkness like a dream or an illusion, her skin radiant as though lit from within. Every inch of her invited him closer, her elegance disarming him, and he forgot, for a moment, that she was one of the monsters he’d been sent to kill.

“Miss!” he gasped, breath shaky, arm outstretched in a futile plea. “Hurry, quick! Get inside or hide before they… before they kill you!” His voice wavered, a desperate edge creeping into his words as he beckoned to her, oblivious to the danger she posed.

Her expression softened, a flicker of sadness crossing her face, almost as if she pitied him. Then she spoke, her voice ringing out like a gentle chime that seemed to drift through the chaos.

“Dear boy, you should not have come here.” she spoke, her tone light and melodic, as though she needn’t draw a single breath to speak. Her words lingered, brushing against him like silk.

He faltered, as tears traced down his cheek from pain and blood loss trickling from his arm and leg, mingling with the dirt. Confusion contorted his face as he fought to understand while staring at her, then all at once, the truth struck him like a blow to the chest. She’s one of them, his mind spinning, his eyes widening with horror. How easily, how effortlessly, he had been drawn in.

“Don’t be afraid,” she murmured, tilting her head, her dark gaze unwavering. “I won’t kill you.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he spat, a note of anger mingling with the brokenness in his voice. He could feel the cold tendrils of despair creeping in, the bitter realization that he’d been charmed, deceived by beauty. A little hope that she may put an end to his suffering.

Her lips curled into the faintest smile, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. “I’ve been watching you—son of Cullen,” she replied, a strange fondness in her voice.

“You’ve piqued my interest. You dream of becoming like your father, don’t you? But you desire more. You wish to help others, to save them, and yet here you are, hunting us when you’re worth more. Tell me, why do you follow such cruel orders by such a man that cared not for you?”

Gracefully, she lowered herself to his level, kneeling close enough that he could feel the chill radiating from her. He was breathless, the words caught in his throat as he stared into her dark burgundy, fathomless eyes. The scent of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint, sweet perfume that seemed to cling to her skin. Around them, the body of one of his men lay motionless, strewn like a broken doll across the ground, his eyes glazed and empty.

“You know nothing of me!” he shouted, his voice cracking, the burn of tears threatening to break free. He was shaking now, fear and anger warring inside him. All he could hear were the distant cries of his comrades, the faint echoes of those still coming to join the fray. Yet, for all their noise, it felt as though he and this creature were alone, the last souls in a world drenched in blood and shadow.

Her expression softened, her gaze flickering over his face as if she saw past his fear, his hatred, into something deeper. And for a fleeting moment, he wondered what lay behind those dark eyes, what truth might live within a creature so cold, so deathless. But he pushed the thought away, forcing himself to look anywhere but at her.

“You won’t have to suffer for long. At least not like right now,” she said, a frown lingering on her lips. “But I will tell you this—there is a price to every vow, every hunt, every act of mercy shown. And one day, you’ll have to choose what you stand for.”

Too weak to move, he lay trembling, silent cries catching in his throat as the cold of his skin pressed in. She watched him with a sorrowful frown, her eyes shadowed with something almost tender. And then, with a suddenness he could barely comprehend, she swept him up in her arms. The world blurred, and in the span of a breath, they were far from the echoes of shouts and the clamor of pursuit. She lowered him carefully onto the cool grass beside a riverbank, the night air thick with the quiet gurgling of the slow-moving stream.

“You don’t have much time left,” she murmured, voice softened. “Too much blood lost—you’re dying.” She paused, gazing down at him, her dark eyes almost regretful. “But maybe. . .maybe you’ll take this chance and do something good with it, with this second life. There’s light in it, I swear, if you find it.”

Her words were little more than a whisper, slipping through the cool night air like secrets meant only for him. She took his limp arm, holding it gently before lowering her mouth to his skin. Her fangs pierced his flesh with a sharp, burning pain of silver, and he gasped, feeling the warmth of his blood slipping away, mingling with something that felt like ice, binding him to a pain unlike he felt previously. And then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone, leaving nothing but the faintest swirl of mist where she had knelt.

For a moment, he thought he’d dreamed it all—the pain, a fierce burning agony that raced through his veins, igniting his senses, hollowing him out from the inside out. His arm throbbed with searing heat spreading up to the tips of his fingertips and into his heart, each heartbeat like a pounding fire surging through every inch of him. His breath caught in his throat, unwilling to let out, vision blurring as the transformation began its slow, merciless work.

It would take three days for the change to complete, for his body to surrender fully to the chilling darkness now coursing through him. In those days, he would be caught between two worlds, his mind twisting, his memories reshaping, his humanity slipping away like sand through his fingers. And by the time he would open his fresh red eyes, the girl—the one who had granted him this second life—wouldn’t be seen again. It would be decades before their paths crossed again, though the memory of her face, her voice, her lingering sadness, would haunt him through every year of his endless life.

[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.”

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[lynnerdo]

* Deadly Encounter *

Lucanis Dellamorte x BloodMage!Reader

Slow burn, angst, aggression, enemies to lovers, death threats, OOC!Lucanis, blood and injury, slow romance, threats of violence.

Current chapter - Wilderness First chapter - Arlathan On A03

***

The days stretched longer than any of them had anticipated. What should have been a straightforward quest had quickly unraveled into complications that left Rook visibly frustrated. The dense forests, the icy rivers they waded across, the sleepless nights under the stars—it all weighed heavily on the group. Even for you, who was used to roughing it in the wilds, could feel the strain. 

You had been through it all at this point. A simple quest that was only going to take you 4 days, was taking 12 already. You had fallen into the river more times than you could count, and you still hadn't found the elven artifact you were searching for. Maybe the lead had been dead all along, but Rook wanted to see it through.

But more than the physical hardship, it was the tension between the three of you that pressed on Lucanis, tightening like a noose. You were quieter now, more withdrawn than when you first joined them. Every time your eyes met his, there was something in your gaze that twisted inside him—an ache he couldn’t ignore. Guilt gnawed at him, but he didn’t know how to reach out, didn’t know if he could.

That night, the fire crackled softly, casting long, flickering shadows over their tired faces. Rook sat off to the side, sharpening his blade, his curses barely audible as he worked. He was clearly frustrated, muttering to himself about the way the mission had derailed. His shoulders were tense, his jaw set. He missed the warm embrace of Neve as well, their romance newly found and bright. Having been stuck in the wilderness with you and Lucanis, having to carry most of the conversation, Rook was also slightly done with all this.

Across the fire, you sat quietly, your hands wrapped around a bowl of stew that you had insisted on making. Every night, you cooked for them, even though exhaustion etched dark circles beneath your eyes. Lucanis watched you from the corner of his eye. You took small, deliberate bites, moving like someone trying to conserve their last vestiges of energy. It was nice enough, but your mana was wearing you thin, you had trouble sleeping, you didn't feel safe enough. Every night you feared Lucanis would possibly assassinate you, you feared getting overtaken by a demon, or even worse, losing yourself to mental madness.

There was a quiet strength in how you kept going however, but also a sadness that weighed on you. The toll of your magic was evident in your pale complexion, the faint tremor in your hands, and the hollow look in your eyes. Lucanis had spent days trying to ignore it, telling himself it wasn’t his concern, that you could handle yourself. He was scared most of all, of possible possession, but also about how he would have to kill you if anything did happen.

Tonight, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been wrong about you. Every small act of kindness—giving them the larger portions of food, offering them potions when you needed them just as badly, pushing through your own exhaustion to make sure they were cared for—made the knot of guilt in his chest tighten. You were trying, despite everything, despite him.

Sleep didn’t come easily that night. The air was cool, the sounds of the forest creating a symphony of crickets and rustling leaves. Lucanis lay in his bedroll, staring up at the stars, unable to shake the image of your worn face. His mind raced, circling back to the moments when he had lashed out, mistrusted you, let his own fears cloud his judgment. Maybe he should just apologize, but his pride and spite stood in the way of that.

The next morning, as the three of you prepared to continue on your journey, Lucanis couldn’t help but notice the fatigue etched into your features. You packed your things quietly, your movements slow, and the usual strength in your posture seemed drained. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words stayed trapped in his throat. You desperately needed to be taken care of by another healer, warm stew and a bed roll were not enough.

The day wore on, and the tension between you only grew. Rook marched ahead, focused on the mission, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. But Lucanis’s thoughts were elsewhere. He watched you, keeping pace beside you, noting the way you stumbled slightly over the uneven terrain, the way you never complained or asked for help. You had fallen a few times to your knees, blaming your own clumsiness or the surface, but in reality you felt yourself feel faint most of the day.

By the time they made camp that night, the weariness in your eyes had deepened. After the meal, Rook retired early to his tent, pissed off at all the events, leaving you and Lucanis alone by the fire. The silence between you felt heavier than usual, the air thick with unspoken words.

The fire crackled softly between the two of you, its orange glow casting long shadows across the clearing. Lucanis sat across from you, his sharp gaze fixed on your every movement, watching like a predator eyeing prey. You could feel his stare, even as you kept your eyes on the flickering flames, trying to pretend you didn’t notice. But the tension between you was impossible to ignore. Something inside him snapped.

“You’re not eating enough,” Lucanis said, his voice gruff, cutting through the quiet. There was no softness in his tone, no concern—just an edge, like he was pointing out a flaw.

You glanced up at him, caught off guard. “I’m fine,” you replied, though your voice betrayed a hint of exhaustion. He didn't need to worry about you, why did he care even?

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “No, you’re not. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, and it’s starting to show. Or are you just trying to make sure you’re the first one to collapse?”

The accusation, thinly veiled, stung.

“Why do you do that?” he asked suddenly.

“Do what?” Your voice was soft, confused.

“Take care of everyone else but yourself,” he said, frowning. “You give us the bigger portions, you offer us potions when you need them just as much. Why?”

You stared into the fire, your gaze distant. “I don’t know,” you admitted after a moment. “Maybe because it’s easier to focus on others than myself.”

The simplicity of your answer struck him, but there was something deeper there, something you weren’t saying. He wanted to ask more, to pry into the secrets you kept hidden behind your quiet demeanor, but he stopped himself. Pushing you wouldn’t help.

He simply looked at you, the frown growing on his face. "Ok, don't tell me then." he mocked.

You stiffened, setting your bowl aside. “I can handle myself. Don't worry about me.”

Lucanis scoffed, leaning back as he crossed his arms. “Can you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re about one bad spell away from getting all of us killed. Or worse.”

Your breath caught in your throat, a mix of frustration and hurt tightening your chest. You knew he didn’t trust you—he’d made that clear from the start—but his words still cut deeper than they should have. You looked away, focusing on the fire, trying to control the flood of emotions that threatened to spill over.

“I’m doing what I can,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lucanis let out a short, bitter laugh. “Doing what you can? By draining yourself to the point where you’re useless to us and a danger to yourself? That’s great. Really helpful.”

You flinched at his tone, your fingers curling into the dirt beside you. He wasn’t even trying to hide his disdain anymore. It had been there from the beginning, simmering under the surface, but now it was out in the open, sharp and cutting. And you were too tired to keep pretending it didn’t affect you.

“As long as you are healed,” you muttered, barely able to look at him. “then I'm not useless to you.”

He shifted, a dark scowl crossing his features. “Maybe not, but you are putting yourself in danger. What if a demon tries to overtake you right now, you're too weak to fight back.”

You finally met his eyes, the anger rising in you despite your exhaustion. “Then you kill me. Simple as that." You stared at him, almost defying his implications that he cared in a way.

"I’m trying to help. I’ve been trying to prove I’m not like the others, that I’m not a danger to any of you. But no matter what I do, it’s never enough for you, is it? You just want me dead.”

Lucanis’ expression didn’t soften. If anything, his gaze hardened further, jaw clenched as he leaned forward again, his voice low and cold. “You think it’s about proving something to me? This isn’t a game. You’re a walking threat, whether you mean to be or not. One mistake—one slip—and we’re all dead. You want me to trust you? Stop pretending that you’re not what you are.”

You sat there, stunned into silence. The words were harsher than anything he had said before, each one hitting like a physical blow. For a moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe. Your hands trembled slightly in your lap, and you quickly hid them beneath your cloak.

“You want me to be an evil blood mage so bad, so you finally have good reason to murder me in cold blood,” you finally whispered, your voice barely audible over the crackling fire.

Lucanis’ eyes flashed, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t move. He just sat there, watching you like a hawk, as if waiting for something, waiting for you to break. But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“I'll make it easy for you,” you continued, your voice steadier now, though there was a tremor beneath it. “Have at it, I'll leave. I'll make it safe for you again. And you can explain to Rook what happened.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The fire popped and crackled, but it felt distant, like the world around you had faded into the background. Lucanis said nothing, his gaze still fixed on you, but there was something different in his expression now—something like hesitation, or maybe regret, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

You stood, the exhaustion weighing on your limbs like lead. Without another word, you turned and walked away from the fire, retreating into the darkness of the woods, desperate for space, for air. You needed to get away from him, from his sharp words and colder eyes. The hurt was too raw, too fresh.

As you disappeared into the shadows, Lucanis watched you go, his jaw still tight. He didn’t say anything, didn’t stop you, but something twisted deep inside him. He hadn’t meant to go that far, hadn’t meant to push you like that. But the anger, the mistrust—it was hard to let go. You were dangerous. You could be a threat. But now, watching you vanish into the darkness, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had just made a bigger mistake than he realized.

Lucanis leaned back against the log, staring into the fire, his mind swirling with conflicting thoughts. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You weren’t supposed to get under his skin like this.

And yet, you did. 

