#its a small palace. so only one person really needs to infiltrate it.

[akechi-stole-my-heart]

what if. i gave pt!sachiko a palace.

[savagesbonergarage]

If you’re still taking requests, how would you feel about a Savage x Reader where the reader works in the Sundari palace as a hand of the duchess/lords and/or works as a diplomat, but then surprises Savage with her combat skills? (Steamy sparring/demonstration of said skills ensue from there? 👀) Feel free to make it as NSFW as you’d like (IF this is something you’d be interested in, that is 😅)!

I mean, of course?

I’m going to take some artistic liberties here and combine this request with another one, the second part to this ask about reader's first kiss with the Opress brothers. ☺️

A/n: I think the only warnings are violence, death and a little steaminess at the end? Nothing TOO steamy though...at least, not in THIS one ;)

This time featuring our favorite golden boy~

Savage

"First Kiss"

It happens after an intense battle.

The cowardly defectors of the Death Watch weren't content leaving Sundari Palace to it's rightful rulers, it seemed. It certainly wasn't an unanticipated move, with Prime Minister Almec having predicted some form of retaliation due to the imprisonment of the former Duchess Satine and the familial bond correlating with that other Kryze traitor who dared to reject Lord Maul upon Vizsla's defeat - however, no one seemed to foresee who their precise targets would be.

Rather than attempt to rescue Satine, they prioritized removing the alien intruders from the positions they obtained directly. An otherwise foolish and hasty move in any other circumstance, yet they managed to establish the perfect link that would lead them to victory - or so they thought. Before they could confront the zabraks they'd have to eliminate Almec, and in order to do that, they needed to eliminate you, his diplomatic aide. It might have worked, too, if they'd only been able to proceed beyond the first phase of their plan.

Unfortunately for them, you were also a mandalorian. Perhaps not the sort that paraded around in their armor and clung to their identity as a warrior for dear life, but you were well-versed in combat nonetheless. Despite the lack of battle situations in your daily life, you could hold your own fairly well should the need ever arise.

Today, it did.

You watched from the balcony of the palace as the city below became erratic with suspicious activity, the guards at their stations displaying unusual behavior as you watched them leave their posts and return unannounced, all the while some approaching unknown speeders crossed the boundaries of royal property - something only the traitors of the Death Watch would recklessly attempt. Clearly, some had already infiltrated the palace and were transmitting orders for a coup. Almec was inside, but he did at least have a few bodyguards with him. You, however, weren't detrimental enough to require protection, and therefore made an easy target to subdue before moving on to the rest of the ruling body - in theory.

In practice, the Death Watch assailants soon discovered that the first phase of their assassination plot had a bit of a hiccup, and by 'hiccup' that meant 'the weak-looking young lady in fancy robes is killing us, actually'. Every warrior that was sent up to dispatch you was never heard from again, and by the time the fourth comm cut out, they began arriving in pairs, and then triads. Eventually, too much precious time and muscle was wasted and the entire palace was made aware of the plot, with the red-embellished mandalorians quickly arriving to thwart the forces of the blue-armored enemies.

It was now or never if they had any hopes of weakening the fundamentals of the ruling body, so in a desperate attempt to at least get through to dispatch Almec, almost every one of their soldiers was sent to exterminate you. Ultimately this didn't go unnoticed, and even the zabrak brothers themselves were made privy to the onslaught of traitors surrounding you. Rather than send in reinforcements on his behalf, Savage was anxious to handle the situation on his own - for exactly what reason he couldn't quite determine - although he was cognizant of the fact that if it were anyone else being attacked, he wouldn't be as inclined to get personally involved.

Even though you were well-taught, you were only a single individual and therefore hardly capable of taking on what was undoubtedly a small army. The large and powerful zabrak arrived just in the nick of time to see you about to be overwhelmed by a handful of heavier-looking infantry soldiers, and before the final blows could be dealt, you looked up after being alerted to the sound of men screaming to see Savage’s arms yanking two of your attackers away and throwing them violently over the balcony. The crimson blades of his double-bladed lightsaber ignited, sending a rush of anticipation for what was to come through you as he stood with his back to you somewhat protectively, however, his resoundingly low voice ushered in a command that forbade your involvement.

"Leave, servant."

You collected yourself to the best of your ability and geared up to do as you were told, wiping some blood away from your face as you slinked off to let the zabrak handle the rest of the enemies. There weren't many left, no doubt he could defeat them all easily-

However, a horde of red-clad foes in stolen armor quickly flooded onto the platform via jetpack as well as on foot and surrounded him from all sides, firing projectiles and flames from their gauntlets all at once in an attempt to subdue him. They concentrated absolutely all of their firepower on Savage, aware that he'd still manage to take most of them out, which he did - but not before sustaining some significant damage. You watched the scene unfolding, taking notice of their strategy and how they were timing their efforts to make a constant barrage of attacks that would gradually injure him until he was weak enough to kill.

You weren't about to stand by and let that happen.

Fortunately, it seemed that your presence was all but forgotten while they focused on the beast rattling them around with his brute strength and bursts of force energy, which gave you the opportunity to give him more of a fighting chance before it was too late. There were openings all around, and although it would be risky to your own safety, you never thought twice about hesitating. Most of the onslaught that he couldn't deter was aerial, their attacks inevitable while he focused on battling the ground enemies that were posing a more immediate threat. That was your chance.

You made yourself known to them, running back out onto the balcony and yelling something to the effect of "forget something, di'kut?" while you left yourself an open and vulnerable target. One of the airborne attackers took the bait, redirecting his attention to you as he shot a restraining line from his gauntlet. You allowed it to reach you and wrap all around your leg, the wire sharp enough to constrict and cut through to exposed skin, yet you acted quickly despite the pain and yanked on the line with every ounce of strength you had, ignoring the cuts your palms sustained as you did so. He jerked downward, only by a few feet but it was enough that you could jump and latch onto him, delivering a swift kick to his face as you used the edge of his breastplate to cut the wire while you climbed onto his shoulders. He reached for you, but not quickly enough, as your thighs strangled his head and you violently jerked your hips all the way to the side, an obscene crack of bone sounding through the air as you ended him. The body went limp, yet the jetpack kept operating and you used the opportunity to guide yourself and the corpse to another of the flying opponents.

With a vibroblade that you retrieved from the dead man's belt, you punctured the jetpack and lept off of it right before the impact. He collided with an enemy utilizing their flamethrower, and the result was a fiery and undoubtedly lethal explosion that consumed not only its immediate target, but the remaining airborne attackers as well. You fell, not as gracefully as you would have liked with the force of the blast above sending you down hard, making a controlled landing nearly impossible - if you even landed, that is. Luckily, Savage took notice of your predicament and used the force to not-so-gently catch you before you missed the trajectory of the balcony completely, and with a flick of his wrist you were flung onto the hard ground. It wasn't a very graceful landing, either, as he was still preoccupied with his own battle when he helped you out - therefore the back of your head and torso took the brunt of your fall, which served to quicky render you unconscious.

~

The throbbing pain in your skull was sensational before you even opened your eyes. The smell of bacta filled your nostrils and the sterile sting of it was piercing through the open wounds on your skin, making you wince. However, what really seemed to fully awaken you wasn't any discomfort from this, but from the cold compress against your forehead. You stirred, and just before your lids cracked open, the pressure of the compress lessened significantly and the rag slid down the side of your face. There was a whoosh of air beside you, prompting you to look in that direction to see the blurry visage of black and gold heading toward the door.

"Lord Savage?" you inquired, voice caught between a croak and a squeak.

He stilled, apparently debating on whether or not to leave the medbay now that you had acknowledged his presence. After what felt like a full minute he pivoted on his feet to face you again, taking a single step forward as he thought of something to say.

"So," he began, a strange tinge of embarrassment in his tone, "you survived."

"I... yes," you replied, feeling a little flustered yourself for some reason, "...so did you." There was a pause that carried an unnerving amount of tension in it, and you decided to say something else to remedy the stupidly obvious statement you made. "What happened? Did the enemy retreat?"

Savage answered quickly, somewhat relieved to be having a less personal discussion. "Yes. Their forces were significantly depleted. Lord Maul is pleased with the outcome of the battle. I'm also- um...I'm pleased-, uh, grateful-, um, you fought good. Well. You fought well."

A small smile tugged at the edge of your lips, the unanticipated compliment lifting your spirits significantly. "Um, thank you. You fought well as...well."

Another painfully awkward silence. You swallowed, suddenly remembering your position as a diplomatic servant indebted to one of your masters. You spoke again, reverently and candidly. "Thank you for guiding my fall. You saved my life."

The zabrak's countenance softened for a moment before you took notice of the bob in his throat and what might have been a temporary flush in his tattooed cheeks. "Yes. Um, I apologize that it was a harsh impact. I was afraid that it did more har-" he caught himself, taking a moment to cough awkwardly into his fist before he continued, "I'm glad you're not dead." He winced after he spoke.

You felt your own face getting warmer, and this time you knew that it wasn't due to the absence of the cold cloth against your skin. It was...strange enough that he had complimented you earlier, and now he was more or less expressing relief that you were alive. It wasn't inherently anything to feel flustered about, yet you felt like he wouldn't have said those things let alone be here with you if it were anyone else. You couldn't quite discern what that possibly meant, but there was no denying what you hoped it was...

You snapped back into reality when you heard his voice again, realizing that you had been stupidly staring right at him while you were lost in thought. He looked almost strained, as though he was trying to be as nonchalant as possible and utterly failing to do so. "Your...injuries are stabilized?"

"Um..."

You sat up a little to get a better look at your own body, all properly bandaged and set despite the pain.

"Yes. What about your- oh."

Your thought was interrupted when you finally analyzed the man before you and found that he was still pretty battered in most places, the major wounds clean but still irritated without any coverings. He was raising a non-existent brow at you, confused by your concerned expression as you quickly forgot to filter your questions. "Do you not like bacta patches?"

Savage momentarily seemed somewhat reluctant to answer the question, but evidently decided to do so anyway. "I'm fine with patches. I hate droids."

Ah. After the unexpected welcome he and his brother received when the Death Watch first acquired them, it only made sense that Savage wasn't privy to being operated on by machines - and with the medbay being staffed solely with them, his disinclination to have his wounds checked was understandable. Still, your worry was outweighing your conscience, and the words slipped out before you could stop them. "I can help you."

Once again, silence. You wished that you'd been killed when your head hit the ground. What were you thinking, offering care beyond your duty to Lord Savage of all-

"Alright."

You blinked. He was serious. You both cleared your throats and avoided one another's eyes as he fumbled around looking for a chair to place at your bedside and you clumsily retrieved some bacta patches from your side table drawer. You set them on your lap and looked over as you felt him plop down onto the seat, and you almost audibly gasped when from the corner of your eye you realized he was nearly naked. You hadn't even heard him remove his heavy armor, but you...you didn't mind it. Don't stare, do not stare, do not-

"L-Let me see your arm," you managed to say coyly, feeling ridiculous as he extended his forearm and rested it in your hands, which made them look absolutely miniature in comparison. Savage was obviously a large man, but actually having him close like this and touching him only made the size difference that much more apparent. This was also something you didn't mind. His skin was so warm and rough even in places where the flesh would be more supple on anyone else, the texture so oddly pleasing against your fingertips, which were lingering a little longer than they should have been with every new patch you applied. It didn't take long for you to realize that your heart was racing, and you had to consciously pace your breaths to keep them from becoming ragged. Maker, pull yourself together!

Before long, you had applied the final patch and it was time to dress the last wound - his swollen lip. It didn't need an entire patch for such an insignificant injury, only a dab of bacta gel that you gingerly applied with the pad of your ring finger. This time, neither of you were able to avoid eye contact. You were both extremely cognizant of the...tenderness being displayed, and you could only hope that you weren't making him too uncomfortable, let alone aware of your more hidden impressions. You felt the warm wetness of the inside of his mouth against your finger, and with that you abruptly took your hand away before you did, said or thought something you might regret.

"Finished."

Savage examined your handiwork, seemingly pleased with the results. "Thank you."

"You're-, oh. I missed one."

You took his hand and faced the meat of his palm in your direction so you could get a better view of the significant scrape there. Once you had finally applied the actual last bandage, you smiled softly and breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

"There we go," you uttered aloud, and without thinking, you brought his massive palm up to your lips and lightly kissed the patch over where the wound was. A beat. Your entire countenance sank as the realization of your actions finally hit you with the force of fifty rancors. Oh God. Oh my God. I really just did that. I just-

You reluctantly lifted your head to see that Savage was just as puzzled as you were, a little frozen in place as his eyes never left that spot on his hand. "What...?"

Oh, kriff.

"I-," you blurted, stopping yourself before you said I'm sorry, since, well, you weren't. Obviously you wanted to do it, but now the difficult part was explaining to the giant zabrak sitting in front of you what it all meant. Hell, you didn't really know for yourself what it all meant. "It's..." you tried again, "it's an old healing gesture. Parents will do it to their children's wounds to 'kiss them better'".

Dear God, that sounded even more pathetic out loud. Was it too late to run back out to the balcony and jump off? Maybe you could catch Lord Maul in a bad mood and he'd mercifully end you? Forget Maul, the zabrak you should be the most concerned with was presently almost right in your lap and any second now he could become unhinged-

Only, he didn't. He only looked...curious. Not angry, not confused, simply just curious. He was still studying his hand, his golden irises flickering while you all but held your breath. "Interesting," he finally replied, quelling your anxiety for the moment, "does it always work?"

"Um-"

His hand was at your mouth before you could respond, his expression charmingly eager. "Again."

Again?

He wanted you to do it again? To kiss his wound...again? You swallowed, your chest swelling up not with fear exactly, but with a strange anticipation that you weren't expecting to feel that night. It wasn't your place to deny him what he wanted, so you held his wrist up with both of your hands and carefully placed another kiss in the same spot, letting it linger for a while longer than the last. Your lips made a tiny yet audible smack against his skin when you pulled away, and Savage's eyes weren't on his wound when you drew back - they were on you.

"Hm," he whispered, "it works."

"Lord-"

"Here," Savage interrupted, bringing your hand to the patch on his chest, "this one, next."

You gazed up at him, as if to inquire if this was really okay, and his expression in return was genuinely insistent. Did he... Did he really believe that your kisses were helping, or was he...? You tried not to think about it too much, instead simply closing your eyes and bringing your lips to each patch he guided you to - his chest, his arm, his stomach, his thigh, his shoulder - and when you pulled away, heart pounding so rapidly there was no possible way of concealing it, your blush deepened when you felt Savage's lip against your fingertips. You gazed at him once again through half-lidded eyes and silently asked if he knew, if he really knew what he was doing - turns out, he did. He absolutely did. His arm was already snaking around your waist-

You started out carefully, just in case, only barely allowing your palms to graze against his pecs as you leaned in and softly collected the most swollen part of his lip in yours. You kept it chaste, making no moves to deepen it, and neither did he. You simply stayed like that for a while, only applying the slightest bit more pressure right before you pulled away. Your eyes met. There was a dual beating beneath your palms - two hearts - and with no further words needing to be exchanged between you, your mouths swiftly met again in tandem and your embrace on one another tightened. It wasn't very chaste this time, Savage uttering a growl into your mouth that wasn't at all menacing while his teeth grazed your lips, rather, it came from a place of sheer desire and need and passion-

It wasn't much longer before his large frame was pressing you into the bed, one of your hands cupping the back of his neck and the other gripping onto one of his long horns as you felt the bedframe staggering to support the weight. Savage also took notice of this and finally parted from you long enough to speak, his low breaths sensual and uneven. "Perhaps we'll continue this in my private chambers..." he growled into your neck, sending heat coursing all throughout your body before he finally asked, "do any of your wounds require...a healing gesture?"

You managed a playful chuckle, tenderly bringing your lips to his once more. "Yes. All of them."

He smiled against your skin before effortlessly picking you up and holding you against his chest. "I have my work cut out for me," he purred against your neck before pulling your body even closer to him. "I'll take all your pain away."

[philliamwrites]

killing me softly with his song | (Childe / Reader) [chpt.1]

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Pairing: Childe / Reader

Tags: #fem!reader, #from childhood friends to lovers, #reader is a fatui agent, #slow burn, #unresolved sexual tension, #mature language, #forbidden love

Words: 2k

Summary: "Lybuov zla, polyubish i kozla," sighs your sister as she wipes off the table, but that makes you feel even more miserable. Falling for a goat might save you from an actual heartbreak by Tartaglia's hands.

____________

Loosely connected chapters about you and Childe finding happiness. Maybe.

Notes: Part 2

Masterlist

***

childe? what a problematic asshole i hate him i- *trips* *thousands of pictures of childe spill from pockets* fuck those aren’t mine i swear i’m just holding them for a friend i- *slips on a pile of pictures* fu ck no they’re not mine i hate him i just- *more pictures fall out as i fall to my knees, desperately trying to pick them up* hang on a sec jUst LISTEN

Chapter 1

     A cold gust of icy wind drives you deeper into the sheets and you swear by the name of Her Majesty Herself once you get up and find Alexei, you’ll smother him with a towel for leaving a window open in the middle of the night.

    Somewhere outside, a rooster crows. Fine, not dead of the night then, but no one cares for technicalities like these when sleep is involved. Especially after a night like this one, when Alexei fucked you into oblivion and back, you need every minute of shuteye you can get before another day of exhausting missions in the Chechnaya Taiga of Snezhnaya claims your last strand of sanity.

    It’s peaceful mornings like these that make it all worthwhile though—the quiet during the early golden hour when people slowly wake up to a brand-new day and get ready to do their chores, their factory work. The sheer number of possibilities stretching out before their hands, and hope rekindled every morning despite the harsh cold waiting at their doorsteps. You love how everything stands still, how even the uncaring universe seems to grant people a sliver of peace, allows them to be soft and vulnerable. To be kind to themselves by indulging in a freshly brewed cup of coffee or tea. Nothing can spoil this for you, nothing and no one—

    An awkward cough sounds from the door. You close your eyes, willing him to disappear by simply ignoring him, but his eyes burn into the back of your head like two smouldering coals and eventually, you turn around to see Alexei standing in the door frame, shifting from left to right. “There’s someone out there who wants to talk to you,” he says.

    Turning around, you try to disappear into your pillow. “Whoever it is, I’m sure they can wait until it isn’t such a damn unholy time.”

    Alexei clears his throat. “It’s uhm … it’s someone from the Fatui.”

    Your eyes snap open. Suddenly the warm, cosy blankets feel like a snake’s tight hold around your body, and you struggle out of its grip, grabbing for the dressing gown you carelessly threw around the back of your chair last night.

    The sun hangs low in the east, painting the city of Kerch that stretches outside of your window a sheen of dusky gold. When the red-brown bricks of the dacha cottages come into view, you think of the gingerbread houses you used to make as a child every year in celebration of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa of the Zapolyarny Palace.

    Cold already seeps into your bones even though the robe is tight around your body. You hiss when your bare feet hit the icy floor but can’t find your slippers. Time to die like a woman.

    You brush past Alexei, who’s scratching his head, still just in his underwear and you think him crazy for walking around half-naked like that even though it’s minus 58F outside and the heating systems inside your barracks only start to work once outside temperatures drop to minus 75F.

    Maybe what they say is true. People from around Noyabrsk in the north of Snezhnaya regularly dip into frosty rivers and you do remember him mentioning ice swimming is his hobby. It was one of the few things you thought attractive about him. Actually, it was the only thing you thought attractive about him.

    Light streams into the floor from the kitchen, flickering once, twice in dangerous foreboding. It’s time to switch the lightbulb. Tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure, because that isn’t important right now. What’s important is Tartaglia sitting at your table, leaning back in a chair, both feet crossed on top of the table, and eating your leftover mayonnaise sandwich you saved up for breakfast.

    His eyes slide lazily toward you, taking in your form—barefoot, shivering even though the fur from your bathrobe is of the finest white wolf fur obtainable on the market.

    Tartaglia finishes your sandwich, smacks his lips and licks mayo off his fingers. He doesn’t even like it, and you know from time to time he can’t handle dairy all that well. He just eats it because he knows how it infuriates you.

    “Alexei, huh,” he says in lieu of hello. “Didn’t know you’re into himbos.”

    Behind you, Alexei makes a sound like a kicked puppy. You glare at him over your shoulder, then jut your chin towards the front door. “Out. Now.”

    He doesn’t wait for you to repeat yourself. Surprisingly fast for a guy this big, he bolts into your room, gets dressed in record speed and leaves your little one-bedroom apartment without so much as a Goodbye or “We’ll hear from each other,” and you prefer it that way. It saves stuff from getting messy.

    Speaking of messy, you really wish Tartaglia would have sent you a note before coming. The smell of icy wind and snowy forests clings to his clothes. He must have come straight from a mission, not unusual in the slightest, yet in most cases he sends a message your way just to make sure he doesn’t run into one of your one-night stands and it doesn’t get ugly.

    Like right now.

    “I thought you had a little more class than that,” he says nonchalantly. His feet keep wobbling from left to right until you make your way over and push them off your table. Not that you actually sit there to take your meals, no. But this is your home, you have to assert dominance.

    “Well, I’m not picky,” you say, taking the empty chair opposite from him. “The nights of Fyrva’snezh are really fucking cold.”

    “I’m sure Fire-Water will do the same trick.” He’s sulking, yet he has no right to it and knowing Tartaglia, that’s why he sulks even more.

    Your relationship can be summarised with one word: complicated. Which is funny, because besides martial arts classes (taught by a teacher that is a real ball of sunshine who could easily snap your spine like a twig) and infiltration tactics courses (led by a grumpy teacher who once woke you all up in the middle of the night to do a spontaneous quiz about infiltration steps and everyone who failed or fell asleep had to run a marathon through the forest in their underwear) you had to take at the Fatui military school of Zapolyarny, they also teach mathematics and molecular physics, and that shit was complicated.

    Growing up in a small seaside village—bless little Morepesok; how much you miss babushka Katya’s refreshing botvinia soup—with only a handful kids your age, gravitating towards Tartaglia was the natural development. He loves ice-fishing, you love eating fish. You gag just smelling solyanka, he wolfs it down like it might be his last meal on earth. Opposites attract each other, as they say, and how true it is for you two—you, the morning person and he, the night owl; his will of iron and your nerves of steel. Your bow, his sword, even though Tartaglia is a masochist who likes to make it hard for himself by trying to switch weapons solely because you’re better at it than him and he is a sore loser.

    His worship of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, your fear of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa.

    “I don’t think you came all the way here just to call me a slut,” you say. He is in no position to do so anyway, because Camilla from the ptychy’moloko shop down the road that leads to the Sarov church didn’t shut up about blowing him for weeks until you sent her a liver of a pig and claimed that was the leftovers from the last girl that thought she could put a leash on the Eleventh of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers. Camilla quickly moved on to an inconspicuous merchant who sells matryoshka dolls for a living and all is well that ends well.

    “What do you want?”

    Tartaglia starts tapping a gloved finger against the wooden table, a nervous tick you don’t know he’s aware of.

    “I’m leaving for Liyue first thing tomorrow.” His tone is low when he speaks, his earlier nonchalance replaced by a sense of urgency.

    “Okay.” It isn’t the first time he’s leaving Snezhnaya by order of the Tsaritsa, but every time he does, something inside you leaves with him. “So, you want me to keep an eye out for Teucer and the others?”

    “He’s really unhappy I’m leaving again already.” Tartaglia doesn’t mention the reason he was sent away just a couple of months ago to Inazuma was because he accidentally blew up an artillery factory belonging to a nobleman that secretly shipped orders to Fontain. The fallout from that was easier to handle with him not being anywhere nearby. Tartaglia is like a pair of hot tongues; no one is sure where to put him or how soon he would cool off, but if they just drop him, he might light the world on fire. Kid gloves are put on and a careful perimeter marked out.

    “And what excuse did you make up this time?” You knock your foot into his leg, lingering on his calf just a second too long before withdrawing again. “Another business trip to promote your toys? You can’t hold up this charade forever, you know.”

    “Why, your eyes feast on Snezhnaya’s greatest expatriate toy seller, now extending to the Liyue Branch of our Institute for Toy Research.” Tartaglia’s eyes have taken on a playful glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “You wouldn’t be so cold to break a little boy’s heart. That’s not you.”

    You want to remind him that you have no problem to put an arrow between a man’s eyes, or rip out his fingernails, one by one, to get the information that you want.

    “You owe me, toy man.”

    “Put it on my tab.”

    Tartaglia looks like there’s something else he wants to say, but as always, he decides to swallow those words even though they must hurt like swallowing needles. You know that feeling, and so you help him sort out his tightly entangled yarn of emotions by figuratively pushing him off the cliff.

    “Don’t forget to bring condoms. I hear the women of Liyue are beautiful.”

    Tartaglia goes a sickly grey colour, like the ashes of a dead fire, but he’s been the leading role of this play too long to fall out of character now. He gets up and stretches like a cat getting comfortable in a spot of sunlight. His jacket rides up, showing a stripe of skin, and you quickly turn your head away before giving into leaning over the table and mark him with your teeth.

    Patting his left pants’ pocket, Tartaglia says, “I’m always prepared.” He carries a grin that is dry, humourless, and for a brief moment, you two lock eyes, trading a look that feels like a dare. You allow yourselves to imagine how he picks you up and carries you to your bed where you two would proceed to fuck without abandon through the whole day and the following night, leaving the bed only to get food until Tartaglia leaves for Liyue and you’d send each other love letters until his return. What an idea. What an utterly stupid, naive, wonderful idea.

    “Well, lucky ladies,” you say, not bothering to hide the jealousy in your voice because jealousy is easier to handle than regret.

    “Lucky indeed,” he agrees and dons his easy-going smile, one that he’s perfected after hours upon hours in front of the mirror until it accomplished what he wanted: to mock people, infuriate them.

    On his way out, he stops to ruffle your hair in an affectionate way, one typical for childhood friends, but the distance between you is like the ocean separating Snezhnaya from Liyue.

    It was on the very first day of your conscription into the military organisation, Number Six of the Ten Laws that the Fatui abide by: Any physical or romantic relationship between Fatui agents is prohibited. As thou would not exchange flesh with thy brother or sister, so thou shalt not with your comrade, for he or she is thy brother or sister in arms.

    And everyone knows Her Majesty the Tsaritsa’s word is law, and though the law is hard, it is the law.

__________________________________________________

please drop by my ko-fi if you enjoyed my writing!