[ackermonie]

=requested, pt.2 of the lonely nights

another sleepless dawn breaks upon the horizon. you lay there, and even amongst the sweat and blood and dirt, your eyes watch the sky turn purple unblinkingly.

you’re done with your mission, the veil is down. you can go home now.

but isnt it peaceful?

the autumn breeze is gentle on your cheeks. you can still see the stars, and the moon, just like you, doesn’t seem to want to go home just yet. so you just lay there, basking in each other’s presence as you finally feel something akin to that you once felt in your youth.

its been years. seven? eight? all you know that its been long enough to forget his voice. his features started to fade away a little too, but when it gets so bad that you start to panic, you get out the old stash of grainy old pictures to reminisce on how his hair used to feel between your fingers, but you’ve long forgotten that too.

has he changed? did he cut his hair short or is he letting it fall to his back?

has the skin beside his eyes begin to wrinkle?

you dont cry about it anymore. you’ve already done your fair share of that. now all that remains is an empty, hollow place in your chest where he once occupied.

the purple of the sky turns into lilac, and your eyes begin to feel heavy. you can’t get up. you’re not severely injured or anything, a scratch here and a gash there, but the very will to get yourself on your feet remains lost, and you don’t even care. they’ll probably send someone to check the scene out soon, they can take you home then.

the weather is nice, its peacefully quiet, and you haven’t slept in over 48 hours. what can a little nap do? your eyes flutter closed.

“you got bold.”

in a split second, your dagger was aimed up to protect your face. your vision is a bit blurry when u snap your eyes open to see a sea of faded features exactly above you. only the dagger in your hand separates your faces.

you blink furiously, trying to get the impaired vision to set straight. the person above you is squatting behind your head, its a man for sure. his shoulders are so broad he almost blocks your whole vision, casting a shadow over you. he tilts his head as your eyes begun to scan his face, vision returning gradually.

your heart sinks.

the skin beside his eyes did start to wrinkle.

“suguru.” it comes out in a breath.

“what are you doing out here?”

“suguru?” your fingers loosen on the dagger for only a couple of seconds, your body just never used to having its defenses up in his presence, but this isn't the same person anymore. no longer the geto suguru you knew and loved. you need to remember this.

“i can’t think of a worse place to nap in, to be frank.”

your knuckles turn white around your dagger again.

“how did you find me?”

“you made quite a scene.”

he let his hair grow longer. way longer than you thought. some of it falls on his shoulder, and he’s keeping it up from his face in a bun like he used to. they say hair keeps memories. you sigh in relief.

despite everything, your hands are aching to reach for him. to cradle his face and brush through the silky strands, but you only keep a firm grasp on the sharp instrument between you two.

the sky is getting brighter. you don’t want the moon to leave you alone with him. the sun will only make him more real.

“are you just going to lay there?” he tilts his head again, gesturing at you. “don’t you have somewhere to report back to?”

“why are you here?”

“you see, i happen to sorta eat curses, and you just exorcized my dinner.”

“oh,” it comes out uncontrollably.

“impressive show to watch, to be honest.” you feel his hand on yours, it makes you flinch. he pushes your armed hand away from your faces with the littlest of forces, but your hand now rests beside your head, the dagger tumbled out of your grasp. “you’ve gotten stronger.”

“i was never weak.” it was intended to be a harsh snarl, but you feel choked. your voice barely held any venom in it.

geto smiles a bit. “i never thought you were.”

no, no. no.

you push him away with a hand to his chest that you wish lingered a bit more than it did, pulling yourself up in a sitting position with your back to him. it’s an open meadow, theres no where you can run and hide. you need to get out of here. his very scent is intoxicating you, pulling tears up from somewhere you thought you buried deep.

“leave me alone.” you throw over your shoulder. you catch a glimpse of him, he’s still squatting down, watching you intently. “i dont want you here.”

he stays quiet, you can only hear the sound of your own harsh breaths. your eyes blur, this time with tears, but you don’t think you can hold out for long.

what is he thinking, showing up like that? after all this time? did he think you’ll run into his arms like you once did? does he take pleasure from watching you like that, body shaken up with choked back tears, unable even to look him in the eye?

that’s it. you push yourself up despite the gash on the side of your thigh that pulls out a yelp out of you.

“i’m leaving, then.” you begin to limp away. the first tear betrays you.

suddenly, the ground in front of you is split by a line of shadows from which a curse materialized in front of you. a dragon, it’s tail wiggling with its teeth pulled back in a snarl. a certain curse that you were always practically fond of.

you stumble back. the eyes widened in shock fell back to familiarity, a gaze that still holds the pain of loss. somehow you still know that none of this is the way it used to be, no matter how familiar.

the curse draws closer. it’s not threatening, just forcing you back until you hit a solid figure behind you. you turn back abruptly, hands immediately in a position to push geto away, but he was always quicker than you were.

his hands were there to welcome your wrists instead, grip unyielding despite your trials to break away. he doesn’t look tense when you look up at him. doesn’t look threatened, nor angry, just…

sad. he looks sad.

“come on, baby,” his voice was so low, you’d thought it was a part of your imagination if you didn’t see his lips move. “don’t do this to me.”

don’t do this to me??? you want to scream at him. want to bang on his chest until it cracks open, but all you seem to be able to do is look up at him as tears flow freely down your face, and he looks so fucking sad.

he lets go of one wrist, hesitant for a second to see what your reaction will be. his hand traces up to your face, big fingers cradling your face with the world’s gentleness in them. the other hand softens around your wrist, slipping up until his thumb rests in the palm of your hand, then geto heaves out a sigh.

his eyes scan your face for a few seconds.

“you’re as beautiful as the day i lost you.”

you almost hear the sound of your heart shattering. your lips fall apart, you too scanning his face, except you’re doing it to find any sign of bluffing, anything that can mend whatever remains of your shattered heart, but all you find is sincerity.

“what are you doing?” disbelief is evident on your features.

his forehead falls to yours, and your fist unclenches on his chest. you can feel the heartbeat under his bones.

“i dont know,” he breathes out, he still smells the same. your noses touch. “i don’t know, but let us just have this.”

“sugu…” you sob. your hand traces up to rest on the side of his neck, almost scared to touch his hair.

“y/n…” his chest heaves, your lips brush as he whispers your name. “please.”

you barely manage a little nod, a broken sob escaping past your lips only to be swallowed by a pair of desperate ones that knock the very oxygen out of you.

his lips on yours are so familiar. you’ve done this hundreds of times, yet never enough. your hands, finally, slip through the silky strands, and you almost cry out because you remember it all all over again. the sleepless nights and the calls until dawn breaks, the silly braids you used to decorate his hair with, it all slams into you like a high-speed train.

but a strong grasp is holding you firmly, preventing your knees from giving out. he kisses you like a starved man, like he misses the very air you breath, like it’s been tearing him up inside not having you in his arms like this.

you let yourself believe that this is all true. that he’s been spending even more sleepless nights than you are. that no call of his name sounds as soothing as the way your tone sounds.

but its not gonna last long. you two begin to treat those few minutes like they are your last on earth. his hand slips under your uniform to touch as much skin as possible, and you cradle his face, planting the feeling of his hair between your fingers deep in your memories.

i love yous and im sorrys are muttered, but you’re not sure who says them. you pull back to look at him and he’s never looked this vulnerable. you hold yourself back from asking why and how could you, but you know you wont like the answer. geto suguru never regrets the choice he makes.

as much as his love for you and for his friends remains, his mind has been set on this path long ago.

“next lifetime,” you breathe shakily, holding his face to yours intimately. “let’s stay away from jujutsu altogether, hm?” you try to smile, swiping a thumb under his eye. “we’ll just run, okay? we’ll run and stay together.”

geto smiles, wiping your tear-stained cheek with a calloused thumb, but he says nothing.

"no, you have to promise me." your grip tightens on the material of his clothes, panic surging through your eyes. "you'll find me."

"I'll find you. I promise."

[pancho-pinto]

I think our past is haunting you

my gift for @ccssystem / @tyberious-arts-sometimes as a pinch-hit for @mcyt-yaoi-exchange

Fandom: 3rd Life, Hermitcraft SMP Words: 3,037 Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Relationships: Etho/Joel Additional Tags: Mild Gore, Illusions, Hallucinations, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Joel-centric Summary: Despite their time apart, Joel joining Hermitcraft might've triggered specific memories. And quite bloody memories.

Fic under cut.

The first time happens shortly after returning home. Joel barely even remembers the images imposed in his mind, only left with the searing pain of sharp weapons slashing through his body. Paper thin skin, waterfalls of blood, only one survivor. 

Vaguely, he sees an arena, a colosseum that expanded from horizon to horizon; a thousand eyes in the sky like stars, burning up in broad daylight. The eyes watched them for hours without blinking. His and their every move and action for their amusement. 

On worse nights, when sleeping is impossible and the experience becomes present, a feeling bubbles under his skin. He stares at his hands relentlessly—flashes of blood, bloodied weapon in his hands, a body gone cold. Breathing is hard on those nights, the guilt overwhelming. 

But time passes and it becomes a distant memory. 

One day he stops flinching when he hears sounds behind him. One day he holds the handle of his sword with confidence again, one day his ax makes a return and he feels complete. 

With time, everything returns to normal. 

Until they are summoned again. And again. And again. 

Five seasons. Five whole seasons, all those months he will never get back. All the scars he got in return—

Joel thinks he is handling it pretty well, all things considered. He is tough, and he is resilient, and, above it all, he is stubborn. There is nothing that can keep him down—he refuses to stay down. 

And yet…

Two months flew by since Secret Life, and suddenly Joel finds himself in a new world. A whole new server, though not another game. Something nicer—somewhere more domestic where death means little, and friends are less back-stabby with many new faces. 

Some familiar, the rest strangers he will know in time.

Despite it being a piece of paper, the invitation in his pocket weighs more than he could imagine. He still hears Jimmy’s cheering in the back of his mind, and right now, he has Grian babbling on and on about whatever. 

He should be listening. But something else distracts him. 

While the whole group discusses how to divide the cherry mountain, Joel looks to the horizon, the only way he can answer the abrupt tug on his soul—much too familiar, jarringly familiar. His body stays frozen as the world heats up, crisp air replaced with smoke and cherry petals turning into soot. 

Pinks and greens become reds and browns, a world set ablaze. It eats his clothes, consuming threads by threads, clawing at his skin and eating through the muscle down to the bones. Arduous lashes cut through, shattering bones as the smoke wraps around his neck. 

There is screaming. Throat scorched and his words dry. Voices, there is someone calling out to him—

After that, Demise plays out as everyone settles into the new world. Activity is plenty, and block by block, bases rise up from the ground. Of course, Joel is among them. 

Skyscrapers reaching out to the sky, bustling city with signs that never sleep. Soon, his world is filled with more and more, and yet he feels hollow. The pride he feels is not enough to mute the call. 

During a sleepless night, one of many, Joel sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the planks of his floor. His body is stone but far too wired to rest, so he sinks his elbows into his knees and drops his head. 

There is static under his skin, soot under his fingernails, a fire he cannot see but feels. Licks of fire on his face, running fingers through his hair, wishing him back in the arena where blood can be shed. 

He has made it a habit to store his tools away at night. In a special shulker in his ender chest, the sharpness kept from his hands and delicate skin. Death means nothing on this server, but it calls with a honey-sweet voice. 

The itch to sink his ax into something until it squirms, until it stops squirming and a pool of red flows under. Break a bone or two, push someone off a cliff, explosions that lead to a warm rain—bloody raindrops and rotting guts. 

Joel yanks his hand down, digging his fingers into the edge of his mattress, the tension pushing back on his fingers on his hand. His eyes unfocus on the planks, lines of wood becoming tripwire in the darkness. Awaiting. Awaiting. Some poor soul—

A hand grabs his forearm tight, claws tense around his muscle, nearly piercing. There is growling in front of him, purple particles floating down as the hand freezes his arm. It pulls him but he fights back. 

It screeches. 

His hearts begin to tick down. 

Joel throws his body back, left hand wrapped around his right, trying desperately to pull it back, feet planted for support. He screams when his shoulder pops out of place, slowly, slowly he feels the muscle pulling as it comes undone, ripping under his shirt. 

Blindly, he kicks forward. The sole of his foot makes contact with something and he frees himself, quickly gathering his bearings before running out of his room. He practically throws himself down the stairs, a jolt of pain shooting up his spine when the heel of his foot plants forcefully on the hard planks. 

In his haste, he runs with an empty inventory, shoeless down the stone streets. Lights sparkle around him as every cut and every bruise on his body resurfaces—lighting down his spine, burning coal under his feet. 

He runs out of his city, from the overwhelming to the eerily quiet and cold. He hears mobs, all his instincts heightened to the max as survival kicks in. Without a plan or a way to protect himself, he runs through the fields, evading hungry groans and zapping arrows. 

Water rushes nearby, raging waves against his thundering heartbeat. His sweat is like sludge, stuck to his brow and slowly dripping, burning up his nostrils and filling his tongue with a bitter taste. 

A vine latches from his left shoulder to his right hip, looping back to lasso him back. Thin, wire-like vine that slices through his clothes, sliding cuts across his chest as it pulls him back. Another vines loops on his right upper arm, drawing a hiss from his lips as it pulls on already sensitive muscle. Then one more around his left ankle, like weed growing up his leg with thorns embedding into it. 

Despite holding strong on his chest, his limbs waver with every step, hung back closer to the grasp of whoever or whatever behind him. Joel spares no glance, gritting his teeth with white-knuckle fists, pulling his body forward. Every muscle in his body strained, but his determination remains unbroken, until—

Stupidly, he slips on a rabbit-hole, twisting his ankle with a shout. His body slams against the ground, the pain quickly dulled by the sharpness and harness of being dragged through the ground. Rocks and sticks make a mess of his clothes and body, the grass staining his ripped clothes into a mocking green. 

Green is safe. Green is good. 

Ironic. 

How very ironic. 