[mudhornchronicles]

sanguine | din djarin

pairing: din djarin x f!reader

warnings: mentions of violence, angst, yodito’s name spoiler, face reveal, sexual references but aren’t toooo explicit

a/n: this is part two for maroon. 

i made up a planet because i couldn’t find a planet that wouldn’t be obvious to hiding Mandalorians, ya know? I’ve never written smut before and as much as I wanted to include it, I’d just ruin it BUT I’m learning lol. also, happy new year to everyone! I hope this year brings you joy, health, and happiness. please enjoy and let me know what you think!

masterlist

No matter how long it has been, you are always thrown back to the day you lost everything. Your necklace is a constant reminder of the death of you. No matter if you’re at the market buying the supplies you’re running dangerously low on or if you’re in the midst of stitching up a laceration - your hand always finds its way around the symbol of pain.

The gunfire. The screams. The tears. The loss.

The nightmares are a virus you cannot get rid of with medication. After all these years, the past plagues you even after you have tried your hardest to move on.

When you made it to the planet Alegoria, the emperor, Krusean, took you all as his own people. The warriors who were once faithful to the creed willingly relinquished their armor for civilian clothing in order to conceal their true heritage. You witnessed every brave soul you saw defeat Mandalore’s invaders once upon a time diminish to discomfited individual’s seeking purpose aside from duty. Alegoria gave you the opportunity to become the independent being your father always wanted you to be, but every time you took five steps ahead, the thought of him infiltrated your mind and you retreated into the shell of a person you arrive as.

Because of your skill set you found yourself excel with, Emperor Krusean found it ideal to have you stay in the palace as his assistant. You preferred not living in a home you did not earn, but you agreed to always carrying a commlink. An agreement that you felt safe with. You found yourself comfortable in the presence of the emperor, or Krusean as he liked to be called. He was an older gentleman, nearing his sixties, and he was a man with a heart of gold. You reminded him of his daughter, his army’s lieutenant, who gave her life for her father’s. You both had a connection, and he became your family as you did his.

So much, that he was only person on Alegoria, aside from your own people, who knew about your lost love.

The day was as every other with the exception of the sky being painted in rich reds and pretty pinks – something that happened every three to four months. You knew a sanguine palette awaited tonight’s night sky. Always a beautiful sight.

As you ran your daily errands, you began to note the people of Alegoria, the former Mandalorians to be exact, seemed on edge. You walked up to a few and they came across jumpy. You looked up and you caught sight of three ships and one of them gave you the fear you have not felt in a long time – a tie fighter.

As it appeared to be landing, chaos unfolded.

The screams and tears returned, but the gunfire was absent.

You felt sick. You could not move but were forced by one of the emperor’s guards. They barked out orders to shelter themselves and reminding them of the evacuation plans if needed. The guard escorted you back to the palace in a speeder made specifically for attaching life-boards. They were the evacuation plan.

Once through the palace walls, you ran straight to the emperor. As you ran, you could not help but to attach your hand on your signet and ring adorning your neck. You brought them up to your shaking lips, giving them both a kiss and whispering an apology to whoever was listening. You found the emperor barking orders at his general to secure the city’s perimeter – his people’s safety came first.

He spotted you and ran to you, bringing you into his arms and placing a kiss on the crown of your head. You could not stop shaking as he held you, telling you that everything would be okay. He informed you that the radars did not detect any other ships – just the three crafts and seven life forms. He asked you to go into the safe room underneath the palace while the situation get assessed and you oblige, knowing he must have thousands of thoughts running through his mind.

While you sat underneath the fortress, you thought back to him. You were able to move on from losing Mandalore, but you could never move on from him. You clutched his ring in your hand and let out the tears you had been suppressing for years. You never allowed yourself to vocalize his name, let out cry about him.

“I miss you so much, ner kar’ta. I have never given up on you, but I couldn’t wait around and do nothing.” you kiss his ring and continue to voice your ache. “The people I was with, my love, they aren’t you. They could not make me feel shielded from the galaxy’s wrath like you did. I’ve stayed here because I didn’t want to miss you when you came to find me, but I- I don’t know if I can go through life unknowing of what’s out there.” You jump as you hear the door of the safe room unlock and swing open. You see Emperor Kursean come in with this look on his face that you have never seen while in your presence – sympathy.

He refuses to answer your questions and protests of leaving the room. He leads you to the room you never made yours. He stops in front of the tall doors and brings you into his arms. You return his hug and ask a simple question before he leaves you.

“Krusean, am I going to die?”

He looks at you incredulous. Why would you ever ask him that question? How can you think that he would let you die?

“Sweet girl. What you will see through this door is the past you need to either close or welcome. You need to stop running away from what made you stronger.”

He places a single kiss on your forehead and leaves you.

Your hands begin to shake. You cannot help but to feel scared. You do not know who or what can be behind these doors and you do not know why they are here. You take a deep breath in and it comes out with a quiver. You place your trembling hand on the handle and push down. You hear the distinctive click and you lightly push. The room is pitch black except for the crimson light bleeding through the balcony. You step inside and close the door behind you. You feel the second being in the room, but you are not frightened. It is a friendly aura which eases you. A minute passes by and as you are about to leave you hear it. The sound that you have been longing to hear all these years.

His voice.

You tense at the sound of his voice saying your name. It pleads for you to stay and so you do. You are not scared for your life, but now as you have heard it, you fear for your heart. You cannot take another heartbreak. You just would not survive turning around and this voice telling you goodbye for the final time, or worse it not being him at all.

The voice says your name one more time and you finally slowly turn. You feel as though your heart has stopped and splattered over the floor.

It is not him.

You have never seen this warrior before. The armor is not a design you recognized, but the color is what gives you a sliver of hope.

It is silver. Mourning a lost love.

You find yourself staring at the figure in front of you and your eyes catch the handle to the weapon of the Mand’alor.

As you have been taught to do by your father, you bow your head as a sign of respect.

“Su cuy'gar, ner Mand’alor.”

The Mand’alor says nothing; he only reaches out to stroke your cheek.

“Su cuy'gar, ner riduur.”

You felt as if time froze. This cannot be him. This cannot be your love. The di’kut you fell in love with could not have become the leader of Mandalore. You could not stop the tears any longer.

“I-I can’t… How did… is it really you?”

He placed your delicate hands into his and his helmet appeared to be nodding. He is shaking again. You can feel it once more.

“It is my love. I gave you my word. I promised I would find you. I never stopped looking for you. I just hope I’m not too late.”

You shook you head, giving him the answer he hoped to receive.

“Din,” you whispered just enough for it to kiss his ears.

You did not know what overcame your body, but you blinked and your arms were around his neck; his around you. You sobbed his name repeatedly into the small opening between the lip of his helmet and his broad shoulder and all he can do was cry with you.

He had finally found you. After years of searching every planet he was sent to, he finally found the person he gave his entire being to. He felt whole. You felt complete. He held you in his arms so tight, you felt as if you became stone. A statue carved to perfection with the two central pieces fitting together with a seamless union.

“I also promised you something else if I remember correctly.”

As much as you did not want to let go of him, you let your arms fall from his shoulders, but held his hand in yours. With your free hand, you fished out his ring, your engagement ring. He held his ring with both his first and second fingers and smiled in his helmet. You kept it, he thought.

“I promised you a proper riduurok, did I not?”

You genuinely smile for the first time in a long time and nod. “Yes, you did. Are you finally making me a part of your clan?” You take a glance at his shoulder to examine the signet gracing his pauldron. “You managed to kill a mudhorn, cabur?” Din looks over to his pauldron and tilts his helmet back to you.

“I had some help. You will be joining my clan and making it three.”

“Three?”

“My foundling, Grogu.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“He’s with his kind now. I promised him I’d see him again and I hope you would be by my side.”

You delicately place your hands on either side of his helmet and bring your foreheads together. “Make me your wife, Djarin.”

“We only had one more vow to recite if my memory serves me well.”

“I’ve waited to long – we’re starting over, my love.”

He leads you to the balcony and a minute later, you are officially a part of Clan Djarin.

“Riduur?”

You glance up to your husband and although his silver helmet sits upon his shoulders, all you see is him.

“Yes, riduur?”

He takes a step in front of you and kneels. He looks up to you and places both your hands on either side of his helmet. For as long as he can remember, Din Djarin perceived himself as this cold-blooded mercenary who only cared about the credits and reputation he would gain, but after finding the kid and learning how it was to feel human again, Din Djarin is vulnerable.

“I’ve dreamt about us for so long and as I stand here now, I feel as if we never each other – just time. As my wife, I want you to see the face that our children will resemble. I want to be able to make love to you without the tint of my visor. I kneel before you as I ask you to remove the helmet that conceals the identity of your husband.”

You grace his helmeted forehead with a chaste kiss as you press the button to unlatch Din’s helmet. You sluggardly lift his helmet up and away from his face – eyes still closed as if he would suddenly regret his decision. Once completely off, you hear his unmodulated voice speak your name and you feel your heart begin to race.

You open your eyes and a grin appears on your face from ear to ear.

“Ner riduur, I knew you’d be handsome, but it should be a crime for you to be hiding this face.” He smiles brightly at your compliment. “I also didn’t know you had a dimple! My love, you’re captivating!”

You stay mesmerized by his beauty as he furiously blushes at your gazing face.

“My husband, would it be too fast to ask for you to touch me?” you plead.

“Would it be too fast to admit that I want to toss you onto this bed and make love to my wife?”

“No. I’d be upset if you didn’t. That would mean you changed. You used to be inside me with my hands pinned against the wall every chance you got.”

His eyes filled with desires and before you knew, that is exactly where your hands were – pinned against the wall.

The sanguine night sky illumination was only a factor to your husband’s stamina – one that allowed you to rest several hours later.

mando’a translations:

ner kar’ta = my heart

Mand’alor = the sole leader of Mandalore; king of Mandalore

Su cuy’gar = Hello - lit. ‘You're still alive.’

ner Mand’alor = my King

ner riduur = my spouse

di’kut = idiot

cabur = protector

tags: @theocatkov​

part 3 to maroon - brick

[roachzrivia]

It's An Elf Thing

A series of events where the party (mainly Dorian) reacts to the Inquisitor doing weird things. Basically, if video game things actually happened. Supposed to be at least a little bit amusing.

Maybe it's just me who always forgets my horse and walks across the entire Hinterlands before remembering. Idk. I thought of this idea after jumping down a cliff and losing almost all my health because I couldn't be bothered to walk the long way round. Also, the trellis climbing at the winter palace makes zero sense, I'm sorry.How have I put 422 hours into this game? Where did my life go?

Gen, implied Dorian/Lavellan, brief implied Iron Bull/Dorian

Also on AO3 (link in my bio)

“Maker’s breath, can you slow down for a moment?” said Dorian, bending over to catch his breath. “It isn’t as if we’re short of time. Any normal person would allow for travelling time, you know.”

“I am allowing for travelling time,” Lavellan’s voice came floating back to him. “My pace just happens to be faster than yours.” But he slowed down, allowing time for Dorian to catch up.

“Couldn’t we have sent someone else on this task?” Dorian settled himself on the ground. It was damp, but he was tired enough not to care. “There have to be some perks that come with being the Inquisitor.”

“Aside from the castle, the army, and every noble in Thedas wanting to be my friend?” Lavellan sat down beside him, folding his long limbs gracefully beneath him.

“Aside from all that,” said Dorian, waving his hand dismissively.

“Nope, can’t think of anything,” said Lavellan, laughing. He leaped to his feet. “Come on, if we take a shortcut, we can make it by nightfall.” He held out a hand to Dorian, who grasped it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

“Shortcut? There isn’t a shortcut around here,” he said, as he watched Lavellan disappear over the edge of the cliff. “Wait!” He ran over to the edge, heart pounding as he scanned the ground below, hoping desperately not to see Lavellan’s broken body on the ground.

“Ow!”

“Oh, thank the Maker,” muttered Dorian, as he watched Lavellan skid down the side of the mountain, rocks and dirt kicking loose as he went.

“Come on!” Lavellan sprang to his feet. Even from a distance, Dorian could see the cuts and scrapes from the tumble.

“I think I’ll pass on the shortcut,” he said, as he headed along the edge of the cliff, searching for a proper path down.

“Oh, for the love of…” Dorian watched as Lavellan tumbled down yet another cliff, feet sliding on the rocky ground, pebbles and dirt shifting beneath his feet. He took a tumble, somersaulting head over heels, his head bouncing off a rock. He collapsed at the foot of the cliff, body limp and bleeding. “You are going to be the death of me,” muttered Dorian. “You brought this upon yourself. You don’t deserve my magic.” He sighed. “But if I leave you here, Cassandra will probably convince everyone that I pushed you. Very well.” He brandished his staff, reached for the magic, and raised Lavellan back to consciousness with a blaze of green light. “Please,” he called out, as he began to tentatively pick his way down the mountainside. “No more shortcuts.”

Lavellan was already racing away from him, grabbing handfuls of elfroot as he went.

-

“We’ve been walking for absolutely ages,” Sera whined, as she dragged her feet along the path, kicking stones at Lavellan. “When do we get to shoot something? I signed up for more shooting, less walking walking walking!”

The party had been walking for hours. The weather was hot, the road dusty, and no one was feeling particularly cheerful.

“I can’t help feeling as if I’ve forgotten something,” Lavellan mumbled under his breath, chewing on his lip as he gazed around at the small group. “Got my daggers.” He patted the sheaths strapped to his hips, just to make sure. “I’m fully dressed…” He scanned the group. “You’re all fully dressed. Sera has her bow. Dorian has his staff. Bull has… whatever that is,” he said, gesturing at the massive axe strapped to the qunari’s back.