His body folds over a trunk, knocking the wind from his lungs, but his instincts make the most of it, arms rapidly around the base, holding on tight as his body finally stops moving. Whatever is behind continues to pull, pull, pull, but his body stays in place. Bark chips against his face and arms, sweaty palms slide slightly but he holds on. 

With brute force and fiery determination, Joel climbs the tree until he is on his feet again, more vines around his body now. There are some around the tree too, trapping him to it but not as firm and without the tension. He presses his forearm across the trunk, keeping himself from fully hugging the tree. He breathes in fire and breathes out smoke, tasting iron and salt on his tongue, skin like wet ash and the rest of his body wails in agonizing pain. 

At this rate, he will be torn apart muscle by muscle. 

A bloody taste appears on his tongue, his teeth sharpening into the canines of a wolf, sharp enough to tear through muscle. He had. He had—

Joel pulls his body away from the tree as he uses his forearms to push back, the tension of the vines merely growing. Snap, snap, snap, he chants in his head. His plea works when a couple break, though not without a price. The broken ends whips into his back and sides—more cuts, he is almost numb to the pain. 

He sobs when he finds his opening, one more cut against his palm before he is running again.

Shaky legs. Soaked in sweat and body. Strangling vines still latched. 

Then one more. He feels it, casted like a line. Half a loop, from his left shoulder to the right side of his hip again, then it stops—

A single claw hooks—

It drags a deep line, retracing the path already made, opening his shirt to the harsh wind. He screams into the dark of night. The claw catches on the bone of his shoulder before he finally breaks through it. It snaps, the line breaks, and he wishes he could land.

Instead, he keeps running. 

He remembers. 

He answers. 

He calls.

His soul rattles, screaming into the void so it screams back. Tear stained face, bloodied body, torn muscles— He prays Etho feels not an ounce.

In his fogged up state, Joel realizes too late, unable to stop himself from plummeting off the cliff. From one second to the next, the ground stops existing under his feet and he splashes. Cold shocks his body before it burns, he sinks, he sinks—

Lava. 

It burns. 

It melts. 

He gasps for air when he breaks the surface, losing feeling of his body as he loses himself. Lost in the the dead of night, lost somewhere in the world, he looks up and a thousand burning eyes stare back at him—

The crowd laugh and cheer when he is too weak, when every blink takes longer to recover from. A voice, it calls to him—

Still, he wakes up in darkness, jolted awake with sweat on his brow. His body aches and his lungs cannot quite fill up when he heaves. 

Warmth. A light. Dim—

“Settle down. Aren’t you tired?”

No, not darkness. There is the dim light of a candle nearby, Joel does not bother finding it; instead, he finds the voice, follows it until he faces him. 

Etho. 

His soulmate. 

Former?

Etho does not question the silence nor tries to fill it in. Despite their whole thing this Hermitcraft season, Etho is content to not play along right now. Joel almost finds it odd, if it were not for the fact that he feels relief. Relief at the mere sight of him. 

Etho chuckles as he hands him a cup of water, “Drink up. Though you had plenty of water already.”

Joel accepts the cup and gulps it down, only acknowledging his thirst once the cup is empty. He looks at Etho with big eyes and a pathetic look, and Etho gives him his cup. When he finishes Etho’s cup too, he clinks the cups, eyes fixed on them rather than his companion. He thinks about Etho’s words, but before he can ask, Etho is sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, watching as always. 

He clinks the cups one more time then asks, “It didn’t happen, did it?”

A second, then another, then an answer. Quiet, hushed, sweet. “No.”

“I…”

“Ran into the river. I…” Etho pauses, Joel is scared to look. “You were sinking. Almost halfway down when I found you. You… You were so weak and… I… I’m sorry. I should’ve found you sooner.”

That makes Joel look up, unsure if hopeful or confused. 

“I had this feeling that you were calling. I didn’t think… Grian… He said it wasn’t supposed to happen—a bug, he called it. Impossible.” Etho chuckles, dropping his gaze to the side. Joel looks at his naked face, traces the sad smile on his lips, wonders idly about the same things he had thought about back then. How his lips tasted, how it would feel to be held by him, how it would be to be with him. “Grian said it was impossible, and look at us. Still… still tied together.”

“Do you hate it?” Joel asks, quiet and terrified. He feels small and stupid. 

Sitting in Etho’s too big bed, wearing clothes that are not his own, holding two empty cups. Staring at his former soulmate—this stranger turned soulmate turned enemy. I love you, Etho had said last game, Joel hung onto the words even if he knew better. 

His eyes drop when Etho does not look back, landing on his arms. Scarred skin, burn marks that will stay with them for a while. Not many but some linger, and he feels a patch of skin burn in his own arm. Matching, exactly the same. 

Joel thinks about his base, his own bed. He feels tired. The chase must have not been real, but his body is still exhausted. 

He must have run circles around the server. Lucky enough to not die to any mob or fall into some ravine. Luckier to still have made his way to Etho as he subconsciously wanted. 

Luckiest that Etho found him? 

Can he say that?

“Of course I don’t hate it.” The words break Joel out of his trance, head snapping to find Etho looking at him, brow knit. He opens his mouth to say something but Etho gets ahead of him. “You’re tired. And sad, but mostly tired. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought you wouldn’t care.”

“Wh–”

“It’s not like you came to me either.”

Etho presses his lips shut, but this time, he holds Joel’s gaze. Joel catches flickering determination in his eyes, specks of fire like the time they had turned Red together. When the Relation-Ship burnt down. He knows that fire, his fire that ignited Etho’s. 

“You care,” Joel mouths the statement, hesitation in the background.

“I care,” Etho confirms. 

One of the cup rolls between his legs as he drags his now free hand down his face. There is lingering tension on his body with a healthy dose of phantom pain. Etho squints, attentive. Joel worries,

Etho sighs, “I don’t think the soulbound is fully back. I can… feel you, but not like before. It’s like a tug, a weakish one.”

Joel forces himself to relax, even after being told Etho knows, slapping a smirk on his lips. “You feel me? Gee, Eefo, I know this is the first time we are spending alone since Double Life, but—”

He still wavers. 

Coward. 

“No, no, finish that,” Etho taunts, crossing his arms over his chest in a challenging stance. He quirks an eyebrow, lips mostly a line. 

Joel tosses the other cup beside his thigh. 

“Come on,” Etho says, and Joel can begin to pick up the laced taunting in his tone, “finish your statement, Joel. I want to know.”

The smile appears eventually, enough to soothe some strain—physical and emotional in equal parts. He finds it odd to be able to stare at his face for so long. He almost laughs at his past self for holding onto those glimpses and brief moments too tightly, so close to his chest. If only past Joel knew he would be able to openly look at Etho's maskless face, he wonders how things would have played out back then. 

He still finds it hard to believe. 

“But…” he starts, but comes out short with no continuation. 

“What if I kissed you? We don’t have to talk. We’re not very good at talking.” Etho offers, and Joel clutches the sheets tight. Etho smirks, “Breathe, Joel. You know how to.”

“Don’t use the soulbound against me!”

“I’m not.”

“You are!”

“You are being dramatic. Have you considered that you are just so easy to read? Or maybe, just maybe I know a little about you? Enough to know your tells.”

“You don’t know anything about me. You haven’t talked to me since Double Life, and the times you have, it’s always been around others. You can’t know me. Double Life was so short. You—”

Etho leaps closer, right knee pressing down on Joel’s right thigh, looking right into his eyes. Heat. Again. 

This is how they died. Back in the portal. Surrounded by raining lava, burning up, staring at each other with defeat and acceptance and feelings that went unspoken. 

Joel remembers that moment. Has it engraved in his mind, carved with chisel into his very soul and heart. Etho’s face dulled the pain back then—Etho’s presence lights up the fire this time. 

A hand cradling his face, slightly cool against burning skin, dizzying heat all around him. The cup rattles as Etho tosses it with the other. Joel finds it hard to breathe, finds it hard to break from the fire and cold of Etho’s eyes, he finds himself entranced and trance and so happily content to be where he is. 

Lips scorch his, just a touch that has them breathing into each other. A sigh, relief, satisfaction. Etho goes for another, longer, lingering. His body pushes forward too, free arm wrapped around his side, messing up the sheets under them even more. Joel wants to kick them off, but he also wants to push back, kiss him back like he has always dreamed about. 

Rather, his head falls back as heat trickles down from the corners of his lips to his jaw, pooling around his neck. He closes his eyes and he sees red, shallow breaths and sighs as lips nip on skin. His body stutters when Etho kisses the underside of his jaw, trailing up under his ear where teeth teases shudder from his lips. 

Wet lips lock on his again, leaving his neck burning without attention. 

Joel kisses back, a new kind of burning that numbs his mind. The night stays sleepless but the memories are quieter after. 

[elephantlovemedleys]

my christian and satine fics (so far)

these are all one-shots, i still have some WIP's on the way and i'll be updating this list once i've posted something new. in the meantime i decided to just place what i have so far in one go so it would be easy to find on my blog and for anyone who wants to check it out

wandered inside

she comes to him in sleep and passes like the wind, vastly in a breeze but can still quickly be seen

in my sleepless solitude

Slowly, her eyes start to close, everything’s all so dark and empty, as hollow as how she had left him be. She starts humming a melody, with words forming out of it too. Trying to come at ease until she sees and feels him in her own sight.

pressed against you there (and leave the world behind)

“Is everything okay darling?” He asks, stroking her back in patterns as she leans onto his touch. “I just missed you.” She quickly sighs and responds,  this makes his cheeks turn red and his heart warm. Satine looks up so she could face him for their eyes to meet, and he presses his lips on her forehead that she reacts to with nothing but a beam on her face. 

the gallows of heartache that hang from above

“I will fight for it. For us.” Christian replies, his hands cupping her face and pressing kisses on her temple.

we'll be fine, i know it.

but if anything it meant they were both free. Free to fly away. 

share in evening's cool and quiet

"It was only a dream, I'm here and I love you.” Satine continues, drawing her hand back and down leaning up to kiss Christian softly.

you thrill me, you delight me

and life couldn’t get any more perfect than this.

flying in a dream, stars by the pocketful

Satine giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck, “Do you know how much I love you?” “Well my dear, I definitely may have an idea.” He smiled, running his hand across her cheek.

but would you still miss me in your bones?

a one shot prompt request: where Christian had just lost Satine, and he goes back to England to live with his family again, and his mother offers some comfort for losing Satine and his father is reluctant to offer support, as he detested Christian leaving for France in the first place.

it's golden (like daylight)

“Sometimes, being with you feels like a dream I don’t ever want to wake up from.” Christian puts his arm around Satine’s shoulder, feeling her play with his fingers.

it was ever after

“Now, how does that story end?” Christian teasingly asks. “Well, they go on to live happily ever after. Until the end of time.” Satine concludes.

[ageofevermore]

LIVES IN ME

SUMMARY — without a second thought, you sacrificed yourself to be with her again. without a second thought, you left natasha to carry out your memory alone.

AUTHORS NOTE — this is a part two to this fic. it can be read individually but i suggest you read the first part before this! you can thank @holiday-house-of-m for this lol

It fit tighter than you remember. Nine months since your last mission and nothing was going according to plan, but, what had gone according to plan since you lost her. The sleepless nights beneath your eyes are hollow and a tint of purple, and your combat knives don’t fit your palms the way that they used to. Everything feels off. Everything still feels empty. 

The consistent static that brews a melody in your head is misplaced by an urgent click, and then it’s Natasha’s voice that comes over you. The world has been colorless since that afternoon thirty-five weeks ago. At some point, you thought death only struck at night. How stupid of you to think such a thing. How naive of you to assume you’d find shelter in losing only in the dark. Now, sunshine brings you to your knees. Now, even a soft breeze reminds you of the stickiness of hot blood on your hands, and how your hair fluttered into your eyes and brushing it aside left her blood smeared across your face. Now, your heart is broken at two in the afternoon, and eleven at night, and five in the morning. After Wanda, you’ve come to learn that grief consumes you. 

“Come in, Y/N.” Natasha’s voice crackles. Her voice floats around you like clouds, or maybe cartoon birds from an old animated movie. She sounds so far away, so far out of reach you don’t even try to swim closer. “Y/N.” 

The second call of your name drags you from the trance you’ve settled within. Your surroundings become clear again, and it's only now you realize how the ground is soaked in blood. How the branches of trees house ripped clothing and broken knives and staffs and empty guns are tossed in piles on the field. The scene is a bloodbath, a nightmare. Is it your blood, or is it the enemies? You can feel a gash in your side now that you’re thinking about it. Now that you’re aware of the deep stinging sensation that rivals the numbness in your bones. You drop your knife, your lips wobbling. You pull your hand away from your side and blood coats your fingers. The end is nearing. “Yeah, Nat?”

“Retreat.” She wasn’t asking. The fear that curdled Natasha’s sweet voice turned it raspy and cold. Her calculated annunciation of each harsh letter would have been enough to provoke a physical reaction, a shiver down your spine, a pinch in your brow, a quiver in your lip, but now, standing here with her blood on your hands all over again, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t look to your left where you knew she was crouched beside the quinjet. To you, she was miles away, she was out of reach, she was a wonderful thing you’d known for long enough. She was the end. 

“I’ve got a clear shot.” You cleared your throat, spitting blood onto the grass at your feet. Your throat burned from the blood the longer you stood still, the longer you allowed the gash in your side to remain untreated, the longer you let yourself melt into the warm breeze, the sunshine, the heavens. The longer you allow yourself to die. 

Natasha’s silence only lasted seven seconds, but it was enough to know that she understood. It was enough to promise you that she would be okay without you here. That she understood. Natasha didn’t need words. She said everything she needed to in her love, and silence was her greatest asset. “Y/N, if you do that… You’re as good as dead.” Her voice was small. You had never heard Natasha sound so unsure of herself, but she made no attempts to convince you to choose life. She knew you had died all those afternoons ago. She knew the version of herself she saw in your eyes had drifted to the moon the second your star crossed lover died in your arms. She just knew. 

“I’ve got a clear shot.” You repeated, narrowing your eyes at the target, tilting your head to the side the same way Wanda would. Her mannerisms were yours now. She lived through you now. But soon, Natasha would carry you both. Soon, you’d both be memories. Gunfire settled, the static humming dissipated, the stinging in your body melted away. You were so close to having her back. You were so close to relinquishing the weight of grief and pain. 

Without second thought, you charged toward the enemy. Without second thought, you left this life behind. Without second thought, you left Natasha and Steve, Maria and Kate, Peter and Ned. Without second thought, you abandoned the pain that had you in chains. With one glance at Natasha as you slashed the enemy with your blades, the blades that Wanda had gifted you, the blades with scarlet handles, the blades that you never forgot to grab, your eyes met across the battlefield. In only a second of eye contact, you said your goodbyes. In only a second, it was over. 

In only a second, you were gone.

[yomogi-mogi-mochi]

Merciful Crusade

Pairings: Jamil x Shikigami MC

Summary: The life of a shikigami, or a ceremonial servant spirit was a threadbare one. The small world you scarcely lived consisted of hard, earth‒packed walls framed tightly against a small cedar cell, illuminated only by the lonely starlight during your sleepless nights. Despite your human body, you’re almost certain you’ve never felt the blood move and warm your body in such a way that would indicate that there had ever been a human heart‒ having spent too much time gilded with a hardened iron face to even feel it if it had been there. Jamil‒ who untethers you from the spell that binds you to your onmiyoji master‒ becomes a peculiar mirror in your new life that reflects your choked breaths and measured footsteps. It never bothered you when your own body smothered what was left of your vitality‒ but when you watch Jamil from a distance, knowing the way he classifies each movement, the strangle of his muscles‒ something inside you aches. You don’t know why.

Tw: Mentions of Child abuse/abuse, references to slavery, references to dissociation, references to dissociative amnesia/amnesia, references to anxiety

GN terms for MC

AO3 Link Here.

Masterlist.

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"Do not fail me."

You bow forward, on your knees, palms to the gravel, neck cooled from the moonlight. Practiced, perfectly paced breaths, mathematically measured strain of your muscles. It must all be still, perfect as your master always instructs with every narrowed twitch of his eyes, the tightening grip on his staff prepared to unleash his flurry of magic. You had felt it before, the fire of his skillful hand on your skin, bubbling the flesh, and every fiber of your muscles parting with his lashing hands. So you've burned these precise movements, each counted breath, to your body tightly wound to still any mistake, any fear that may escape it. Servant spirits do not speak, tremble, or bleed without the permission of their Onmiyoji masters, however‒ your body once human‒ would shake if you didn't hold the tightness in your shoulders at the center of your stomach, the lurching muscles of your spine. 

  "Leave." He dismisses with a whirl of his hand which cuts through the air. 

  You do as you are commanded, leaping onto your feet and back to the hall of mirrors to head to the Scarabia dorm. The halls are hollow and whistle somberly with the breeze that runs through, and you glide with that sound to reach the boy's room with muted footsteps. Somber indeed, if the word poured from the mouths of wives and neighbors and kings and queens of the lives you had taken were true to its meaning. Another night, another prince's blood is spilt. However practiced, every movement and decision must be performed with quick execution and precise resolution before you disappear like the stars washed from the bleeding morning light. 

  The knife in your hand molds against your grip as you creep into the room‒ the boy sleeping peacefully in his plush pillows and rich fabrics, sunken deeply into slumber. His soft breaths tickle your hand like a fluttering bird as you hold the cloth just above his lips, before you hands work quickly to press it firmly into his airways, filling his lungs with the chemical of your master's making. He takes a brief second of conscious struggle, widening his eyes with panic, but he soon succumbs as they always do‒ eyes rolling back with an idle slump before all the muscles of the body grew limp. You take the blade to his throat, promising a quick death with the angle of which is pressed into his bulging vein. A deep breath in to draw the sharpness quickly in one sweeping motion. 

  But you are stopped by a stony grip and a cold voice which coils around your spine, sending a cold shiver down which you swallow through your taut muscles the best you can. 

  “Stop right there.” 

  In an instant, you leap backwards, body lowered to the ground prepared to take down your obstacle. 

  “Look into my eyes.” 

  They're all the same‒ woven with greed, with false hope, fear‒ all of the rotten fruit which bears heavy on humanity before you bleed every lustrous thing out of them. You always look at their eyes with great indifference as you do with most things, knowing no matter how much they thrash their body and rip terror and mercy through their throat‒ a single motion of your hand would empty them out of such things, as swift as dark wings that claws rotten flesh clean from breaking bones. 

  But you are met with all the silvery glitter of ebbing stars. 

  It is of course not his magic he casts which stills your hand a moment in the air‒ your current status as spirit assured that‒ but the world within the delicacy which projects this spell. Like the thousand colors of heavenly bodies and roaring comets, you think. The allure which trickles between the thick cedar bars of your cell every night‒ the only beauty you know of. And now its greatness was closer than ever, you didn’t know how quite to react other than to stare back dumbly. 

  "Put the knife down and step away‒" 

  You fling yourself towards him in that instant, scraping the skin where the largest vein lies beneath with a lightfast motion, and knocking the wand in his hand. He is quick on his feet, shifting backwards with fluid movement, before he jumps back towards you like a striking serpent‒ pinning one arm down and using his other hand to bring your knife down towards your shoulder. You catch his wrist with the thrust of your elbow, the knife inches away from your palm. 

  "That should have worked on you…"

  This would have to be dealt with quickly. 

  "Your abilities only work on humans, am I correct?"

  He is startled by the rasp of your voice. "Yes. But…"

  In the midst of his confusion, you rammed your hand through the tip of the blade, grabbing his hand with the same hand that tore to pieces with blood and sinew. You flipped him to the ground, pinning his hands to the ground in the same way he had with you. You felt a swift kick to the stomach before you could properly pin his legs down with your own‒ flying towards the wall with his knife still lodged in your hand. Yanking it out with a bloody tug, you resumed a low stance to charge him once more. 

  "You are insane." He says, disgust in his eyes. 

  You leaped at his throat again, while he dodged your tactical violence with a strained breath. Good, he was beginning to waver, you thought. But just as that thought passed, you felt him snake around your form, behind your neck with a prepared fist. Feeling it prickle the hair on your neck, you jumped back, at the ledge of the window to regain your composure. But before you could even grip the handle of your knife properly, you felt your body tipping backwards towards the sky‒ a gust of wind pulling at your spine. 

  As you fell, you tried to think of something, anything, you could measure your life with. But there was nothing, only threadbare blankets of meaning and will. You’ve heard the sputtering nonsense of men you had failed to kill swiftly, recounting their husbands, their wives, their mistresses, their friends, and their children as they choked out their last breath‒ but nothing of that sort came to your mind, just the disappointment adorning your master’s face‒ and ‒ the unyielding excellence of the night sky. You'd never have to face that fury anymore if you succumbed to it‒ so you let your head dip into the dazzling starlight weaving their path like turbulent waves through the darkened sky, prickling in their evanescent virtuosity. You were glad at least to recognize such beauty by the end of your life, and see it at last beyond your cedar cage. Scorching those prickling lights into the flesh of your eyelids, you let the fall embrace your body, diving down. 

  But you soon realized the darkness you had laced into the eyes of many dead did not come. You looked up, the man grasping your hands, plump veins threading his strained arm. The knife in your hand was nimble, quick to stab through your own and into his, knowing the likelihood of his arm giving before he could pull you up. But he whacked the knife out his skin and from your hand, cupping it over yours to begin pulling you up and inside. 

  "You are fucking crazy. Do you want to die or something?" 

  You didn't want anything, but you especially didn't want to anger your master. And it would anger him very much if you left evidence, and especially if you failed this task and came back alive. But you suppose it wouldn’t make much of a difference if he ended your barren life. 

  You laid limp in his hands, until he dragged you over the ledge of the window, toppling your body onto the floor with a thud next to his. With no weapon, you could resort to your bare hands, so you prepared both of your bloodied limbs, cracking your fingers in the air as your knife sharp nails gleamed with red even in the cool blue of the moonlight. 

  However, you felt the man's feet sweep under yours, knocking you off your center and smashing your face into the ground. Quickly, you raised your stance, ignoring the blood that dribbled from your forehead and nose before returning the favor to his own feet, dragging your battered body towards the boy’s sleeping one. All you would need is a single hand‒ if your other limbs and face came as an expense, so be it. You felt a tug at your pants. 

  The man let out a groan. "Just. Stay. Down already!" 

  Your eyes slanted towards his body, as he began to rise off the floor, and away from the carpet. Something tugged inside you, but you let him, heaving your body towards the prince. But the fabric moved from under your feet, catching you in its constructing embrace. You looked down, finding your body completely restricted by a rough fabric that seemed to be wriggling against your rebellious arms. 

  The man tipped his head back in relief, slumping his shoulders down. "Thank the great sevens for this carpet. Kamil is so going to be hearing about this tomorrow morning. As for you…" You stared with a wicked violence in your eyes, daring him to lay a hand on you again, You’d tear out from this fabric and rip everything in your sight to shreds. "Ugh you have such unsettling eyes. It would be better if I just brought you to Crowley. I don't get paid enough for this." He retrieved his wand off the ground, waving it in front of your eyes. You barely fought the phasing darkness that eclipsed your vision, before you fell completely into it. 

——————————————————

   Shikigami don't sleep, so you don’t dream, usually. Today you won’t either. 

  But some nights in your cedar bared cell, you would press your ear to the earth, feel when it would rumble in its arcane voice that rippled like a heartbeat in the hard, earth-packed floor. You’d imagine the heart of the earth, writhing with molten rock, and the way it would hiss feverishly when it met the polluted air above ground‒ beating especially fast during the moments you’d feel it growl against your flattened cheek. The song, and blood of the earth, raw. The dried roots hanging from the ground would be traced by your fingers, as you’d imagine surpassing the curtain of flesh and bone to dive deeper into that beating earth‒ feeling that heart closer, trailing the way the movement would hammer throughout your body. Beyond all that tightness, the pain you would trickle from, back into the heart of the earth. 

  You’d never felt a beat closer than the one beyond your reach, deep under the ground. But when you felt like you needed to hear the sound of your own heartbeat you’ve never heard‒ you would imagine yourself feathering into the earth to feel it.

  “Hey. Wake up.” 

  You wince slightly from the bright daylight entering what appeared to be an office room, blinking to adjust your vision unaccustomed to seeing the rays of the sun. The halls at your master’s abode had always been shrouded in darkness‒ either through the veil of night, or the washi paper dyed dark that showed itself only slightly against the solid shoji frames. Nonetheless, you do everything in your draining power to flatten your expression solid, chilled, against peering eyes. It seems that is all you can do against the three which stand before you, your body and hands bound tightly against the chair you were sat on. 

  “They don’t look threatening at all Jamil!”

  The boy you had been sent out for is still alive, as carefree and sprightly as he was the weeks and months you had observed him. Your eyes swim throughout the room and to the three who stand before you, your mind racing to look for a weapon, a human error, a crack in their facade you could thrust into and to break their bodies‒ to at least finish the bare minimum of your master’s bidding. 

  A man in a mask stands between the two younger men with a file in his hands. “Hm. I’m looking through their files and they seem like they’ve been enrolled normally, a late enrollment, but nothing too suspicious in their file…” 

  “Still‒ this matter should be investigated properly. I will send a message to the Al-Asim family for any resources you need to do so.” The man you fought yesterday rubs his injured hand as he glances at the file, before he flickers his eyes to your form, stilling your wandering eyes in an instant. 

  “Don’t bother looking for an escape. Even you won’t be able to escape those bounds.” 

  You feel the knot of your hands, and you know it well‒ the one the guards use in your cell during nights they particularly felt they needed to release some pent up stress. 

  “Will you dispose of me?”

  “We’re not gonna kill you if that’s what you're asking.” The ivory haired boy answers. His companion sighs a bit at his words. 

  “Kalim, ignore them.” His words fall sharply against your steely gaze. “Who sent you?” 

  You still yourself to silence, returning his question only with unblinking, vacant eyes. This was the best choice, you think, having never had to make this decision before‒ you’d be dead soon after if you had failed to protect your Master’s confidentiality. Perfection or failure‒ that thought had already fettered in your mind, tingling at the back of your neck as if to recall its previous sanctions. Though, you suppose the silence that slated your mouth shut at this moment would be able to prolong that inevitability of suffering. Jaws clamped, shoulders snared, eyes clenched so tightly you saw bursting stars. Those raging bodies could fashion something from that petrified tensity, purifying it to gild yourself in an impenetrable alloy. Still, a hammer is a hammer‒ it could still shape and scar the metal, however impervious.

  You breathe, in, out‒ expelling some of the tightness in your aching back. It always came, always. Reliving those things in this moment would be carving this tomb of a body into more of a museum of yourself. It would soon come, but you’d be steely, cold, by then‒ you had plenty of time. It would come, but not now, you reminded yourself. There was time to strip yourself raw of any feeling. 

  The masked man sighs. “Clearly this isn’t going anywhere. So I’m going to put you in charge of this…” He looks you up and down. “…fellow. Until I get someone to investigate this matter more deeply.” 

  “Of course.” 

——————————————————

   Your master visits that night.

  You've exhausted yourself thoroughly by the time the moon slits itself brightly against the night sky. You don't know whether your fatigue comes from your attempts in unbinding your limbs, or from your still racing mind‒ either way, your body had readied itself for all of your damnation tonight, slumped and sapped of sensation and feeling. But even between your phasing consciousness, you could feel the dreadful drag of his robes, the vivid power swelling with each step he takes towards you‒ a high tide of terror suspended over you before it all came crashing down with a grip to your scalp. 