“If I may interject,” said Dorian. “I take umbrage at the comment that we are all fully dressed. What Bull is wearing hardly counts.”

Bull grinned at him. “Would you really have it any other way?”

“I would, actually.”

“Hush, both of you. I’m thinking.”

“Do you perhaps think,” Dorian said carefully, “that you’ve forgotten the horses?”

“What?”

“The horses. You know, the beasts of burden which we spent an awful lot of time and effort securing for the Inquisition, which are, right at this very moment, standing ready for us back at the base camp, half a day’s walk behind us.”

“You mean we could have been riding this whole time?” exclaimed Sera.

“Fuck,” said Lavellan softly, looking back the way they had come. “Horses. I knew I had forgotten something.”

-

“Are we done here?” Dorian watched as Lavellan waded into the lake. The water reached up to his thighs, and whilst Dorian had to admit that the elf did look rather striking in a rustic sort of way, he had been watching this activity for long enough that he was beginning to feel bored. “I would rather we reached camp before nightfall,” he called out.

Lavellan raised a hand in response, and then returned to bending low over the water. He reached down, plucking yet another handful of blood lotus from the water.

Dorian sighed and waited for the Inquisitor to finish.

Finally, Lavellan walked out of the lake, his soaking wet breeches clinging to his legs.

“Ready to go?” Dorian looked pointedly up at the sky, and the sun sinking low.

“Just need to grab a few more herbs,” said Lavellan, darting away to grab at a nearby stalk of elfroot. “And did you bring the pickaxe? There’s an outcropping of obsidian that’s calling my name.”

“Surely the Inquisition could spare someone other than the Inquisitor for this job,” muttered Dorian, as he followed after Lavellan.

-

The party arrived back at camp in good time. The Storm Coast had been wet and grey, as usual, but the rain had finally eased, and everyone was looking forward to a warm meal before crawling into their bedrolls for the night.

“Just a moment,” said Lavellan, stopping in front of the requisitions officer. “Just got a few bits and pieces I picked up enroute that I figured might help the cause.”

“Thank you, sir. Every little bit will help out men in the field.”

Lavellan began opening his pockets. First, out came handfuls of herbs, which he handed directly to the officer. She took them, her arms quickly overflowing as Lavellan laid more and more picked plants into her arms.

“Is this why you fell so far behind us?” Dorian asked, raising an eyebrow. “Planning on quitting being the Inquisitor and becoming a gardener instead?”

“Everyone needs a hobby,” said Lavellan, pulling off his boot and tupping the contents out onto the requisition table. A handful of gemstones tumbled onto the table.

“Now that surely can’t have been comfortable.”

The requisitions officer watched on, eyes wide, as Lavellan opened his coat to reveal reams of fabrics tucked up in his belt and braces.

“For the boats,” he explained, as he laid them on the table.

“And here I thought you had just been eating more than your share at mealtimes,” Dorian quipped.

“Thank you-” began the officer.

“And the metal,” Lavellan said, turning to his horse to empty the saddle bags.

“By Andraste’s sweet arse, how did you manage to carry all of that without collapsing?” asked Dorian.

Lavellan just grinned and continued loading resources onto the requisitions table.

-

“So, the plan is to be as inconspicuous as possible?” asked Dorian.

“That is correct,” said Cassandra.

“To infiltrate the palace without any of the numerous political functions noticing us, and without disturbing the other guests?”

“Yes…” said Cassandra slowly.

“That what in Andraste’s name is the Inquisitor doing?” Dorian jerked his head at the scene behind him. Cassandra’s eyes widened.

“Inquisitor…?”

Dressed in all his finery, and in front of hundreds of guests, Lavellan was scaling the trellis up the side of the palace wall. People were pointing and tittering behind their hands.

“Might want to rethink that plan, Cassandra,” said Dorian, smirking as he watched Lavellan climb up and over the top, disappearing into the depths of the palace.

Later, when Lavellan reappeared, Dorian pulled him to one side.

“I have to ask,” he said. “All of this climbing. Is it another elf thing?”

“An elf thing?”

“You know, because of living out in nature, with all of those… trees.”

Lavellan laughed. “Dorian, darling, not everything I do is an ‘elf’ thing. Sometimes, it’s just a ‘me’ thing. Now, are you saving a dance for me?”

“Of course. If you don’t get yourself arrested or assassinated before the end of the night, it might even be the most scandalous event of the entire ball.”

-

“What is that?” The horror in Dorian’s voice was palpable.

“New horse,” said Lavellan, climbing up into the saddle. “There’s one for you as well.”

“I am not riding that monstrosity. I don’t know who told you it was a horse, but whoever it was has clearly been indulging in too much wine.”

“You’re scared!”

“I am not scared,” said Dorian, eyeing the creature with distaste. “There is a different between scared and sensible and I assure you, right now I am the latter.”

The creature stared back at him; its black, soulless eyes boring into him. It shook its head, and Dorian leapt back to avoid being impaled on the massive horn rising from its forehead.

“Come on,” said Lavellan, voice wheedling.

“Can’t I just ride a normal horse?”

“But we need to match.”

Dorian looked at the second beast, the one which he was expected to ride. It was so thin that its ribcage was visible beneath its black fur.

“I would rather walk.”

“All the way to Crestwood? It’s only a bog unicorn, Dorian.”

“You are an infuriating man,” said Dorian, scowling. “Very well. But next time, please can we use the Fereldan horses? They don’t smell as bad.”

[flowerflamestars]

Nesta Under the Mountain part 3: acomaf, the later half

So while some extremely painful flirting is happening, so is plot. Azriel periodically disappears to try to infiltrate the Queens palace. Morrigan splits her time between Velaris and trying to keep Keir remotely in line. Amren and Lucien teach Nesta how to use magic, Cassian readies the legions for war.

So Nesta, unlike Feyre, has multiple sources for her most important questions: What the hell is Hybern doing? Trying to build an empire of old. Reaching for glory that isn’t there, because Prythian is wealthy.

Why Amarantha? Why was she so powerful?

It’s Rhysand who answers her, one day when they’re alone. He’s drinking on the roof- Nesta is inclined to make a comment about lordly behavior but doesn’t because she knows, she knows, from the look in his eyes, that he’s going to answer for real.

Amarantha liked to talk in bed. And Rhysand had, eventually, put the pieces together: Amarantha was the invading force alone, because Amarantha needed to earn Hyberns favor.

What did Hybern have? A kingdom crippled without its slaves. A King who’d ruled so long the world forgot his name. No heir, no other ruler. No son, only daughters.

Amarantha sought to earn her place in succession- with her father’s stolen magical secrets and a taste for vengeance.

Nesta accepts this, and has a drink.

There’s an interim of weeks, while Amren relearns a dead language and Azriel tries his last, worst plans. Nesta is so ready to tear out of her skin- Morrigan succeeds in getting Nesta to go out with her.

Morrigan pulls her over cobblestones to Ritas, and Nesta absolutely doesn’t tell her Lucien had found the place on his first city walkabout and been toasting their bitter victories there every one since.

Cassian, as he tends to wherever Nesta is, appears. They haven’t spoken since she came back with the book. Lucien trickles in with glitter in his hair, Azriel silent, offensively handsome drawing the light by his side.

And Morrigan watches. Cassian will spend the night quietly pressing fresh drinks into Nesta’s hand and glaring like absolute murder at any stranger who tries to get near. She sees how Cassian, her friend for five centuries, is contextualizing this: service, gladly rendered.

Understands he will make it small in his head and it means the opposite- the very opposite- that Nesta is letting him do either of those things for her. That she trusts him, to be near at all.

Morrigan and Nesta have a very different talk afterward than her and Feyre would have. Mor thinks it might be a good idea to make it really clear she herself doesn’t ever want Cassian, in case, that too, is standing in the way.

(Nesta also just...so clearly doesn’t have a single negative thought about Lucien doing...whatever Lucien does. They’ll get insouciant and mean and discuss the attractiveness of anyone. Nesta, unlike Feyre, reacts to queerness without even blinking)

So Mor and Nesta might not enjoy each other, exactly, but they respect one another. When Rhysand poses his insane Nesta you were mortal, let’s meet the Queens on mortal land plan, Morrigan, more than anyone, is the one who listens when Nesta explains that the Queens hate faeries.

Hate magic. Hate, even, it seems, the mortals that live along the wall for existing in proximity to Prythian.

It’s like letting go of a dream- for the chance of something real. Five centuries have passed, and that’s not much for Mor, but it’s everything, to mortals. Their bright lives are so quick, so valuable in an eyeblink- and that’s why Nesta’s here at all.

A mortal heart.

Azriel and Nesta team up- she scoffs that infiltration has fails, laughs outright at the idea she should be a diplomat, and proposes something else. They veritable army of spies, why are none of them mortal? Hundreds of humans work in Court of Queens. Voiceless, unrecognized. None of the magical protections would stop them.

So instead of Keir, or the Veritas, or her sisters- we bring back the lady mercenary. We bring in a whole bunch of lady mercenaries. A new network of information, passed from overlooked woman to overlooked woman, carried in shadows, all the way back to the Court of Night.

There’s no meeting. Because Hybern is already there. 

And Nesta thinks its the most insane thing she’s ever heard- they want to live forever?

Morrigan tries to comfort her, Lucien tries to stop Morrigan, because he knows- Nesta doesn’t regret. And she tells them all that, looking over the war map, each grim face and strange shred of sympathy. 

Nesta says, I know I’m a monster and I’m glad of it. I will never belong to just one Court, never go home. I cannot, because that life was taken from me and I am glad, because it will take a monster to protect the humans from other monsters. 

And Rhysand says, oh so very quietly: You can belong. 

But it’s lost, completely, in two things- the way Lucien has stepped around Azriel to let Nesta, not lean- Nesta, sober, leans on absolutely no one- but to be there, close, in her orbit, and Cassian standing up. 

It’s the Queens Meeting promise, dark chocolate version. Cassian wipes away that one tear on her perfect face. Says to her and her alone like no one else is there, that he’d done monstrous things his entire life in the name of what was right. But he’d become something worse, unleash a whole ocean of blood, to protect the innocents who needed it. Die a monster, in defense of those mortals with her.

And Nesta just looks at him. Like she can see all the way through to his aching soul, and nods. 

One commander to another. Absolute, perfect, understanding.

So what happens, if the mcguffin of the book cannot work?

Nesta says, like Cassian isn’t still staring at her, like she isn’t leaning into Lucien’s bodyheat like a refuge- the book is to control the Cauldron, but why can’t we just go after the Cauldron?

Steal it? Break it? Use it ourselves.

No ones answers particularly satisfy her- they can winnow. They can move unseen. There’s more power in this room than whole kingdoms possess, why the hell can’t they just break in, touch the Cauldron, and winnow away?

Cassian says it’s suicide. The castle is a deathtrap. Guards, wards, magic.

And, Rhysand adds, the Cauldron might not play along. It’s too powerful, too old to just treat like an object. The Cauldron itself could resist.

They’re all piling out of the townhouse, after the unsuccessful meeting, when Lucien goes white. Freezes.

And Nesta knows.

Knows that despite every precaution, the words that have never, ever escaped her lips in Prythian. Despite Tamlin dead- someone, somehow, found out that Prythian’s vengeance has two vulnerable, mortal sisters.

Nesta is grabbing onto Lucien to winnow away before anyone can ask what is wrong. Because something is wrong, so, so wrong- at the last second, Cassian snatches her hand, and ends up dragged along.

The Archeron estate is on fire.

There’s no time to ask- no time to talk. Cassian starts killing Hybernian soldiers left and right, no one here that can actually stop him.

Nesta runs straight into the fire, Lucien on her heels, keeping the flames away. Not that he needs to- Nesta is shimmering with power, every Court’s strength right on the surface, teeming to be used. She kills six men before she finds Elain, kicking and screaming in a soldiers arms. 

That soldier loses his head- that man, Lucien turns to ash.

It’s Cassian who finds Feyre, hidden in the kitchen, standing on top of table having just dumped a small ocean on lye on her attackers. Despite making short work of the burnt, pissed off faeries, she’s still throwing shit at him when Nesta, screaming her name, is finally close enough to be heard.

Nesta almost stabs Cassian in the back getting to Feyre. Fey jumps off the table, straight at her sister- there’s no pause for thought, no flinch at her faery face and bloody hands, just an armload full of her taller baby sister, an easy weight to carry now.

When they make it out of the collapsing house, Azriel and Rhys are waiting.

It’s Rhys who says, in that tone of voice that makes Nesta want to beat him to death, the voice that insists, I understand, who says, you have a family?

Nesta doesn’t answer. Nesta doesn’t say a goddamn word to anyone at all except for Feyre and Elain as they take them back to Velaris. As she settles them in the roaring warmth of one of the palatial sitting rooms, wraps them in blankets. Conveys, solely with a head jerk and a glare, that Cassian should make himself useful and provide hot beverages.

Nesta doesn’t say anything until the burns are healed by Lucien, her sisters understand where they are, and what has happened.

It’s Feyre who snaps first and bodily pulls Nesta down on the couch between them. Elain who leans hard, shoulder to shoulder, and wipes the blood off Nesta’s face.