  Your vision is burnished from a flame coiled around his hands‒ a herald for the burns to come. It eats away at your clothes, and then rages against your skin, splitting it open like seeds, sowing the ache of tomorrow. But right now, you focus on unfeeling all of that‒ jaws clamped, shoulders snared, eyes clenched so tightly you see bursting stars. Unfeel it. Unfeel. A prayer, if you knew the word. 

  “You have disappointed me one last time.” 

  Your master never taught you how to shape decadent words with your mouth. Your tongue was cut and hammered for concise, sparse‒ cold, metallic language‒ please, thank you, yes, forgive me, Master, my apologies. 

  Mercy. 

  That was not one you had learned from him, but had heard so countless times before you had taken the lives of many‒ the word embossed in your mind so deeply it had finally carved itself out to take shape on its own. You thought yourself ready for all of this, but something climbs from your throat. Mercy, mercy, master, mercy‒ the word ran forward on your tongue like an undammed flood, the sound of your voice so frail and winded having been gnawed every waking moment you stood hardened at your master’s feet. You barely recognize it against the thundering of your blood. When he reaches to your throat, palms adorned with the inferno of his abhorrence‒ you rip that word from your cords towards anything you may have the capacity to believe in ‒ a god, a martyr, some mythical beast‒ something that had never shown itself in your life that may present itself in this very moment. 

  Mercy is not of the servant words. He spits, "Failure". Your kind were to take punishment of the sacrilege that was your very existence with thanks, not some wailing perversion of humanity. Still, you break through to cry that word. For hope, or some dwindling attachment to life you do not know. You were reborn without will, no fire, no warmth, and you know the stars do not answer to those who have no heart. But still, you cry. You cry. 

  “Trespassers aren’t welcome here.”

  The roaring scald at your skin stops for a moment, leaving only the aching blister hissing against the air. You cast a fading look to Jamil, who stands behind your master with a wand in hand. 

  “Look into my eyes.” 

  You call to mercy, and it comes in his words. 

  “The person reflected on your eyes is your master. Answer if you are asked, obey if you are ordered."

  The magic takes its time to coil within your master, ever a stubborn mind. But when it does, you feel a lightness within you, and for a second you think it's the trick of the torrid ache that bleeds you dry of life, or the released pressure from your throat that is the cause. That is until you hear the words that follow.

  "Free them. They are yours no longer."

  No, that lightness was very real. It bleeds within your chest, for once, the weight in your lungs as you breathe in, out dwindles. You listen again to his words which echo in your mind, then you realize. He had released you from your master's contract. 

  You let the darkness welcome you as it always has, untethering all the stiffness that binds you. It slips between your cracks like smoke, and you feel as wild and boundless as the roaring starlights. You hold onto the feeling as tightly and as long as you can before it slips, and ciders, as all things do. 

   Shikigami are bound to their master for life, but you're a unique case, you've heard. It was through those cedar bars tipped to the night skies where you hear whispers and hushed words during night patrol‒ the gossip of the many hands and blades which were under your master's rule. Usually, they are about trivial human affairs‒ what to eat that night, who to bed, who to rage against. But you’ve heard, once.

  That one is strange, once human. Once like us. Now…

  You're instructed by your master to keep your head down, bowed to the gravel and tethered low to the earth. It is where you belong. He snarls, driving it further towards the filth. You know to do this for all who work in the great mansion‒ but there was once, when you were younger, a time you had flashed the vacancy of your eyes towards a general. You didn't think much of the tremble of his chest, the disgust twisted in his face and the weak sting of his hand when a fist knocked you to the wall. It’s just how it is.

  You don't know, but you think your master has done worse. You had never measured the strength of fist against your flesh against each other‒ it was useless to dwell on it‒ much easier to swallow all of it the same way, deep into your dark belly. But when word soon found its way to him, you found this to be untrue. Humans are capable of so much more. There was pain beyond comparison.

  That night turned out to be only the rehearsal for many more to come, a harbinger to the trick you embedded in every movement, every bow, every breath. A trick of petrification‒ knowing the taste of blood through teeth, tongue, and flesh, how to swallow it in silence. When the flaying began that night you’d learn how to snare every muscle in your body inwards, drive that agony deep within that fossilized density, shove your face deep in the corner‒ take the pain and hide the face of it. Soon, that face began to fade all together, you’d soon forget how to shape your features in a way that wasn’t thickset iron, that bent and molded against every crucible that scorched and tempered, remaining the same insipid gray no matter how many times it would be hammered and fluxed into any shape. If you’d concentrate enough, you may taste the fragrant blood from your body‒ but you’d swallow it as soon as it came before its flavor could meet your mind. 

  Once like us. Not any more. 

  Men slept so soundly at night once you had shown you'd drag yourself through the halls beating after beating like a rotten corpse‒ heaving behind thrashed skin and filthy blood even with it all nearly being drained from you.

  Like us, but no longer.

  They'd often take turns with their own fists, their own blades, chattering with laughter at your limp form, their inhuman brutality spilling endlessly out from them like buzzing plagues. The next day you'd smell the stink of their lily white faces in the morning incense they burn at their shrines wishing for good fortune, riches, for my wife, this; for my son, that. Though you had sipped the ambrosia of their boundless violence‒ you never thought your eyes divine during those ceaseless nights‒ it was just the way things are. Perhaps that knowledge morphed you into a caricature of the celestial bodies‒ after all, you’d once been made in their image. But the stars never answered your calls. It was all the same for shikigami, you were just a unique case‒ therefore, you must be punished for such heresy that was to defy human order.

  You thought for sure your master would have concocted some acid to smear between the cracks of his skin, brewed death to his hands before he took your throat into it‒ ensuring your destruction. But that would be a kindness for empty spirits such as yourself, so he'd meant to do the same as all other men‒ to satiate their hunger, to ravage and tear apart such living things that could not raise a finger to their might. What better than something that looked like an image of the gods‒ a human? Like us, but no longer. He meant to enjoy every fleeting breath of your lungs, every drop of blood spilt with his permission. So, you supposed you shouldn't be too surprised that you've woken up in the same world again after you had felt the unraveling of your contract. You gnaw on yourself. 

  "Oh. You're awake." 

  No binds, no chair. Only having known the cold, earth-packed floors of your cell, even during your investigations at the school‒ the plush that surrounds you dips awkwardly against your wobbling body, trying to balance itself on the soft surface. You find your center, and you touch the softest, most whole fabric you’ve feat your fingers to. You rake your nails through it to test the delicacy. 

  "You shouldn't move so much, or that's what Jamil told me. Your scars will reopen, I think." It's the ivory haired boy again. You look for his companion either sweeping eyes, but find no one else in the room but him. 

  "It's okay. You're safe now‒ Jamil told me about your situation."

  Your voice comes willowy, dry and crushed like the autumn floor. "Situation?"

  He looks a bit in confusion. “Yeah, your Master. He treats you poorly, doesn’t he?”

  “Poorly?”

  “Yeah, poorly. Like he… abuses you?” 

  You think. You know blood, you know how it spills and beads off your flesh as it is feathered open like a festering, spewing fruit. But you’ve moved so straight-backed all these years, muscles calcified to contain all your writhing heart at once in the great brimming bowl of your hands. You didn’t think of the pain too often or soften your body enough to feel it‒ only of the next breath, the next twitch in your muscles that would spill a drop of that dark liquid, and become reason to prolong the flaying. Maybe that was pain too, the tightness. But such knowledge would be useless in your hands, you decide, so you say your words with conviction‒ flesh fossilized to gilded iron so vigorous it would brace any feeling under its pressurized solidity. 

  “Abuse is a strong word.”

  Kalim blinks. “Still‒ a master’s duty is to protect their servants and right hand, not hurt them. So you can stay with us, here.” He smiles brightly, hands behind his head and tossed back. 

  Your head spun with questions‒ but so many of them falling from your lips began to feel foreign on the tongue. So you declare, “It's just how things are. And…” You look you the boy's hands. Would they reach to you in their cruelty like all others have? Groveling at your master's feet did work at times to feed his ego, his hunger, perhaps you should do the same for him. "Thank you, prince. For this you can use me however you wish." You bow your head, stretching thin your scars. 

  He’s silent, something you measure to be surprise or confusion‒ but before you can completely catch it, Jamil walks through the door, steaming plates in hand. “Kalim, don’t tip your chair like that.” 

  “You’re finally awake.” He hands you a plate of something hot. It’s nothing like you’ve ever smelled before‒ fragrant spices, the warmth of each bursting smell tingling your nostrils and to the back of your throat. Despite its rather plain brown color, the dish glistens and gleams with each slurred movement of the steaming stew, poured over the white heaps you had seen other servants carrying to your master’s quarters, every morning, lunch, dinner. 

  “Eat. It will help you heal.” 

  “Heal?” 

  Again, surprise, you gather, though expressions seem to be faint on Jamil. It stills to his usual expression soon after while he chooses his words carefully. “For your wounds. The…trauma you’ve sustained on your body.” 

  You echo the words you’re unfamiliar with, shaping your clumsy tongue to shape such indulgent words. “Trauma?” 

  “Your back, your body. It’s sustained prolonged exposure to…damage. It’s going to take a long time to heal. Even longer with you malnourished.” He answers quickly, a flicker of his eyes like the tongue of an apse to measure your expression without notice. But you know the movement, having carved it in peripheral gauges low to the ground. You don’t answer to it however, still caught by his foreign words. Even from the most brutal floggings, scars were healed quickly and with force‒ through acid salves and infused tinctures that bubbled away your body’s ailments. You were never given food after your beatings‒ that would be rewarding bad behavior after all‒ you weren’t familiar with this process. 

  “Oh.” 

  “Aren’t your parents worried?” Jamil shoots a look at Kalim when he asks it, but the ivory haired boy does not take notice with his undeviating gaze. 

  “I don’t think I have them.” 

  “You don’t think?” Jamil quirks a suspicious eyebrow. 

  Kalim leans forward, inspecting your face. “Are you even human? We can't find anything else on you besides your school records."

  “I am human. Or…” You look at your reflection in the window, peering into your gaze to find the same life that was held in theirs, or even passing birds and young buds sprouting from the ground. Pain, humiliation, some sliver of the folly of men you'd witnessed. But nothing. Only a shaded hue which atrophied in all directions. “I was.” 

  Jamil gathers his eyebrows to the center of his forehead. "Explain. We're still investigating further into your matter, and we've virtually nothing on your file. We can’t help if we know nothing." 

  You slosh around the food with the spoon, eventually placing it on the table beside you, bringing that plush blanket to your hands. "I know as much as you do‒ I was once human, and now I'm a servant spirit. I don't know or remember anything beyond that."

  "Does the name (Name) mean anything to you?" 

  "It was just something randomly picked by my master. Fake, I think."

  "That's not possible. The dark mirror summons its students by their true name."

  You sift through your memories, searching if there was never any recollection of anyone calling a name to you. It was always "you" and sharpened fingers‒ a passing phrase to rush against their lips, a nuisance to waste breath on when in turn, they could tug at your chains or pull you by the root of your hair. But never (Name). Your head scraped against itself with that sound, as if to kindle some memory that had been lost in the air. 

  "It…sounds familiar, maybe. Perhaps it was my old name. I do not remember anything of my past life, if any, truely."

  Jamil hums. "Well, if you remember anything, report it to me so I can pass it on to the investigation." 

  "Certainly."

  "Are you not going to eat that?" Kalim points to the still steaming plate of food on the bedside table. 

  "Spirits do not require food, prince."

  He waves his hand, dismissing the title which falls naturally from your mouth. "Ah, no need for formalities, Kalim is okay. But you should try‒ Jamil's curry is the best!"

  You weigh their expression as Kalim thrusts the plate into your hands again, taking in that inviting aroma once more. Scraping the foreign utensil against the ceramic, you shovel a heaping spoonful clumsily into your mouth. Spices, the heat, mouthwatering oils, and ‒ no doubt‒ a harvest rooted in the clouds of heaven and paradise.

  You had felt the pyre at your master's hands, blistering and breaking your skin like rotting fruit, the earth baked raw with the sun against the soles of your feet. You'd felt snow that scalded you like fire upon your fingers, tonics and brews summoned by your master splitting your skin like wildfire eating away through cedar forests‒ fresh, still beating blood spilt on your face, your own and many others’. But it was not until that moment that you’d felt warmth. 

  When you brought those steaming white pearls to your lips, glazed with that fragrant sauce, you were flushed with that mildness‒ a heaving gravity that beat like a heart. Living‒ or whatever that could mean to you. 

  "Did you…" You dig through the plate with the metal, searching for a sprig of an herb, the trace remains of a tincture, magics and spells which could be hidden in ground willow bark and the sticky sap of flowers that could not be fully dissolved enough into the fat of the dish that would stray from your untrained eye. “…what did you do to this dish?” 

  “If you’re accusing me of poisoning you‒”

  “You couldn’t have, I’m immune. But…” You feel a pressure at the back of your throat‒ perhaps that heart was fighting its way out of you, you think. In fact, all of your organs felt like they were being rushed to the edge of your flesh, to the skin meeting the air to make space for this writhing feeling inside, swelling, reaching its arms to the very core of your chest, unfurling its prickling fingers to your stomach. Yet, it felt inextricably tender, moth soft. “What is this called?” 

  Kalim answers. “Curry?” 

  The words come clumsy‒ you try to swallow that lump which disables you of clarity in your words with a gulp ‒ but that golden feeling comes back in waves, stuffing you of all of its thundering presence. “What about inside?” You scrape another bite into your mouth, it blooms with another burst of warmth inside your entire body. “This warmth. What is that ingredient called?”