They love each other- they still love her, don’t blame her, and that is what makes Nesta’s choice.

She introduces them to Lucien, her friend. To the others without explanation, the odd bedfellows of war Nesta really is starting to like despite herself. Except Rhys. Rhys can fall in the damned ocean. 

It’s a long, long evening, and they all get settled eventually- Feyre, in particular, with a shy smile and an extra mug of Cassian’s hot chocolate. 

Everyone goes their separate ways, and Lucien, quietly, slips off to find Nesta in the dark.

He knows what she’s going to say. Hybern came for her family- Hybern almost killed her sisters. Nesta doesn’t give a fuck about the book, about Rhysand’s alliances, or hangup on the mortal queens- Nesta wants Hybern to pay.

Lucien sometimes looks at his life now- free, safe as he choses, the dark eyed smile of man who fears no part of him- and thinks it’s all because of Nesta Archeron’s heart. Nesta, who believed in loyalty enough to buy his safety. Nesta, who had every reason to hate Spring and still been the only person to look close enough and see, that Lucien was just as trapped.

No one in his life had ever given him that, so easily. No one had cared. 

Nesta didn’t even think about it- he was in her corner and she was in his, friends. Best friends, only friends they had. Lucien would have still chosen her, every time.

Choses her now- Nesta says, I’m going tonight. I’m going alone. I’m not waiting any longer.

And Lucien squeezes her hand, and tells her, not alone.

They winnow to the castle like bone across the sea. 

Lucien might not know why he can break wards, why foul enchantment can’t touch him, but he knows how to use it. How to fight and kill, and does just that. Lucien stands guard, Lucien gets Nesta to the Cauldron.

No Book, no plan, just this- Nesta’s will do what is right.

Two hands on the Cauldron- and Rhysand was right. It won’t move. It won’t be winnowed away, it pulls her in and speaks. 

The story of the Cauldron is the story of a woman. 

Power, power, power- endless potential, utilized to create. A thousand children, a million voices. But then her children grew- into their own power, their own politics and ways. They forgot her voice, that forget she’d made them- and they trapped her. Broke her. Imprisoned her.

Forgot she was not a cauldron- she was their Mother.

But the Mother was also once the Maiden, the Mother always becomes the Crone.

The Crones watches, as the dark night comes, and all life eventually ends.

She’d been imprisoned all over again.

Nesta Archeron, drowning in power, communicates by sheer force of screaming, raging will. 

I was imprisoned, I stolen, I was remade against my will-

I was broken, and all I asked was that my family be safe- all I wanted- I am the child of every Court you made, I am the daughter of your power and i WILL NOT- I will not allow your sons to kill what is ours-

The Cauldron, seething, stills, if only for a moment.

Nesta thinks she’s won. Nesta realizes, too late, that she can smell blood. Lucien, stabbed and scrabbling, Nesta being dragged away from the Cauldron- the King had waited for her.

And how he crooned with joy- Nesta Archeron, the destroyer. Nesta Archeron, Prythian’s vengeance. Nesta Archeron you will be mine, you, you, you, finally, a worthy woman-

It’s a desperate, stupid ploy. Nesta can’t escape, Nesta can’t save Lucien, knows it from the blood dripping off his lips as he mouthes, a goodbye: love you, Archeron. 

Nesta jumps into the Cauldron.

What comes out is not what went in- young as a fawn, old as the seas- Nesta doesn’t have to steal eternity. She’s already eternal, she’s already powerful in her rage-

But the Cauldron, who’d slept so long. Broken in peices, cold, welcomes her fire like the fierce magic of her first children, and gives her a gift. 

Nesta’s no maiden or mother, but the Cauldron is happy to let the Crone out.

Death comes out of those waters, and mists the King of Hybern.

Scoops up her beloved companion, the fire that lights the way, and leaves the castle of the king unraveling behind her.

Nesta brings the Cauldron home. 

The bloody bundle of Lucien is pulled from her arms on the floor of Rhysand’s townhouse, the Cauldron quiet behind them. It’s to Cassian who is frankly patting her down, searching for injuries, that Nesta says:

She wasn’t the only sister, and then passes out.

[patchesthegothictramp]

Part 3 of P5R review: Akechi

Next up, my favourite part: Akechi! Also mostly likely the last part since I don’t think I missed anything else. Feel free to hit me up though if you’re wondering about anything I haven’t mentioned

Akechi was undoubtedly, and still is, persona 5’s most hotly debated character. From what I’ve been seeing people who even loathed Akechi are starting to become fans of him, or at least don’t hate him anymore. Royal expands on his character in a way that fans of his love because it confirmed so many of their suspicions of what he’s really like but also just adds more depth to him. I could even understand why people who played vanilla only saw him as ‘boy takes things too far cos daddy issues’ cos, well, without deeper analysis that is what atlus was presenting. There was a lot more to his character in vanilla but I don’t blame people not looking into him because what they saw on the surface didn’t interest them enough... though that being said the abuse and torment given to his fans was super uncalled for.

Let’s start with his confidant and take it from there- it’s special, it’s fun, it’s emotional and it’s so layered I could watch it a million times and I’d probably still miss something from it. It’s special because it’s the only confidant where Ren just gets to hang out with someone, with nothing expected in return. All Akechi wants is a conversation and to play billiards with him. All of the other confidants want your help in something, want you to solve their issues without any regard for what they could do for you in return. Of course when Ren’s in jail they help him out then but it’s only when he’s facing the worst-case scenario. Interestingly enough, Akechi goes to jail for Ren at the first opportunity he gets and in that world none of your confidants ever return the favour of Ren changing their lives. To nail this point further, his confidant does have some requirements for social stats, but it’s the only instance where it’s made clear that it’s for Ren’s own comfort, not for someone else’s. Akechi says he needs someone charming and knowledgeable because he’s genuinely concerned for the abuse Ren might get if his fans didn’t consider him worthy of their idol’s presence.

It’s unexpectedly fun too, you’d think that an Akechi confidant would be just about rivalry or him talking to you about his Tragic Backstory but you get quite a few moments which are just… fun. The first one has them playing billiards and uncovering that he’s ambidextrous, and while it is a set up for their rivalry it’s still just them playing billiards like regular teenagers would. There’s the café date where silliness ensues and funnily enough you end up finding out more about Ren in that interaction than you do Akechi; about how Ren too hides from the public and has his own mask (glasses) that help him cover up who he really is.

But of course, it’s also emotional, like the bathhouse scene where you finally get to know more about Akechi’s past that’s not just a random info dump, there’s him clearly crying for help in the final billiards rank where he talks about the game as if it were his own life and even asks you if you’d help him (even though he doesn’t let you help regardless of what you say).

Term 3 Akechi… well he’s everything I hoped he would be. Sarcastic, sardonic and all around Done With This Shit. He never holds back anymore, both on the battlefield and real life and he doesn’t care what the Thieves or anyone else thinks of him anymore. He’s done with the detective mask and the charade and can finally be himself for once, and I absolutely love it. He’s gone from a character I can only theorise about being rude in my writing to one who’s everything I hoped for and so much more.

Now to the shuake stuff: Oh my god its so gay. 

Yes a lot of it is regular friendship stuff but also if you can’t be friends with your boyfriend then that’s just casual sex, not a relationship. And I’m not talking about the bathhouse scene. Actually, what’s interesting is what happens after which is when Akechi specifically says that no ones ever seen that part of him, Ren’s the only person who he’s been able to open up to like that. There’s the jazz club, which you find out later is a special place for Akechi to the point that the owner says he’s never brought anyone else there. Ren is clearly special in Akechi’s eyes, he’s the one person he can be around and be his true self.

You even see it in term 3 when he’s sarcastic and sardonic around Ren but still continues to put up a façade around human Morgana, Futaba, Sojiro Wakaba and later Kasumi, at least until they see him for who he really is inside the palace and he’s forced to show his true self. The writers make that so obvious that Akechi’s face visibly changes when he’s talking to Ren and when he’s talking to everyone else.

And Akechi is equally special to Ren. Ren doesn’t wish for his criminal record to disappear or to be a Phantom Thief again, he wishes to keep the promise he made to Akechi even with the knowledge that the other was going to kill him. We’ve seen him mourn Akechi’s death in p5a proof of justice- the OVA that was so clearly meant to set up royal considering how many similarities it had with that more so than the original game. For a silent protagonist and a self-insert Ren shows more feelings towards Akechi than he does any other character. 

Even down to their showtime, everyone else has these elaborate plans that they have to explain to each other then to Ren and hope that the wishing star will make their wish come true and yet Akechi and Ren are just able to improvise it completely on the spot, staying completely in sync. Interestingly enough if you compare it to Joker’s only other one- Sumire’s, she’s leading him into the showtime, she’s the one who has to have him follow her, but with Akechi, he’s equal, they’re in sync, all it takes is Ren shouting ‘Crow!’ for him to jump at the enemy without further instruction. Just as their showtime says, they’re two sides of the same coin.

There’s a reason that somehow, despite never having spoken about Akechi to him, Maruki knows that’s what Ren’s biggest wish would be, he knows that it’s the only way he might be able to stop Ren and the Thieves from infiltrating the palace, and in one alternative, the dream ending, it is enough for him to dangle Akechi’s life in front of him for Ren to fold. He insists Akechi’s life isn’t just something small that he can sacrifice once again.

Our Light is even further proof of it, it’s a love song, not to Kasumi, or not from her, it could clearly not be more obvious that’s it’s from Ren to Akechi. The song describes missing someone who’s gone in such a romantic way that seeing it as Sumire to Kasumi is borderline incestuous, and seeing it as Ren to Sumire or vice versa makes no sense either since they’re just a train ride away and even speak about seeing each other soon. It’s unlikely to be about anyone else either since yeah, Ren can just go and visit them any time and for that to be the ending song of a remake where the only character who’s made more important than he was previously is Akechi. It wouldn’t make sense for the song to be about that one girl out of 10 that you can romance but doesn’t really change the plot as significantly as he does.

In this way, P5R does a great job of showing, not telling. There are frequent comparisons of Maruki and Rumi’s situation to Ren’s and Akechi’s (not direct ones but it’s obvious the two are similar) and if they were a het couple that romance would be unquestionable. At the end of the day, persona is and always will be a game about choice where the protagonist is mostly a self-insert which is why they’ve never been able to outright say ‘this is the canon romance route’ but honestly, if it were to be anyone, it’s so painfully clear it’s Akechi.

Especially when you remember the director’s words of this being a love triangle. We know Sumire has a crush on Ren but doesn’t seem to have an interest in Akechi and outside of being a possible conversation partner, Akechi clearly isn’t interested in Sumire. So then if they’re a love triangle the only logical conclusion is that they’re both vying for Ren’s affection. From Ren’s perspective, the player can choose if he will romance Sumire but regardless of what Ren says to Sumire, he always ends up having Akechi’s life dangled before his eyes and can always choose to have him by his side.

TL;DR Goro Feral, Shuake Canon

[fandom-blackhole]

Re: buckets collecting bounty put on you

YOU trying to collect bounty put on them

Oh this is good, this is good.....

You and every bounty hunter in the galaxy seemed to be after the mandalorian and some asset that he took from an ex imp. You hadn't been there the day that he went rogue on Nevarro, but you definitely heard stories of the mayhem he had caused. It wasn't like you wanted to be hunting a mandalorian down any how, but there was A LOT of money on his head, and you were just a broke bounty hunter trying to stay a step ahead in a galaxy thats falling apart. You never thought you'd actually get lucky enough to stumble upon the mandalorian, let alone catch him. Its not like you weren't skilled, in fact you are one of the best, but this is a mandalorian, and one known to be a fierce bounty hunter himself, so you didn't think the odds were in your favor. But it seemed you were wrong when you managed to track him down to a small backwater planet. The planet wasn't terrible, actually it was quite peaceful. Once you found his ship you managed to sneak aboard and hide, waiting for him to return. Your luck kept up and the second the mandalorian had closed the ramp after returning you were able to ambush him and wrestle him into a pair of cuffs. He fought like he'll and you had a bruised eye to show for it. After getting him locked and unarmed, you made sure to triple check, you asked where the asset was. He stayed quiet and you rolled you eyes and when you did you noticed the floating pram. Confused you laughed and walked over to it asking what it was. Of course he didn't answer, but he did let out an angry growl. When you opened it you gasped at the cute time creature inside staring up at you. Feeling slightly guilty because of the child being present you asked him to tell you what happened, why he betrayed the guild like he did. He only said that he could not turn over a child to those who would just harm him. You whipped your head to look at him and said, "thats the asset" when he nods you sigh and look at him before saying that you'd be willing to join him to protect the little guy, seeing as harming a child has never been ok with you.

You took the bounty shortly after word got around that Boba Fett was back and had taken over Tatooine. It had seemed like a pretty simple job, just take the ex bounty hunter out, it didn't matter how, just that it was done. Everyone else had been too scared of the stories that surrounded the man so they had refused to take the job, even with the credits attached to it. But you were never one to pass up a challenge, especially when it paid so nicely. Your planning was to infiltrate the palace as a cook and poison both the new crime lord and his sharpshooter associate. You very easily were hired when paired with the story of needing to feed your hungry children. You spent time in the palace working up the favor of the Boba Fett, until you knew for sure that he was earing your food. The issue was, that over time as you got to know him, you found yourself respecting and liking him too much. Somehow, not showing though, Boba did find out about your bounty hunter status and he pulled you into the throne room. When asked why you hadn't tried to kill him yet you simply answer that you had gotten too close to your target.

After the mandalorian had outed his covert in an attempt to escape with some high profile target, there had been an influx of mandalorian bounties on the known mandalorians that managed to escape with their lives from the big fight. You, a rather skilled sharp shooter, had taken a bounty on one of them. All you had really been given was that he was huge and covered in thick blue armor, something that would get in the way of your sharp shooting. You tended to work mainly with just a long range rifle, liking that it allowed you to not have to get up close and person with those you were taking out. For a big blue man, this mandalorian really seemed to be able to disappear into thin air, but luckily for you and unluckily for him you managed to track him down after someone had reported to have seen him in a local market. After you had set up, far away from the decrepit hut he was supposedly hiding in, you looked through your scope, hoping to find him standing somewhere with a good shot, and it seemed the maker was on your side, because there he was bent over with a perfectly clear shot to the neck. But last second you stop yourself when you see multiple little hands around him, and from what it seems like he was playing with the children they were attached too. Sighing at the knowledge you are about to through away a good chunk of credits, you stalked down to the hut, and are quickly met with his imposing figure standing outside. You laid your weapon down and explained the bounty, and that you couldn't bring yourself to harm him with children in his care, so you offered your services to him instead.

(Send me THOTS!!!)

[oriigami]

stolen things

[A catalogue of things stolen by, for, and from Princess Vivi of Alabasta with regards to a certain thief, as documented by her long-suffering captain of the guard. Namivivi, Rated T. Read it on AO3 here!]

(1. a necklace)

It starts small, comparatively speaking; a month or so after the rain returns to Alabasta and the country’s pain is soothed at last, there’s a little package of folded cardboard addressed to Princess Vivi buried in amongst the palace’s morning mail. This, in and of itself, isn’t terribly unusual. The princess has taken on a significant portion of the country’s day-to-day administration since her return while her father recovers, and she has many friends and contacts across the country she’s been corresponding with to aid in the rebuilding. 

What is unusual, though, is the way it’s addressed. Ordinarily, missives to the princess will be addressed to Her Grace, Princess Nefertari Vivi, stamped in formal black ink on clean white paper and packaging. This one, though, just says Vivi, written in an exceedingly neat hand with nonetheless a few trembles in the lettering, as though the writer had been, perhaps, aboard a boat when penning it. 

There’s no return address or sender name- instead, a pinwheel of four thick spiralling lines with a small circle attached to the uppermost swirl has been drawn where one would normally be.

Pell frowns, and breaks the seal on the back of the package. One of the many duties he’s resumed since returning to work (a feat that had required shouting down Chaka, the princess, and the king when they’d tried to insist he remain bedbound) is checking the mail, after all. And he’s been especially vigilant about the princess’s safety. 

After everything she’s been through in the past months and years, from her infiltration of Baroque Works to the inevitable nightmare of the civil war to the slow and arduous reconstruction of a devastated country, he can’t think of anyone who more deserves to rest easy at night.

He opens the little package with due caution, and tips its contents out onto the table. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but it’s not the shimmer of gold that spills out onto the dark wood. It’s a necklace. A pendant shaped like a compass rose hangs from a thin golden chain, with what looks suspiciously like a diamond set at its center. 

Well. Unusual, perhaps, and definitely expensive, even Pell’s untrained eye can discern that much, but certainly not dangerous. He carefully replaces it in the package and makes his way up to the princess’s rooms, knocking on the doorframe. 

(It had become common knowledge around the palace after the first week or so that it was unwise to surprise the princess. She had developed a newfound tendency to stash those tiny daggers of hers in the sleeves of her dresses.)

“Come in,” a slightly distracted voice calls, and so he slips inside. Vivi is bent over her desk, where she always seems to be these days, brow furrowed in thought, worrying the end of her fountain pen between her teeth. She glances up when he enters, and he can’t help but worry, just a little, at how tired she looks. 

She’s taken a lot onto her shoulders. He always seems to find her at her desk these days, if she’s not in the council rooms or talking to the citizens or poring over the newspapers or-

“Pell,” she says, smiling slightly. “What is it?”

“Ah.” It takes him a moment to remember why he’s here. “This was sent for you today,” he says, crossing the room to hand her the small package. 

She frowns slightly, confused, as she takes it- and then he can see the moment her eyes catch on the little symbol drawn in the corner, that odd pinwheel shape, because she lights up, a smile immediately spreading across her face and brightening her eyes like he hasn’t seen in weeks. She tears into the package like a birthday present, and in seconds the necklace is cupped in her hands, gleaming under the light of her desk lamp. 

She swallows hard, and for a moment her face scrunches into a look Pell knows well. Ever since she was a child, she’s always made the same face when struggling not to cry. It’s only a moment, though, and then it passes, leaving her with just a wide smile and shining eyes. She nearly drops the necklace in her fumbling haste to fasten it around her neck. 

The compass pendant falls perfectly into place on her chest, the gold bright against desert-dark skin, and she smiles down at it with a softness that makes Pell abruptly feel like he’s intruding on something personal.

“Pell,” she says, and he straightens to attention automatically, “bring all future packages with that symbol on them directly to me, if you don’t mind. No need to check through them.”

“Princess-” he starts to object, but thinks better of it when she shoots him a look that makes him automatically swallow back his protest on behalf of her safety. “...As you say,” he concedes.

She’s always had grit and iron in her, ever since she was young and scrapping with Kohza amidst the sand dunes, but her two years away have tempered her into a pirate in truth, a sharp-eyed young woman who digs her fingernails into everything she treasures and won’t let go no matter how it hurts. 

But then, it was pirates who saved Alabasta. Maybe that’s the kind of princess they need.

He turns, and is half out the door when he can’t help but ask, “It’s from them, isn’t it?” 

He doesn’t need to specify who. Vivi doesn’t confirm aloud, but when he glances back over his shoulder she’s looking at the wanted posters pinned to her wall with an aching sort of look on her face, and that’s answer enough. 

When the next package marked with the same symbol and addressed in the same neat handwriting arrives a month later, he takes it straight to her. 

(2. a newspaper)

The sun is rising over Alabasta as the king and princess break their fast. Pell tosses the morning newspaper to the table, and no sooner has it hit the wood that Vivi is snatching it up with all the desperation of a marooned sailor grabbing for a thrown lifeline, nearly tearing through the paper in her urgency. 

Pell can’t say he’s surprised by the response, because the front page headline reads STRAWHAT PIRATES LEVEL ENIES LOBBY, printed in striking bold lettering above a photo of a grinning boy wearing a straw hat with all the confidence of a king’s crown. Vivi opens the paper and a sheaf of wanted posters fall out of the centerfold, scattering onto the table. 

There’s at least one face among them that Pell doesn’t recognize, and one that he definitely does recognize (clutch-) but certainly hadn’t expected to see grouped among the Strawhats, but neither is the poster that Vivi’s focus falls on first.

Instead, the Princess’s gaze is drawn to one of the lowest bounties of the lot, an dark-eyed woman giving the camera a playful smile over her shoulder, hands tangled in her orange hair and a familiar spiralling symbol emblazoned in deep blue ink on her shoulderblade. Cat Burglar Nami, the poster reads. Wanted Dead or Alive. 

Vivi reaches out and brushes fingers against the paper for just a moment, a complicated sort of look on her face that Pell couldn’t begin to put a name to, and he sees her lips move in a whisper of a name. Then all of a sudden she seems to remember she’s not alone, and hastily snatches up the sheaf of wanted posters together with the newspaper and clutches them to her chest like they’re infinitely more precious than mere ink and paper.

“I’ll- be right back,” she says, the words rushed, and then she’s gone from the room before the king can do more than send a slightly befuddled look after her.

Pell sighs, more fondly than anything, and goes to find another newspaper for the king. He has a feeling they won’t be getting that one back. 

(3. a kiss)

It’s four months after the Whitebeard War, four months since any word of the Strawhat Pirates has reached Alabasta, and four months of Princess Vivi staring out the windows of the palace and clenching her fists so hard her knuckles go white, when Pell realizes there is an intruder in the palace. 

Whoever they are, they are very good. It’s not a broken window that alerts him to their presence, or a scream- nothing so blatant and clumsy. Instead, it’s a faint footprint, left in the thin dusting of sand on the railing of one of the third-floor balconies, just barely visible in the fading light of the setting sun. If not for the inhuman eyesight his devil fruit grants him, he surely would have missed it completely.

The princess’s rooms are nearby, and his heart crawls into his throat. He’s not an idiot. He knows the princess has enemies. He’s seen her slipping out under cover of night to negotiate with pirates and smugglers, words sharp and spine unbending. 

(There are times when Pell wishes, for the sake of his peace of mind, that she was just a little less fearless.)

He slips down the hallway silently. There’s light shining from under the princess’s door, and muffled noises from inside the room. He rests one hand on the hilt of his sword, eases the door silently open with his other hand. 

It takes him a moment to register what he’s seeing, it’s so far off from what he’d half-feared he’d find. 

The princess is pressed against a wall by a woman with orange hair and tan skin who Pell recognizes immediately from the wanted poster on the wall as Cat Burglar Nami. Vivi has her legs up around Nami’s waist and her hands buried in her hair, and she’s kissing her like it’s the end of the world, even as tears run down her cheeks and her shoulders shake. 

There’s words murmured between them, too quiet to make out, blurred by voices thick from crying. He hears war, and lost, and should have been there, broken up by kisses and sobs, and he wonders just how much weight his princess has been truly carrying on her shoulders these past months. 

Pell takes a step back and noiselessly slips the door closed again, to give them their privacy. 

Well. At least she’s not in any danger. He’s going to have to tell the king he really, really shouldn’t get his hopes up about those marriage prospects. 

The pirate haunts the palace for another week and a half, and Pell can’t help but be reluctantly impressed by her elusiveness. Her presence only shows in how Vivi’s started to always keep the door to her room tightly closed, in silent footprints on the balcony and the low hum of nighttime murmurings, and in the smile the princess can’t seem to drop. 

He has to grab her by the shoulder one morning before she heads into the council chambers and advise, in a quiet voice that can’t help but be long-suffering, that she apply some makeup to the blossoming bruises on her neck. 

And then Nami is gone again, like a sea breeze, like she was never there, like pirates are wont to do. A pair of Vivi’s favorite earrings goes with her. The princess doesn’t cry, at least nowhere that Pell can see. She still wears the golden compass necklace every day, bright against her chest, close to her heart, and he thinks he understands, now.

He’d thought the necklace a present from the Strawhat Pirates at large at first, but it isn’t that. It’s a memento from a lover, from a cartographer- a compass pointing ever north. Someday, no matter what, find your way back to me. 

(4. a heart)

It doesn’t exactly take a falcon’s eyesight to see that Princess Vivi’s heart doesn’t belong to Alabasta anymore. Or, at least, not wholly to Alabasta. There will always be a part of their princess buried in the golden sands and fed on the oasis waters, and Pell knows that’s why she’s still there with them, and not far away on an unknown ocean with salt in her hair and a rolling deck beneath her feet. 

But there’s something about the ocean, about the sea winds and the endless horizon and the boundless freedom it brings, that takes. Pell has known a lot of sailors, and they’ve all had the same look on their eyes that Princess Vivi bears all the time now- always looking, searching for the waves, for the horizon, for the next adventure. 

He feels for her. He has always belonged, heart and soul, to Alabasta, and someday he will be buried in its sands. There will never be any other home for him. The princess, though, is torn in two, between two homes and two loves and she can never have one without leaving the other, and that’s a cruel fate, for someone who deserves nothing but kindness after all she’s been through. 

It’s one of the reasons he always has to bite his tongue when the king takes it into his head to push the concept of marriage again, floating the names of thoroughly-vetted suitors, even as Princess Vivi gently shuts him down cold. The princess’s heart will go to no respectable young man, that’s clear as day. It’s already been stolen.

That’s what pirates do, after all. They take, just like the ocean they live and die by. 

The cat burglar could have asked for any riches Alabasta had left, and the king would have probably honored her request, even gutted as their country was by drought and famine and war. But instead she fled with their princess’s heart in her hands, one treasure that could never be replaced.

(5. a princess)

It’s a dazzlingly bright desert morning in Alubarna when the Pirate King’s navigator arrives at the palace. 

There’s no sneaking this time, no scaling walls and vaulting balconies under the cover of darkness. Nami walks right up the sun-bleached stone stairs, all tanned skin and lean muscle, bold as brass for a wanted pirate with hundreds of millions of beri on her head, and Pell doesn’t make a single move to stop her. The tattoo on her shoulder reminds him of a little cardboard package, sent and delivered years ago. 

The princess meets her at the doors with a packed bag already on her shoulders, crashing into her arms without even a shred of royal dignity, and Nami doesn’t waste a second before sweeping her up into her arms and into a hungry kiss, like it doesn’t matter in the slightest that there’s dozens of eyes on them, the everyday traffic of guards and politicians and citizens through the palace stopped dead in its tracks. 

Maybe it doesn’t, for pirates. Maybe pirates only know how to love like they could be dead tomorrow. 

A few of the guards are shooting him confused and somewhat panicked looks; Pell just shakes his head and signals at ease. In all honestly, he’s almost surprised this didn’t happen sooner- but then, Vivi has always been loyal to her country to the point of martyrdom, and it’s only in the past year or so that all the tireless work she has put in to build the country up has finally blossomed to a point where her constant presence is no longer necessary. 