  The ivory haired boy shakes in laughter, taking an elbow to his companion' side. "I think they’re talking about love, Jamil. You made it with looooove~." He sings. 

  Love. 

  You’d heard that word sparingly in the twisted corners of your cell, sipping sparse droplets of it and swallowing the power infused in that word. You’d never know the true taste of that word, but whispers and pleas here and there: he loves me, she loves me not, I love, I love, I love. It was rarely a word that was used in its full capacity in the human tongue, or at least how you’ve seen it‒ instead, its unfurling force threaded into dying confessions and outstretched hands that was fleeting with the beat of life. I love you, I love you, I love you. Their final words to their wives, children‒ the likes. You had added it to the list of unknown words, but held a special place for all of its vigor it seemed to have upon human lips, a sacrosanct sound kept deep in their blood until it was bleeding from their bodies. You felt that robustness in you, living. You thought you did, anyway. You were still too straight backed‒ solid steel to feel the full shape of it. 

  Jamil rolls his eyes, averting his gaze. "You're just getting used to proper food. It's just curry over rice, nothing special." He digs back into the dish, scooping it into his mouth with a bored expression. But even with his lolled gaze, you feel his eyes on you‒ telegraphing.

  Something is wrong with me. You think. It is of course a permanent thought in your mind, pressed upon you with the sharp disgust in others' eyes and depth of their hatred as they lash against you‒ but it wakes and rises on your flesh like a seal burned upon your skin, stinging and bitter against the air. You feel raw with it, for once, perhaps this was pain. What you remember of it at least. 

  Another, and another, and another spoonful into your mouth, teeth clacking against the metal in the speed of which you bring it to your lips. But that thing is alive as ever, taking its great wings to jostle the beat of your own heart inside you. You don't notice the last bite being shoveled into your mouth‒ but when you do, it grows cold, tasteless, sandy on your tongue. The absence of that warmth leaves you frigid as ever. 

  "Could I‒" You bite back at your heart slipping through your lips. Asking for anymore, just mere days after you had attempted to take the life of the boy standing in front of you would be met with lashing words, if you were to flatter yourself with some ability of self preservation and cleverness to escape a more realistic punishment worthy of your master's name. "Apologies‒ I spoke out of line. Let me clean your plates." You swallow the last bits of rice stuck between your gums, savoring each bursting pearl before it slides cold down your throat. 

  "It's fine. I'll go get more for you, do you want the same amount?" Jamil stops you from even rising from the bed, taking your plate in his hands. 

  Your palms feel empty without instruction, the consequences that come if you do not anticipate it. So you stumble over your words. "I…please. If that's okay, yes please. I’ll do anything."

  "You don’t have to do anything, we have plenty. From now on, you can always ask for more."

  From now on. You traced that word in your mind with a buzzing feeling inside you, imagine pressing against the ground to feel that heartbeat underground. You find its shape somewhere within you, you think. From now on. the feeling bubbles and erupts from your chest. From now on. You replace the beat of your blood with it, sounding each word as a pulsing force throughout your body.

  All you can do is nod meekly, bringing the soft blankets back to your hands, feel your sharpness claw against it. 

——————————————————

   "So you’ve really never had food before?"

  You look at the tiers of boxed lunch lain in front of you, taking hungry spoonfuls into your mouth with quick speed. Its inviting aroma and warmth narrowed your vision at once, focused on the vibrant sauces, heaps of rice steamed with fragrant herbs, grilled meats that would leave your mouth watering, grape leaves stuffed plump with grains. "What do I have to do to earn it?" You asked Jamil this morning, body still heavy with its sunken weight in the softness of your covers, linens, mattresses, pillows, is what he called them. "You don't have to earn food." His voice is flat, but there's still a softness to his eyes when he hands you the boxed lunch. It had been some weeks since he had started packing them for you, seeing that the cafeteria lunches weren’t enough for your stomach, nor for the healing of what he called, your trauma. All of what he made was sprawled out in front of you now‒ half of it’s heaping amount finished, much to the amazement of your classmates. They crowd around you‒ counting the empty containers, gawking at the speed in which you fed yourself. 

  “No, I haven’t. But I’ve bitten someone’s ear off before, does that count?” 

  The ginger who asked you the question smiles, but there is slight unease rolling through his expression, and he lowers the device he had in your face moments ago. “O-oh. Good one.” 

  You’re tempted to ask what is?- but the nerves wobbling through his eyes, and those around him, quickly turns to something distant‒ revolt, you think. It stifles your voice, and your hands. The area clears almost completely, leaving you only with Jamil and Kalim. 

  “What was good?” you ask.

  Jamil gives you a look you’re not sure what to do with. “Maybe you shouldn’t talk so much about your old life. People get unnerved, even if it’s normal for you.” 

  “Oh. Okay.” You accept his words with ease, but the food you begin to scoop back into your mouth turns heavy and tasteless. It forces cold and damp through your throat, and you almost gag, prompting you to excuse yourself for the water fountain. 

  “Trey, you have to see the new kid.” 

  The red head, you think, raising your head above the fountain. 

  "They're a tad unnerving. However, we should prevent our first impressions from welcoming a new student."

  "Yeah, yeah. But you know what they said when I asked them if they've ever had food before?"

  You hear the other student sigh, then ask. "What?"

  "They said 'no, but I've bitten off a ear before, does that count?' And their gaze gives me the creeps! Ugh‒ Trey this school just keeps on attracting more weirdos."

  Their voice reaches closer, until you're standing face to face with them, you settle your eyes on them, take in their nausea as part of their own. 

  “O-Oh! You scared us, (Name).” 

  “Sorry.” You say, gaze cast to the floor. 

  It is where you belong. 

  If spirits existed, ghosts certainly could‒ with the solidity of your master’s voice ringing through your ears, you were almost certain you could feel his thin fingers threaded through your hair, pushing it down towards the earthly filth. Even with your downturned gaze, you know how to read the unease fluttering sharply within the cavity of their chest, the unyielding distance between you, and them. You gild yourself in that iron again, head down, back straight. It was a shape you knew how to forge yourself into, at least, rather than some crude caricature of humanity. It’s just how it is. 

  “You didn’t hear us did- oof.” The student next to him jabs him in the stomach. 

  “We’re sorry. We don’t mean any harm, we swear.”

  You were already turning from their faces, measured breaths, jaw clamped, shoulders snared. Before this, you’d carefully temper your flesh and ask‒ was this the shape of a human‒ how they moved, how they felt, how they lived? But the softened iron of your palms had turned to something else, some smoothed, petrified alloy that could not be identified, found, or belong anywhere. All those years‒ hammered and fluxed by the crucible of human hands, and now suddenly that heat had died, and you would only be met with the frost of the water which treated you solid into an alien thing. 

  “It’s fine. Just how it is, don’t worry about it.” 

  You gnaw on yourself, swallow the blood but do not taste it. 

——————————————————

   You take your lunch outside the day after, but have no appetite to touch it. Since when have you had such a thing‒ an appetite? Spirits don't require food, you think. But there's a slight ache that rolls through your stomach, eating its way through the prickle of your skin. 

  "Kalim was looking for you." 

  You jump to your feet at that sudden voice‒ heart pounding, gripping the hand that reached towards you with unforgiving force. The soft spots, the places where blood would come fastest when it was cut‒ those shapes were found easily in your hands. But you let them go as soon as they came, noticing Jamil's pained expression. You snap your hand back. 

  Words rush to your mouth. "I'm sorry‒ I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to‒"

  "It's fine. I shouldn't have done that. I startled you, I apologize." He shakes out his hand, and seats himself next to you. "Why are you sitting out here?" 

  You gather yourself, knees to your chest, words clotted to the air that suffocates you. "I unnerve people, like you said. It's better this way.” The isolation in your cells comes to mind. “I’m used to it.” 

  He begins to lay out some of the containers in front of the two of you, takes a bite from the steamed lamb rice. "You're still recovering. You shouldn't expect change so quickly. Besides, no one from this school is normal by any means, trust me." There's a smirk on his face when he says this, you see more of himself leaking through his facade. You feel yourself soften. 

  A moment of silence. You think. 

  "Can't you make me normal? With your magic?" 

   You fill the emptiness of your hands with his, face him with your shrewd, all-seeing gaze‒ measuring, telegraphing. "You can make me your machine‒ won't you?" You would have called him Master, then. But the fear set deep within his gaze silenced that sound from you. 

  His eyes widen, all of his contempt scrunched to the center of his face. It takes a lot for him to relax it, knowing you would take all of that blackness into you soundlessly without any reaction to the way it should burn and tear all the way down to your stomach where you held too much or those things. When he does, he feels it rolling to rage inside him, glad that he at least knew one of the faces which had made you this way to stir it in that disgust.

  Still, that wasn't enough. 

  Jamil had never been one for justice, or righteousness‒ from the moment he opened his eyes, that notion would meet him at every turn‒ but, what tools that had shaped and twisted for this question from you, all the flecks of firelight that had been ripped from you when you were hammered into your current shape, for such a thing to fall from your mouth so normally. He often felt contempt for the world‒ if I had been born this way, if things were different, or if the world had worked in my favor instead of his‒ but rarely did that grow so sharply into what he was feeling now. For all the world’s violation, whatever divine plan that had planted every hand to shape you this way‒ he found himself coveting an ugliness, piercing like a blade through his chest when he met against it. 

  He was a servant too‒ he had also been stripped of his choices, his potential through his life. But it had never been unsheathed entirely from him. He'd spent all his life searching for the softness somewhere tucked in people's eyes, somewhere he could coil into to plant his own desires. But you stared back with all that emptiness‒ he wanted instead to take your hands, and tell you to fill them yourself. 

  He feels muddled, curdled in all that coalescence. He takes your hands. 

  "...I can't do that." 

  "Why? It would be better, for everyone else, wouldn't it?" You ask. 

  "You‒" He takes a deep breath in, lowers his voice. "...you shouldn't want that. To be controlled. It's not right."

  "It's not?"

  "No. It's not. Besides," he looks at his bandaged hand. You wince a bit. “It didn’t work last time.” 

  "Then…" The words cinder on your tongue. Then why? Why had I been taught so? If Jamil had the answers, you think he would have told you already. You spin it into something else. "Then what should I do?" 

  "That's not for me to decide. You should decide what you want to do, what you want to eat, what you want to like or dislike. Don't rush it‒ healing takes time."

  Jamil's words chokes you with warmth, prickling against your fingers, flushed and florid of all that heat he seems to open you to. "What is there to do‒ to eat, to like, then? I've never…" You could never truly recall what it was like, coming into being. It was like being pulled from the darkness into another, like vague, passing shadows‒ there was little between those lapses of confined shade where you could trail any light back to its voice in the trilling birds, the rustle of cedar forests, the lush silvergrass. 

  In your cell, life had always trickled through your cage in distant whispers, morning songs, dying flora‒ and with humans it had always been the same. You'd feel the blood draining from their veins, but never that warmth inside of them‒ flesh to flesh, heart to heart. The food always tasted cold, and so did flesh when you touched upon it. It was just how it is, no like or dislike to it‒ just some cold, inscrutable stone pillar that stood at the eye of your life. "I've never had a will, before. I don't know if I can." 

  Jamil presses together his lips, hesitant of his next words. “When you called to me. That night. What was that, then?” Mercy. He had heard it, and answered to it with something of his own will. 

  You jumble through the thoughts in your mind. “I don’t know. Why did you save me?"

  You hear the leaves and earth sing. But Jamil's heartbeat is still as loud as ever. He opens more of the containers in front of you. 

  "I don't know." He parrots back. There's a tick in his breath that catches your eye for a moment, but he continues. 

  "We can start with food, then. It'll get cold if you leave it in the container too long. Better to enjoy it warm." 

  He was right‒ the food had cooled while you had left it out. But the warmth when you put his handcraft into your mouth never chilled like those temporal things. He smiles warmly when you bring heaping spoonfuls to your mouth, and it fills you with that beat again. It rings louder this time, thundering in your ears vividly. Perhaps you were growing softer, learning to shape new curves and faces. You look to Jamil, memorizing the sculpt of his lips to know the composition of warmth. 

——————————————————

   "Why are you holding back?" 

  "Huh?" Jamil is wiping the sweat on his forehead with a towel then, water bottle in the other hand prepared to take a sip. But you trip him with your words, and he freezes on the spot, the perspiration that had felt so overwhelmingly warm and sticky seconds ago turning into icy streaks down his back. His silence urges you to continue. 

  "You were holding back. The beat of your footsteps, your reaction time, your breath. It's not the same as always." The words you say are sharp as ever, unsheathed from your tongue like a blade. "The position you were in when you passed the ball to Kalim‒ it was far better than where he was standing. The purpose of the game is to score points by getting the ball in the hoop, is it not?" 

  This part of your unexpected school career had been your best‒ moving your body with speed and purpose, surveying the field and each moving pawn, anticipating their motions through honed eyes and riding the rhythm of blood in other's bodies to intercept it. You had thought Jamil the same‒ but even with his refined gaze and nimble reception to it, his muscles stretched to pull back each movement, choking back all his vigor. You thought of your brimming bowl, the strangle of your body when you held it. The shapes you had known to forge yourself into were felt when you observed him closer. He had been a servant all his life too‒ but Kalim was always kind with him, and unlike you, he had warmth and fire within him. Desire, the word was. 

  "I guess. But Kalim wanted to make the shot."

  He shoots a look over to Kalim, crowded by the rest of the class who nudge and jostle him around with their bright laugher. But you continue to look at Jamil, noticing his strained breath was still there.

  “Didn’t you? I saw. The moment of hesitation before you passed the ball to Kalim.” 

  He stiffs under your piercing gaze. It’s unwinding, like a claw which catches a thread sticking by a single hair from its weave to unravel it, stitch by stitch. “I don’t want to stand out is all.” 

  "Why? You're amazing." You state flatly, as if you point out the blueness of the sky. 

  Jamil's heart bobs in his throat, it's weight silencing him. 

  "Did I…use that word incorrectly? I thought‒"

  "No. It isn't that." 

  You thought you'd ask him what it was, then‒ but he had already joined back in the game, quieting his breath, measuring each step with the beat of those around him, slowing it. Your fray at the thought. 

——————————————————

   “Bad dog!” You flinched slightly from Crewel’s pointer whipping against the hardwood table, but you smoothed your expression as usual despite the growing frost mangling your lungs, your collapsing chest, your fingers. “Wrong measurements again! Read the directions before you even attempt to touch the materials this time.” 

  Nodding mutely, you still your eyes on the book again, staring at the foreign letters and scribbles printed on the page. This whole situation was beyond you‒ you never expected to have to actually participate in classes after you had succeeded in your job‒ such a life outside your cell would be witless to even imagine‒ yet here you were. Still, you continued to dart your eyes around the page, looking for answers to perfect this task at hand. It must be perfect, always. Perfection or nothing. Perfection of failure. And what follows failure was stretched thickly over your body, carved into your face as its first feature. You knew its gravity, held it in your body like it's very lifeblood. 

  Your vision began to shift far from where your eyes were looking‒ your body feeling but so unfeeling. That unfeeling had worked before so well to harden yourself, to be able to be beaten and hammered thick and thin against any anvil, to be purified over and over, cast into knotted molds. But this distance was sharpened and gnashing‒ a mouth and its slashing teeth that ate away at whatever was left of you. 

  Your racing thoughts were interrupted with a hand lightly grazing the hairs of your arm. It reminded you of the sharp frostiness of your master's grip, gray skin glinting like a knife, elongated nails digging into your arm as if to herald the hours of punishment that was to follow with a simple touch. You flinch away, and see your lab partner snap his hands back with defensive palms. But when he jerks his body in such a way, he tips the bubbling cauldron towards himself, the scorching liquid lurching towards his skin. 

  You don't remember putting down your book, or pushing the student off to the side. First, it melts the cotton of your blazer, through the thick fabric and instantly through your blouse. But that's all you feel, until you follow the gaze of your classmates to your hands, and you see the steam rising from the acid raging through your flesh, reducing it to its gorey sinew and muscles you'd seen so many times before. 

  You offer him your free hand to pick the student back up. But he backs away, his eyes wild with horror. 

  "Let go of that now! Don't you know what you've done?!" Crewel marches towards you, thick rubber gloves on his hand to yank the still hot pot from your hands. 

  "But I caught it. It's not broken. And everyone is okay." 

   "That's not‒ just." A pitch at the bridge of his nose. He waves his hand high in the air and you imagine for a moment that it cuts across your cheek. But you stifle that flinch, the rising fear in your body. "Just go to the infirmary."

  You take his dismissal as a mercy, nod obediently. The rest of the students murmur, their gaze and conjurations in their minds prickling at your skin. It closes in, pressing hard on your veins like a grip on the neck‒ it's hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to feel and unfeel. Despite its enclosing suffocation, the permanent distance between whatever you were, and they were still stands unwavering and salient like a gilded column. You look to your hand, see the concoction eating a layer of your skin in angry red bubbles. But its sensation is little compared to the sharpness in which you feel yourself corroding, that alien metal rusting away at your insides like a gathering wildfire. The flesh, the sinew, the gore of your hands seem so distant, so unreal to you‒ so far from your body, and you do everything to raise a perversion of pain, of humanity. But nothing comes. Just that whetted withering inside. 

  The school nurse dresses the wound, some spells to take the pain away, despite the sharp smell of her unease when she notices you don't wince or shrill at it. She tells you to rest, recover. But you don't know what it means, so you sit soundlessly, eyes open on the cot. 

  "Hey." 

  You're so deep within the blur of your gaze that you don't see Jamil enter. But you hear the rhythm of his footsteps, his breath, his heartbeat. 

  "I heard something happened in alchemy." He sits himself in the chair beside you. "You alright?"

  You hum dully in response. 

  He chews on the inside of his cheek, it's a bad habit of his that he thinks no one notices. But you do. 

  "The investigation." He starts. "They found something." The hesitance in each of his words, the heaviness of his breath. Something wrong, again, you think.

  He retrieves a sliver of paper from the file in his hands, setting it on your lap. The edges of the thin newsprint paper are browned, rolled in their age, the words of the flaky paper sparse and rubbed off. You can barely make out a grainy picture of a barrel, tipped over from the bushes and vines it is thrown into. "I can't read." You simply state.

  Jamil takes it back from your hands, swallowing a breath to sound the words slowly, in measured care. You read the words from his expression. 'Body of child found stuffed in a cask, suspected (Name) Tarutani, child of sakagura owner. Father imprisoned, life sentence.' Grief. 

  "Oh." That sound comes echoed in your throat, hollowed out of any feeling.

  What were you supposed to do with that? 

  You'd grieve if you could, run up and down the hills and cry out to the stars. But you already knew of their blinding silence, their unwavering trek through the skies. There were glimpses, now that you thought about it. The smell of alcohol wafting in the stink of the guards' breaths that made you wince, closed spaces that would quicken your breath. But you held those things in that brimming bowl, not knowing what to do with them‒ should you bleed it dry, cradle them like some clandestine shrine, singe it to smoke? Either way, you'd keep it from surging‒ back straight, head down, muscles choked. "I didn't know."

  "I'm..." Jamil hesitates to give you his reassurance. “…sorry that happened to you.” 

  But you don't know what to do with his words, his kindness, his comfort‒ you didn't even know if he was talking to the person in front of him, or some ghost that had been lost to the air. You look at the print, see if you could see any glimpse of what came before‒ any scrap of fabric, wind tossed hair, green youth‒ anything distinctly human. Were you a happy child‒ if one at all? 

  The stars don’t answer to you. 

  You measure the distance between the tragedies of your life. There is none.

  Just one unfinished memorial of your pain, built flimsy atop another. The way extravagant palaces were burned to the ground, before a new one sprouted, already neck deep in its corrupt blood. You wish you would visit the monuments of your mind like those fracturing buildings, stalking through its outstretched limbs before you'd find a crack and crumble you could slip your hand through to set ablaze its heart‒ bleeding it's inhabitants over and over again like pulling brambles from the red earth. But commanding all of that destruction inside you‒ you'd be every break and burn of it all‒ the blazing memorial, the fire, the witness, the ash. Then the stars would cut through your flesh‒ wounds for the sun that burns through the morning mist, unfolding into another immature skeleton, for another memorial, another house, another place where shaded blood moves. 

  Perhaps it was better if you just watched, now, the construction of your blight. But your hands itched, forged and brazed for slaughter. 

  You gnaw on yourself. 

  “You alright?” Jamil tests the far off expression sculpted into your downwards face. 

  "Fine." You answer, taut, measuring with his expression an appropriate response, instead of some desolate look. 

  "Just…processing. I remember, now." You didn't, merely slivers of darkness, damp and choking, before you were pulled from it to your master's feet as a ceremonial spirit. But it seemed good as a lie as any, what good would a tragedy be without the curse of remembrance? But perhaps the fog and distance of it all was its own pain, own memorial, own blood, spilt. You didn't know. 

  You weren't sure how to mold yourself in a way that could meet it, know its shape to cast its features onto yourself to know that pain inside and out. Your face‒ what did it look like again? The fingers you bring up to it are as foreign and cold as a stranger's. That face, that body, that world‒ you could never belong to it, but only, be. The fire, the witness, the memorial pyre, the ash‒ you'd be all of that fracturing degeneration, but it could never belong to you. 

  And what was that even‒ being? You had never been allowed that either. 

  Jamil keeps on drinking in your expression like flooding water‒ catching the light in a thousand ways, changing direction into itself with every pebble lain, every breath of wind cast. It seems he has learned the trick of your stillness, the gilded iron of your face when he says, "...let me show you something.", and takes your hand. 

  He brings you to his room, it's just like yours, but filled. You're slightly embarrassed at the thought, feeling bare all of a sudden. As Jamil sits you down on the floor, you don't let him see your expression. 

  The glass vial he slips into his hands is tipped to his palm, and he rubs the oils which is poured from it into his hands. An ugly thought passes, then another. Poison, some sort of sleeping potion, another weapon, another blade? 

  But he turns to you, you see his face. And it puts you at ease. 

  "Is it alright if you touch your hair?"

  You nod. 

  He takes the tangle of your hair, dips his fingers through it and massages your scalp. The fragrance of the oil is soothing, calming both the skin on your head and your senses. It smells a little like him, you imagine some honey-sapped crimson flower and the aroma of spices he surrounds himself in when he works in the kitchen. 

  "My mother used to oil my hair for me back home. Especially when I was upset over something."

  "Is there something wrong with my hair?"

  "No‒ although it is a little bit damaged. But it's just to relax, to feel more grounded."

  You think to the way you would listen to the earth’s song and blood. There’s a similar pulse moving softly within Jamil’s fingers that work through your scalp. You lean into it. 

  "I like it."

  "That's good. I'm not too used to this. I've only done it to my sister a couple of times."

  "Sister?"

  "Yeah. She's younger than me, a brat. But, she's family."

  Family. You tried to imagine that word as faces, but nothing came to mind. 

  "What is it like having a sister?"

  Jamil laughs through his nose. "Mine is very demanding, gets on my nerves at times. But she's smart, clever, quick on her feet. She scolds me a lot for my attitude, but I think a lot of times she takes after me in some ways."

  "And mothers?"

  "They're all different, you know that right?" 

  "Sure, but I don't know any."

  "Well. My mother is beautiful, and hardworking. I've learned all my cooking from her‒ but she still makes all the best tasting food. Curry, dolma, knafeh‒ the flakiest, most mouth watering pastries you could ever imagine."

  "It’s even better than yours?"

  "By at least a hundred times, at least."

  You curve your lips into what you think is a smile‒ its rounded movement novel, finding shapes it never forged itself in. Servitude required sharpness, taught, straight lines and jagged sounds. This softness was new. Had you been a happy child before all of this, to feel the stinging crackle of your lips when they moved so little from their straightness? You shake off that feeling, eclipse it with that buzz inside your chest‒ bright as a forge’s heart. From now on, you could take that silvery radiance bursting forth from that furnace nestled inside you, and shape that curve, that softness against the beat in Jamil’s hands. 

  You find Jamil doing the same.

  “I..” A moment with the smile, before it fades. "I was lying before. When I said I remembered." You admit. "I don't remember anything about my human life. My mother, my father, siblings if I had any." Come to think of it‒ did you even remember your Master's face? All you could recall is his hands, the grind of his teeth. "I don't have anyone, or anything. And I guess I never have."

  Jamil continues to massage the oil into your scalp. "That's not true. You have us now, you have…" Me. The two of us. We'll be... He bites his tongue, swallows the blood with ease. You hear a deep breath sipped between his lips, as if the words would continue to tumble out. He lets it go. "You have the people here at NRC. You'll make friends in no time."

  "But I already have you." You loll your head upwards, look at him with weary eyes. "And Kalim. Isn't that enough?"

  His heart at his throat, again. That unforgiving weight. Fast learner, his mother always praised. He's learned now to speak through the gulping waves, but he still can't look at you. So he moves your neck back, continues to work his hands through your hair. "You'll learn how to make connections with more people. You can start a new life. You're safe now." 

  "I know I'm safe." You lean into his touch, he's here. "I know."

  "Then you'll be making friends in no time."

——————————————————

   You didn't think you'd find yourself in a situation like this again, but you know human cruelty could cross all borders, all worlds. 

  "You're such a fucking creep, you know that?"

  There’s no movement from you as they grab you from behind, binding you with their arms. 

  “Hey, say something, freak.” 

  You swallow their gaze with your own‒ a step back, fear in their eyes. “What would you like me to say?”

  A scoff. Two steps forward. “Is that all you do? Do as you’re told? Are you even human, or just some fucked up emotionless puppet?”

  “I was.” 

  There’s a sensation in your gut, you find his knee embedded in the skin against your ribs. A breath out, you don’t let out a sound. 

  "You're no fun."

  “I bet you don’t even bleed the same color as us.” The knife glints behind his back. 

  People always did that‒ they seldom took you head on with their blades and tools‒ their flesh. They always binded you, knocked you cold on the ground before they revealed their gnashing teeth between their crumbling facade. “Show us then, here.” He signals to the other two to let go of your arms. You land on your hands and knees, center to the knife he tosses to the ground. 

  “Go ahead, show us.” Ah, there it is. That smile that is cut and carved in that estrangement.

  Like us, but no longer. 

  They're right. You're not. 

  You've always had to move head on with your weapons, your flesh. Contact had always been a way to reap people of their life so you’d never been afforded such delicacies as lily white hands and hidden blades. All the pain in your life had been faced as a straight swinging hammer. And you were already priming yourself for this one, sanding down sensation and feeling that had heightened with every day you spent here. With him. 

  The flesh is as cold as the blade. You hug the silver against the vein emerging violet against your skin. Would it be red, like the stain of your hands? Or some darkened thing, sunken of all its color and rotten from your vice? Truth is, you were curious too. 

  You draw. 

  "You…!" One of them gasps between the teeth that spread wide on the red of his cheeks. "This freak really did it!"

  It's too dark to see the color of the smooth liquid, but you bring it up to the light to inspect it. The three who stand illuminated against it back away gasping in disgust. 

  It's red, after all.

  "Let's get the hell out of here before anyone finds us with that thing." They snicker, shove each other and scramble away. 

  You lay awake, dying. 