The country is safe, and healthy, and at peace, after countless days and nights of fighting with steel and ink to make it so. She can rest now, at least for a time, and she deserves nothing less. He knows the bag on her shoulders now has been ready in her room for weeks. 

Nami and Vivi finally break apart for breath, and Nami rests her forehead against the princess’s, grinning like she can’t stop. “Ready to go?” she asks. “Everyone else is waiting with the Sunny at the river port.” 

Vivi casts a glance over to Pell, silently questioning, and he bites back a chuckle. “Go on, then, your majesty,” he says, waving a hand, and can’t help but add, to Nami, “At least you had the decency to come to the front door this time, instead of climbing in the window.” 

The blushes that decorate both their faces at that are more brilliant red than any desert sunburn he’s ever seen, and then he does have to laugh in truth. And then Vivi is burying her red face in her hands and wheezing with laughter, and the look that Nami gives her is so impossibly soft that Pell feels comforted about his princess’s safety then and there, no words needed. 

Once Vivi can meet his eyes again, he smiles, and just says, “Be safe.” 

“I will,” she promises, and there’s freedom in her voice.

No one moves a finger to stop them as the laughing thief flees down the front steps of the palace, a stolen princess beaming to outshine the desert sun in her arms.

[gloves94]

Sunburn [Prince Zuko] 23

Warnings: None   Rating: PG-13   Pairings: Zuko/OC   Summary:  “You have everything you’ve ever wanted.” “No.” He said softly. “Not everything…”  His golden eyes looked at her with a melting intensity she had never witnessed before. “I guess not.” She responded with glassy eyes as tears welled up threatening to break the dam of her eyes.

My fanfiction: M A S T E R L I S T

AN: I'll be the first to admit it. The last few chapters have been rough. So I wrote this with the intent of lighting things up.

xxx

The veil of the night covered the Fire Nation.

It was so late that the only living things awake at this time should've been the hooting night owls and other creatures of the nights. Creatures such as the auburn haired spy who had successfully infiltrated the Fire Nation's palace.

Tsai looked around swiftly before putting a hood over her head. She stepped out tucking a scroll with viable information in the back of her pants before slipping away. Like every other night she had to make way to the hawkery to communicate a message for her evening mission. She snuck around the corner of the hallway and almost had a heart attack when she came face to face with someone.

Zuko stood before her leaning against the hallway’s wall. His arms were crossed over his chest and his sharp eyes were fixed on hers. He didn’t seem groggy or sleepy in the least.

“Going somewhere?” He asked cooly.

She placed a hand over her racing heart and took in a deep breath. Stopping herself from screaming from the shock.

It took her a moment to regain her composure and she glowered at him. "I told you to stay away from me!" She repeated angrily. "Were you watching me?"

"You still haven't answered my question," he pressed not answering hers.

"I don't have to," She muttered as she walked past him. "Or what? Are you going to order me to?" She narrowed her light brown eyes at him. She hated it when he ordered her around to do stuff. He couldn't believe he had the audacity to do so after his betrayal, after everything he had done to her.

Zuko was convinced that Tsai was never going to forgive him. Never going to look at him and think of a decent human being again.

He tried. The spirits know he tried to make things right. He would try to speak to her. To purposely run into her around the palace when she was running errands for his sister. Sometimes he would even ask her to do pointless stuff for him. Just to keep her near. It was never anything painful or humiliating. Most of the times they were petty, ridiculous favors so that she could catch a break from his sister.

"Try this roast duck and fire-berry tart," he had demanded one afternoon. "I have to see if it's poisoned. The ice cream too."

Sometimes he would even leave bowls of fruits or sweets outside of her room in hope that they might make her day a bit more bearable.

He could still remember the angry look in her face as she glared daggers at him yet ate the full roast duck meal. She would never let it show let alone vocalize it but she was more than grateful for these small favors. Still, it wouldn't change the way she felt about him. She was still seething in anger every time she saw him, even more when he was with his perfect new girlfriend.

Zuko kept a close eye making sure that Azula wouldn't make her do anything too brash. Regardless every day the girl looked more and more exhausted. He knew it was because she wasn't sleeping at night. Dark circles carved under her eyes from exhaustion as she went on in her day by day without complaining. After seeing her that night he guessed she had been doing this every night, but to do what? Her mysterious motives for remaining restless were still a mystery to him. Was she sneaking out to visit his uncle?

"What? I can't explore the mainland?" She said referring to the Fire Nation Capital over her shoulder lying with ease.

“Liar,” he called her out flatly seeing right past her façade. “I’ve been watching you for some time now. Sneaking out at late hours. Almost passing out during the day. Where do you go? Who do you go see?” He inquired.

“That’s none of your business,” she snapped. It really wasn’t. He made a hum in the back of his throat.

“You need rest,” he advised sound like his uncle.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend or something to keep you busy? A hobby? Princely duties to attend?” She said mockingly before turning away from him.

“Have you seen Uncle?” he chased after her. She wasn’t really sure where she was going. All she knew was that she didn’t want to be around him. “You have!” He pressed on.

She would neither accept or deny that claim.

“Did he see you? Did he say anything to you?” He questioned as he tailed behind her.

She scoffed cruelly and looked over her shoulder. “He’s not talking to you?”

“No…” he answered quietly.

“Figures. Why would he want to talk to his betraying nephew?”

“But you betrayed him too!” He called out.

She stood silent for a moment. She slightly flinched as if she was going to say something but turned away silently instead.

“What are you not telling me?” He stood dead in his tracks when he realized she would not answer to him. Letting her go vanishing into the night.

Xxx

The other day Azula had demanded that she fetch a rare lily pond from a nearby pond infamous for being pooled with leeches. The poor girl returned to the palace soaked and muddy covered with leeches from head to toe. She would withdraw to her small windowless prison room completely drained where she could have a cold dinner of either stale bread, rice and sometimes dry chicken.

Another day she had been walking to the Royal bathroom chambers carrying two heavy buckets over her shoulders filled with rose petals. Petals which would be used for the princess's weekly rose water bath. She stumbled upon the hallways sleepily almost collapsing from the exhaustion. When she turned a hallway and encountered the one person she did not want to see.

He said her name in a worried tone and she ignored him continuing forward in her trek.

“Let me help you,” he said reaching for one of the wooden buckets she carried over her shoulders. “I can manage just fine, Prince.” She responded in an annoyed tone.

She looked ill. He could see the strain in her as she struggled to carry the heavy wooden buckets over her shoulders. Her body was even slightly wobbling from side to side to side from exhaustion. He snapped his fingers and before she knew it two servants that seemed to appear from out of the nowhere took the buckets off her shoulders and would finish the task from her.

She leaned over resting her hands on her knees as she caught her breath. She pushed her hair out of her face and looked at him with a hard expression on his face. It was always like this with him. She didn't need his help and certainly had no need for his sympathy. If she was fully well rested she would've most definitely been able to deliver to Azula. However her sleepless nights really weren't helping...

“I don’t want anything from you!” She angrily snapped at him. Before standing up and dusting her clothes off.

He, of course, was already used to this and had found a way around her bickering, push aways and protesting.

“Actually,” he said in a matter of fact tone. “Seeing as you are also my servant. I have something I need you to do for me.”

She gritted her teeth in fury, wondering just what stupid task he had in mind for her.

Moments later she found herself in his bedroom chambers. She tried her best not to appear interested by the artifacts and materials that were in the room.

“This is by far the stupidest task I’ve been forced to do,” she complained beyond irritated from his bed. She looked at the prince who was sitting on a wooden chair besides his bed looking down at her with his arms crossed over his chest an annoyed look in his face.

“General curiosity,” he shrugged with a rare, small smirk playing at his features.

“This..” she fought of an exhausting yawn. “Is so pointless...”

“You will not leave this room until you count every single thread on this blanket.” He ordered in a tone that was forcibly unsympathetic.

“This is so dumb. You’re so dumb…” she said weakly pointing a finger in his direction. But the bed... It was so comfortable. Her body sunk into it. Sleeping tempting her, calling her.

She currently lay on his bed, her nose buried against the heavy blanket as she counted every microscopic thread and stitch on the comforter. Sleep was taunting her, it was so seductive. Just a little cat nap wouldn't help...  He looked so smug. She had reached somewhere in the hundreds when she finally succumbed into its hands.

How could she not? Wrapped in warmth? Sleeping on a cloud, specially when the bed was wrapped in such a familiar comforting scent. What was that again eucalyptus?

It took him some time to realize it smelled like him...

Zuko let out a sigh he had been holding when he realized the exhausted girl had finally passed out from the exhaustion. He hated just how hardheaded she could be sometimes. He shook his head and pulled a thin blanket over her sleeping form before exiting his room.

xxxxx

AN: Stop reading here if you want a nice fluffy chapter. Do not read the following 3 sentences unless you want it all to go to hell again.

xxxxx

That same day Tsai was caught sleeping and as a punishment the soles of her feet were repeatedly whipped with a wooden cane in torture.

She swore not speak to the prince again.

She didn't tell him why.

xxx

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CHAPTER MASTERLIST

[dreamcatcherfication]

The Queens of London Part 5 - I Can’t Breathe and I Can’t Smile

This chapter is... disappointing. I really wanted to get it out today, but I couldn’t find the will to write it. I hope it’s still good and you all still enjoy it, but there’s a lot less effort behind it than previous ones. Don’t worry! The plot hasn’t changed and everything’s already planned out, but this chapter was just harder to write than the rest. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Sorry for any spelling/grammatical errors, it’s raining and I’m the itsy bitsy spider.

Writing Masterpost

If you want to send a request or a prompt, my inbox is always open! I publish a story at 8:00 AM PST everyday, so I’m always in need of new ideas (now featuring random asks). If you want to be tagged in my works, just let me know and I’ll be sure to tag you!

Prompts | More Prompts | The Trifecta of Prompts | Original Prompts

Trigger Warnings: Allusions to sexual abuse, unwanted sexual advances, almost having an anxiety attack

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

It was the night of the party and Kat would be lying if she said she was prepared. All the other queens and ladies were cool and collected, but she could feel all her internal anxieties coming to the surface. Kat didn’t know what she was doing, she had never been to an actual party (unless you counted failed high school Halloween bashes). This was a huge leap Kat was taking with tons of risks, and it was finally setting in how hopelessly unprepared she was.

Standing in front of her mirror, the mix of guilt Kat was feeling about her suit didn’t help to quell her anxiety. It fit perfectly and was absolutely stunning on her, but it was also the most expensive thing she had ever worn. Kat felt dirty with the suit on. It was meant for Katherine Brandon, not Katherine Howard. But she was about to go through with this insane plot to infiltrate Henry’s party and there was no backing out.

There was a knock at her door. “Coming!” Kat called, flexing her fingers. On the other side of the door was Anne, the only person who actually knew where Kat lived. She had agreed to pick her up and take her to Henry’s party so no one would suspect anything from Kat.

Anne had a small bag slung across her chest, her dress just as dazzling as Kat remembered. The bar owner was on her phone, casually texting someone. She glanced up when Kat opened the door and grinned. “Talking with Maggie about tonight,” she explained when Kat’s eyes landed on the phone. “She and the other ladies are going to be in contact with Cathy the whole time, in case something goes wrong.”

“You mean in case I fail,” Kat mumbled, her breathing picking up slightly.

Putting away her phone, Anne wrapped an arm around Kat. “No Kat, don’t think like that. You’re perfectly capable of doing your job. You’re small and basically invisible, you’ll get it done. I have faith in you.”

Kat couldn’t help but feel like that faith was misplaced, but she gave Anne a forced smile and kept her mouth shut. Anne led Kat to her fancy car, some brand Kat couldn’t even identify, and slid into the driver’s seat. “When we get there, everyone’s going to meet before we split up. You get in and out as quickly as you can, okay?”

“Okay,” Kat nodded, staring straight ahead.

“Kat,” Anne leaned towards her cousin, making Kat look her in the eyes. “Promise me that you’ll stay safe. Promise.”

Shivering at Anne’s low tone, Kat set her face. “I promise.”

Satisfied with Kat’s answer, Anne put the car into drive. The two cousins were silent during the entire ride, both of them too nervous to speak. There was a lot weighing on tonight and they were acutely aware of that.

Henry’s house wasn’t just some house, it was a mansion, Kat noted. One of the biggest ones she had seen. It reminded her of a castle, if she was being honest, with its high walls and intimidating gates. Her task of finding his office seemed ten times more daunting even before stepping inside the palace. “Boleyn! Kat!” A voice called out from behind them when they stepped out of the car.

Anna was leaning against the gate, her hands in her suit pockets. The suit was red with black highlights down the side. She had high heels that made her seem like a giant and a thin top beneath her blazer. Kat wasn’t sure if Anna was competing to see who would get more attention between her and Anne, but that’s what it seemed like with the extreme effort she clearly put into both of the outfits. “Anna,” Kat’s cousin acknowledged, “Where are the others?”

“Right here,” Jane answered, walking up with Cathy at her side. Just like Anna, Cathy was breathtaking in her suit. The blue complimented her skin like no other color, and it made her curly hair stand out even more. Kat simply couldn’t understand how Anna and Bessie had been able to come up with these outfits.

From the other side of the street, Aragon walked over to the group, her dress sashaying behind her. “Now that we’re all here,” Aragon started, “we can go over last minute details.”