  You're used to seeing the weight of blood draining out of bodies, but to feel it pouring from your own makes you feel more alive and crimson than ever. This soaring must be the reason to the confessions of love, you think. But for you it's always been an immutable distance between other flesh‒ like us, but no longer. And you were no longer, if you had ever belonged. There is no one you could weave those sentiments into if you wanted to. No matter how flushed you felt with that writhing red substance, you knew your face had never been softened with it enough to reach towards others‒ to say, here I am too. Always, it had been straight backed, stone faced strokes you faced life's hearth with, and now it was all twisted into ash now, too.

  You dragged yourself upwards, feel the blood rushing down your body to the earth. There’s barely anyone in the halls‒ you think of that night where you fought Jamil, where he had saved you once before you had even asked for it. 

  You want to see the stars. 

  The door creaks open as you stumble into it. There’s very little in your room‒ the things they had provided you with‒ covers, linens, mattresses, pillows, all that softness had been enough. You think yourself greedy‒ hungry as you look to the metal lunch boxes that sit clean on your bedside table. It was a ritual every morning to bring it to Jamil and help him prepare everything‒ let him slowly work the old habits from you as he told you everytime, “do you want more?” And of course you’d accept every time‒ how could you not? Everything tasted amazing and warm, you’d be a fool not to run straight towards all of that when you could, all of that “from now on”. But, it’s all over now. It was all the world’s delight when it lasted. There’s still an ache, in your chest, and all over like keyholes pricking through your body to see something you could not. 

  You see the stars. 

  The window you press your cheek against is cold as you devour the scene outside the window. The breath that comes dried from your throat is choppy, thickset with iron, but you’re used to the taste‒ savor it even, as your tongue had longed for such a taste of your own, thrashing life. 

  Tomorrow, you’d be a cold, fallen thing that will be burned of all of your hardened flesh to your brittle bones‒ and those who witness the pyre will claim to have not seen a heart within it that had moved you in any meaningful way. 

  But tonight‒ tonight is a perfect night. You hear your own heartbeat, and the warm breeze that combs through that sound carries the sand lapping against the starlight, brushing them into the skies as their own dazzling things‒‒ and the stars‒ oh the stars. It’s as beautiful as you remember when you had nearly plummeted into them the night you had met Jamil‒ and all the blissful moments with him you had to gaze upon it, drinking in each constellation, each speck of starlight with a hunger you had never had before him. You feel alive, tonight, and hungrier than usual. But there are twice as many stars out tonight, so you ravage all that splendor.

  You’re tired, you want to close your eyes, but you tell yourself‒ one more second. Another. Another. 

  The thought rolls in your mind at least a thousand, thousand times before there’s a knock at the door. 

  "It's open."

  “I figured you couldn’t sleep either.” He carries two cups, hands you one. You take it with a smile with your clean hand. “It’s tamarind juice from my home. I think you’ll like it.”  

  You take a sip, delight in how the sweet sour taste rubs raw on your tongue. “I do. Thanks. Why couldn’t you sleep?”

  “Just…” he looks down at his hands. “...thinking. About some things. Someone.”

  You hum. “Yeah. Me too. The stars are beautiful tonight, don’t you think Jamil?” 

  His breath catches in his throat when shape his name with your voice. “They are. What’s this all of a sudden? Feeling wistful?” The amusement in his voice climbs to his cheeks. 

  You let out a breathy laugh, before it fades to something heavy in your throat. “I’m really going to miss you, Jamil.” Your eyes begin to weigh down, you slump your head against the wall, and do everything in your draining power to tilt it towards him. 

  He laughs for a second. “What are you…?” The deep inhale he takes comes out as a sharp shudder when he sees the red staining the entirety of your forearm. “Are you…!” He rushes to clutch your forearm, putting pressure above the cut. But it still spurts forth‒ you knew it would. You counted the seconds it would take before it would be too late. “You’re bleeding! What happened? We have to‒” 

  You smile, and when you put your hand over his you feel his pulse hammering against his skin. The flood of his words cease to a dried breath. 

  "It's funny, Jamil. I think I’ve said goodbye to so many things, you’d think I’d know what to say now. But I still don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

  The reflection of the stars in his eyes are far more alluring than any of the lights traveling hundreds and hundreds of years to reach this sky. It softens you. 

  You feel your body lifting‒ from the pull of death, or Jamil you don’t know. But you lean into it, reaching.

  I am here. 

  You feel it answer, but you find yourself dismembering, fraying to nothing.

——————————————————

   I should have said thank you. You think. Or‒ at least‒ I'm sorry a dozen more times. 

  Thank you Jamil. 

  You think it’s a fading thought, but the light bleeds red through your eyes, and you find yourself waking again. This time, there is a face which awaits you, and a warmth which meets your hand, your touch. 

  “(Name)!” Jamil stands from his chair, pulled immediately to your side. 

  “Jamil.” You rise to your elbows, you want to see him better. “Where am I?” 

  “The infirmary. You‒ ” He casts his gaze down, holding his breath deep in his lungs as he squeezes your hand. You’re here. You let his fist hit your shoulder lightly. “You asshole. You scared me. You idiot.” 

  "I'm sorry." You let him hit against you again, squeeze back. I’m here.

  "You're going to learn how to live‒ weren't you? Why then‒" He takes a gulp of air. "Why?" 

  "I'm sorry."

  He lifts his head. "That wasn't an answer to my question." 

  "I…" You hesitate to let the words unravel from you in the air. "I would say I was just doing as I was told. But I think I wanted to see for myself too."

  “Who‒” The center of his face creases further. "See what?"

  "If I was really human. If I would bleed red like everyone else. If I had a heart that pumped blood instead of an empty tomb of a body." The blood flushes against your skin as you press your hand deeper into his. 

  You continue. "But I think. I think this is proof enough." He’s silent when you lift your hand, already intertwined with his, heartbeats singing. "I can feel the warmth in my hand when I touch yours. That's human‒ right?" You feel the pulse breathing under his palm, and the twitch of his fingers laced through your own that closes it ever so slight around your knuckles. 

  I am here. 

  There's a slight tremble. He's scared‒ you're terrified. You’d thought you knew hunger, after realizing those years of ignorant starvation. Desire is such an ugly thing. To witness. To want. To be unbearably bare‒ nerves flayed and butterflied while you hold your hands in his, that bowl now flooding crimson into your hands. 

  But you feel his heartbeat, the song memorized and echoed with the second one growing in your stomach. Flesh to flesh, heart to heart. 

  There's surprise in his eyes, delight blooming on his cheeks. It pleased you to see him like this, cracking his stillness as he had your own. 

  "Jamil‒ I think‒" You breathe his scent in. "I don't know what I want, yet. But I want to move forward. And live." 

  You hold tighter. I'm here, I'm here. He answers back, closer to his beat. 

  "And, I think‒" You collapse the nerves festering in your mind. "- I know I want to do that with you. If you'll have me." 

  You feel yourself kindling under his touch, you take that fire in like hot coals, smoldering slowly‒ higher‒ higher, you rise. 

  "Will you?" 

  There’s panic that rolls through him, one which nearly chokes his entire body. But you press further and further into him‒ find his shapes in the air. But for once, he doesn’t let himself stifling his ardor, instead, he lets it feather throughout his body, melting that sweetness into his blood and bones. He’d always been a fast learner, but this one he would have to swallow piece by piece.The moments he spent under your unyielding gaze come to him at once, that straight shooting thing like a resplendent comet comes to mind. It is etched into his memories‒ your face which swallows and shows him his own pains, his own desires pressed into him in your hand. Perhaps you were that‒ desire, will. That very thing itself. You’d be with him, help consume every piece of him hand in hand, heart to heart. 

  In that moment, the two of you stand closer than the constellations in the sky‒ such godly things that have been thrust into the cosmos in all of their dazzling, eternal radiance which tethers and claws at the ether. And it feels like forever, with the two of you. A soft thing like the thousand thousand stars reaching their crumbling hands towards each other. 

  You’d never thought of himself a martyr for anything soft. Something of flesh and blood. But that reaching hand was more than enough. A dead thing like the stars you were, but whatever light Jamil had pulled from you was whirling towards him‒ a straight shooting comet. 

  “Of course."

  You curve his desire onto your lips. He does too. 

  You shake. But the two of you grasp your hands tightly to quell it, hand in hand, heart to heart. I am here. What a merciful thing. 

  Together, you take the brimming bowl in your hands, soften your body‒ and drink.

——————————————————

Notes:

Washi is one of the many papers shoji doors can be made out of. There's tesuki kouzo (handmade, made of kouzo/mulberry, usually very expensive and laborious), and more modern materials like rayon or plastic. Washi is a bit of a rarer material, but adds the benefit that it can be dyed, and produced cheaper than kouzo (in most instances), I imagine the mansion as dark‒ black lacquer, darkly dyed washi, embellished with spots of decadent gold.

Sakagura is where sake is brewed and stored, similar to shuzou, a place where sake is made and sometimes also brewed.

Tarutani is a surname that means "cask valley" (cask being the barrels used for alcohol storage)- surnames were often used to indicate status, occupation, even location during older times, much like how family crests (kamon) did

Rice was actually a delicacy up until really the Nobunaga era where agricultural advancements happened, even then until the Taisho era, Rice was not readily available to lower class since the Tokugawa Shogunate (feudal military government) had very strict rules about class mobility and what certain classes could eat, do, speak of, and even wear. I wanted to base the house that MC was serving on Daimyo (feudal lords under Shogun) because they're very grimy and scheming, especially as the military class and samurai began to grow stronger with the Shogunate's influence against the more "democratic" Imperial family‒ and they grew in their corruption before the fall of the Tokugawa Shogunate and instead replaced with a more democratic government with the Imperial family as head during the Meiji restoration ("knock knock, it's America" and Perry's boat lol). Their slimy nature would also kind of fit with MC's master and his motive to take down the Al-Asim family down as assassinations were very frequent during the Sengoku era where Daimyo were killing each other left and right because of their paranoia and greed lmao.

Hair oiling is practiced in a lot of different cultures‒ predominantly in Indian, Egyptian, and Black African cultures. However, in the modern day, it has spread to many different cultures as both a health and therapeutic measure, so I think it would make sense that Jamil would know about it, what with his long luscious locks and all lmao. According to my research Ghergir leaves and oil, as well as Blackseed are commonly used in Arab cultures? Please correct me if I’m wrong lol it’s kind of hard to find historical records and research on this because academia likes to center on the western world and treat non-western cultures as a monolith unfortunately

Tried to incorporate mostly Arabic cuisine but I am not an expert by any means I just know that entire region does magical things with spices the food tastes so good

Weirdly enough a lot of blacksmithing research for this. Idk why I kept reaching for that metaphor but it kinda slays

Tamarind juice or Tamar Hindi is a type of drink meant to be consumed during Ramadan to quench thirst and hunger, something something metaphor

[the-quicksilver-diary]

The Archive

Thunder rolls far beyond, resounding across an endless sea. The ocean crashes upon an island's sheer and jagged cliffs. And on this island, that forsaken hunk of ancient stone cradled in boundless sea and thundering sky, sits the Archive.

The Archive contains mathematical theorems written by the first scholars of the desert lands, and blueprints for vast machines dreamt by visionary artificers. It is a library of genius. The Archive contains forbidden esoterica, and secrets whispered to mad prophets in twilight hours. It is a vault of arcane power. The Archive contains maps of all the stars ever born, all the lands ever roamed, all the children of creation. It is a store of wonder.

For all it contains, the Archive serves as a bastion of memory. Its bricks, whose clay was made wet by tears and made stone by hellfire, were laid by the tireless constructs of yore. Each brick remembers the life cut down to make it, each cry of a widow or whimper of her young. And within those walls, anything known by man, beast, or god is recorded in a book for future retrieval.

The Archive, its name long dead with the poor soul who drafted its layout, is a structure erected aeons ago by sleepless builders, housing all the knowledge ever conceived. Its spires reach tall into the terrible night, grasping for a semblance of starlight unreachable by mortal-laid stone. Along the outer walls of the Archive, facing forever to the moon, are cast a row of stained-glass windows depicting strange geometries.

The moon, in accordance with her cyclical temperament, shines angles of light that refract through these geometries. While within her candle-wax humours, the windows filter light such to display small creatures of the pasture, mirages of wonder and fondness. And while the moon is within her waning and hollow humors, the glass bends to a crueler will and spawns countenances of nightmare and shadow.

These monsters blur the quality of their own outline, substance uncertain against the aether of being, demeanor hostile to the concept of life. Countless visitors to the Archive have become lost in its labyrinthine halls, devoured by phantoms whose rasping bellows call to mind a place that never was.

There once was a Librarian who lived within this grand and damnable Archive. None knew his name, even if such a thing could ever have been important. The Librarian was brilliant, he knew the home and content of every book in his domain. The Archive, as a result, was kept in impeccable and pristine condition. It was a monument of glory and brilliance sought by all in the kingdom of men, holding texts on still-fresh vellum and ink retrieved with lightning swiftness. That is, until came the inexorable end of the Librarian.

The Librarian, alone in his keep, was driven mad by visions of shadows that stalked the Archive's halls. Stalked by shadows that never were, he sought the cold embrace of the deep below. His fall was unremarkable, the splash of his body upon the water unseen among the havoc of the waves. Only the tide mourned for him.

And once the Librarian was gone, the shelves grew angry and afraid. They lost their cohesion, books dissolving through higher dimensions and rotating themselves to opposite ends of the complex. No-one can recall the order or material within these texts. Curious men still search the Archive, some to find wisdom of decaying sages, others to map its Escherian routes. Books open, and their pages bleed, their words illegible to the conscious mind. The Archive has lost its glory, containing still all the knowledge there ever was. And all the same, the hallowed sea sings a dirge for the corpse she cradled, and so sway shadows dreamt by glass.