“Yes,” Cathy reached her hand into the center of the queens and opened it, revealing a small earpiece. “Maria got me an earpiece so I could talk with the ladies. There’s only one, so come to me if you need help. If something goes wrong, don’t hesitate to call for help, you are not at this alone,” she spoke the last part while looking directly at Kat. The others pretended like they didn’t notice, but it was clear they had.

Furrowing her eyebrows with determination, Kat stepped forward. “Do we have any idea where his office is? His palace is gigantic, I won’t be able to find it without direction.”

Jane answered her. “It’s in the west wing. Second floor, third room. It has a golden handle.” At the strange faces of the others, she explained, “He and I have a good relationship, remember? I’ve been to his home more than once.”

Accepting the explanation, Aragon broke from the group. “Jane, Anna, and I will go in together. You three,” she addressed Anne, Kat, and Cathy, “will wait before coming in at different times.”

“You got it. Now shoo, be Aragone,” Anne smirked. Jane laughed at the pun while Aragon shot Anne a threatening glare. With that, the three women entered the gates, disappearing to the party.

Glancing at Kat out of the corner of her eye, Anne tried to be discreet with watching her cousin. It wasn’t working, and Kat knew what she was doing, but neither of them said anything. “Kat,” Cathy ran a hand through her hair, “I want you to come to me immediately if something happens.”

“Why?” It wasn’t that Cathy was cold towards her, she just wasn’t the most open of the other queens. Kat didn’t really expect Cathy to offer herself as a person to seek out.

“I have the earpiece to the other ladies, and we both have similar jobs. You’re putting yourself in a lot of danger, and I’m thankful that you’re willing to do that. But if you need to get away quickly, I’m your best bet,” Cathy stated. “And I’ll help you, no questions asked.”

Suddenly feeling the effects of her nerves returning, Kat awkwardly swallowed. “Yeah, will do. Um, let’s go inside now.”

Kat had no idea how she had managed to escape from the prying eyes of models and politicians all situated in the main hall. The palace was even bigger on the inside than Kat imagined, and she was having trouble navigating around. There were so many different sets of stairs that she wasn’t sure if she was on the second floor or the eighth. Regardless, Kat walked along the quiet hall, counting doors.

For an overcrowded party, no one seemed to be wandering around the palace but her. Everyone was in the same room, and the hall Kat traversed was completely deserted. Stopping in front of the third door, Kat stared at the golden handles. This was it. This had to be it, right? Reaching her hand out, Kat turned the knob and closed her eyes,

“Excuse me darling, what are you doing all the way out here?” Jumping back, Kat scrambled away from the door. She put on a fake beam and turned to face the man who called out to her. He was tall and had a scruffy beard, his body so big he seemed to take up the entire hallway. This was Henry Tudor, Kat was sure of it. She had seen a few photos of him before, but they were all far more flattering than this version of him.

“Uh, I uh, I was looking for the bathroom,” Kat giggled, pretending to be tipsy. “I kept walking and I thought this was it!”

Noticing Kat’s vulnerable state, Henry started taking steps closer. “Well dear,” he lowered his voice, “I could show you the bathroom if you like.”

Fear trickled down Kat’s spine like a spider crawling over her skin. “N-no thank you! I should be back to the party.” 

Henry blocked her way, his teeth flashing dangerously. “But you should use the bathroom if you need it,” he pushed, trapping Kat.

“It was all in my head,” Kat pretended to laugh as if she was drunk, praying it would convince Henry. “I just want to go back to the party now.”

“Well let me escort you,” Henry put his arm on Kat’s shoulder.

She froze, remembering the times Francis had done the same to her. The times that the men before him had - “Henry, what are you doing?” A familiar voice asked. Jane was standing behind Henry, her arms crossed and an unimpressed eyebrow raised. “This poor girl’s trying to get back to the party, let her go.”

Glaring at Jane, Henry released his hold on Kat, allowing her to scamper off. As Kat passed Jane, the woman offered her a short wink that Henry wouldn’t notice. As she left the hallway, Aragon passed Kat. One look at the girl and Aragon was marching down the hall to help Jane. She called behind her “Go find Cathy, get ready to leave. If Henry saw you and Jane together, he’s going to put the pieces together. Now go.”

Moving faster, Kat reentered the main hall. Swiveling her head back and forth, she pushed through throngs of people in search of Cathy. It was happening so quickly, she realized. Henry finding her before she even had the chance to investigate. Jane finding her and Aragon sending her to Cathy. It felt like they had only just gotten here and Kat had already ruined it. 

With so many people around her, Kat started to shrink into herself. Too many people, too many people, why were they all in the same room? She couldn’t see Anne, she couldn’t see Cathy, Jane and Aragon were with Henry, Anna was probably off having a great time. Kat almost ran directly into a wall as she emerged from the mosh pit of people. Steadying herself, Kat breathed in heavily, her chest tightening like a rope was tied around it. 

“Kat?” Cathy noticed her from beside a table filled with champagne. The writer had a notebook in her hand, but she slid it into her jacket as she approached Kat. “Hey, Kat, breath with me,” she whispered, grabbing the girl’s hands. Kat did as she was told, breathing in unison with Cathy’s controlled breaths. Once Kat’s breathing was stable, Cathy put a finger to her earpiece. “Yes, Kat’s here. Something must’ve gone wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” Kat whispered, “I’m so so sorry, this is all my fault.”

“Hey,” Cathy assured her, “This whole thing was a huge risk, and it’s not your fault something went wrong. We’ll have other opportunities. For now, we need to leave before Henry starts to figure things out. He’s smarter than he looks Kat,” she commented, pushing Kat around the wall of people. 

They emerged at the front door, quickly leaving the confused waiters behind as they tried to offer bottles of alcohol. “Where are the others?” Kat asked Cathy.

“Anne’s in the thick of it, there’s no way of getting to her until she decides to leave,” Cathy explained. “I’ll shoot her a text and she’ll join us afterwards. Cleves was on standby to be our driver, and she should be waiting for us if the ladies managed to contact her. The ladies are at the theatre, so we’ll join them.”

True to Cathy’s words, Anna was waiting in her car. “I can’t believe you made me leave so early when everyone’s eyes were on me,” Anna complained without any real frustration. “Get in, we should leave now,” she spoke seriously. “The ladies said they’d get Aragon, Jane, and Anne to the theatre as quickly as possible, but their covers aren’t blown yet.” Cathy got in the passenger seat while Kat climbed into the back.

Covering her face with her hands, Kat did her best to quiet her breathing. She had messed this up for them. They had been planning this for so long and she had messed it up right off the bat. She should’ve known better than to try and get involved with them. She was only a burden on them, a hindrance.

She didn’t belong with the queens.

------------------------------------------

Tag List:

@radcowboyalmondtree @boleynhowards @annabanana2401 @babeebobo @dont-lose-your-queerhead @everything-insanity @mindless-pidgeon @i-wanna-dance-and-sing-six @thedemidisaster

[janetbrown711]

"So... are we gonna walk to Paris, or..?" Webby walked behind a now frustrated Louie.

"We'll take a boat in Germany, calm down," Louie huffed.

"Ooh, okay," Webby nodded, "so then we're walking to Germany."

"No, of course not your grace, we're taking a bus," Louie teased.

"A bus? Why I've never been on a bus," she put her hands on her hips. Louie sighed.

"I need a break. Let's stop here," they had arrived at a small creek with a little bridge go stop by. Donald sat down and started to write something in his notebook. Webby peered over his shoulder (which she knew was rude but she was curious) and saw it was a letter to one Daisy.

"Who's Daisy?" Webby asked. Louie snorted.

"Oh, she's just the most beautiful, most passionate, and most loving woman in all of Paris," Donald's face melted into a dopey smile. Louie rolled his eyes.

"Donald, focus here," Louie told.

"I am. She's the first cousin to the Empress," he smiled.

"Wait, i thought we were going to see the Empress herself. Why her cousin?" Webby asked. "Louie..?"

"Well- okay. Nobody gets near the Dowager Empress without convincing Daisy first," he grinned. Webby blinked.

"Oh no. No, no, no! Nobody ever told me I had to prove I was the Grand Duchess!" She told him.

"Look, I-"

"Show up? Yes. Look nice? Yes. But lie? No!" Webby protested.

"Hey, you don't know if its a lie. What if it's true?" He asked. Webby huffed and turned away to the bridge.

"Wait," he grabbed her arm. "I know, i know. Its another roadblock on the path to finding out who you are. I just thought this was something you had to see through to the end no matter what," Louie explained.

"But look at me Louie. I am not exactly Grand Duchess material," she referred to her rags, huffed, and stormed to the bridge. Louie did the same but the opposite direction. Luckily, Donald followed her.

"Here," he handed her a flower and gestured her to look at her reflection in the creek. "Tell me, what do you see?"

"I see a skinny nobody with no past, and no future," she dropped the flower into the water and watched the water ripple.

"I see an engaging and fiery young woman who on a number of occasions showed great and daring leadership and regal command, equal to any royal in the world," Donald smiled at her. "And i have known my fair share of royalty."

"You have?" Webby asked.

"Yes, i do. I used to be a member of the imperial court," he said. Webby smiled, feeling a lot more comfortable with the idea now.

"You? In the court? Wait- does that mean-"

"No, Louie was not. He was just a boy. And i was just his uncle," Donald said.

"What about his mom?" She asked.

"Oh she worked in the kitchens. It was pure luck that I was able to rise to my status, until the revolution of course. Louie's mother wanted to stay close to me so she got a job as head kitchen maid and her boys helped out there too, though often they found ways to get themselves into trouble," he chuckled.

"Boys like plural?" Webby asked. Donald's face fell.

"Yes... Louie- had two triplet brothers. Huey and Dewey," Donald explained.

"What... happened to them?" She asked.

"The revolution," he shook his head.

"Oh... i'm so sorry," she said.

"It's okay. I've come to terms with it. I swore to his mom to protect him and I've done a pretty good job so far,," He smiled tiredly at her. Webby hugged him.

"I bet it still hurts though," she said. Donald sighed again.

"Yeah. It does," he let go.

"So, are you ready to become the Grand Duchess Webbigail?" Louie appeared out of nowhere, killing the mood instantly. Webby snarled and went off again. Donald shot him a look and Lena growled at him.

"What?" Louie raised his arms.

"Webby, there is nothing left for you back there. Everything is in Paris," Donald said. Webby pondered that thought for a long hard moment.

"Well then... gentlemen... start your teaching," she said. Donald clapped, his old melancholy mood completely out of sight.

"Ah yes. I remember it well," he stepped toward her. "You were born in a palace by the sea."

"A palace by the sea..." she whispered to herself. The idea felt strange, yet natural.

"You rode horseback when you were only three," Donald just started listing off random facts.

"And you would make faces and terrorize the cook," He laughed.

"Was I wild?" Webby laughed.

"Like a buck," Louie snorted.

"But you'd behave when your mother gave you a stern look," Donald added.

"Fair, i suppose," she nodded.

"Oh come on, if we're supposed to get you ready to see Daisy, you'll need to be more accepting than that," Louie said.

"Let's work on posture," Donald made sure Louie's impatientness didn't shine through too loudly.

"Shoulders back, head high, don't walk, try to float," Donald straightened her back and lifted her chin. Louie got a stick and balanced it on her head and she walked, but she almost tripped over herself.

"This feels ridiculous," Webby huffed.

"Its important though," Louie patted her head.

"You give a bow," Donald displayed. Webby copied.

"What now?" Webby asked.

"Your hand receives a kiss," Donald was about to do it, but Louie got to it before he did. He kissed it and grinned cheekily. Webby nearly smacked him in the face but Donald was quick to move past it.

"If i can learn to do it, you can learn to do it. Now let's talk food," Donald brought them back to the suitcases and got out food.

"Oh geez, guess there's a lot more to being a Duchess than i realized," Webby laughed to herself.

"Oh yes..." Donald said with almost pity.

For the rest of the day they spent their time teaching her how to eat, talk, sit, walk, and taught her facts about the Vanderquacks while they rode on various vehicles before eventually arriving at the boat to Germany.

When they had all settled down the cabin, they were planning on meeting up for dancing lessons and Louie stopped her on the way up.

"Look, i bought you a dress," he sounded mighty proud of it.

"More like a tent. Look how big this thing is," she looked at it.

"It's flowy," he rolled his eyes (a now signature Louie move).

"Just put it on," he gave it to her and headed up the stairs.

"Hmmm," she put it against herself and messed with the skirt. She looked up at him and he looked back at her, but he quickly turned away and went up the stairs.

The sun had almost entirely set by the time Webby was up again. Louie and Donald had started a game of chess but Louie had no idea how to play so was losing miserably, so when Webby finally showed up he got up and clapped happily before he got a good look at her.

The dress made her look like a whole other person. Her white hair was tied into a neat ponytail, a blue ribbon making that possible (he didn't know where that came from). The blue dress fit her like a glove and she just looked... magnificent.

"Wonderful! Marvelous!" Donald applauded her.

"And now you are dressed for a ball," Donald smiled.

"And now to learn to dance for one as well. Louie?" he said and forced Louie out of his star struck gaze.

"Mm?" He asked, not realizing his uncle had taken his arm and dragged him in front of Webby.

"Oh- i-im not very good... at... it," he tried to back down but Webby put her arms up and he slowly took them and they started to dance a little but Donald stopped them.

"Webby, you dont lead, he does," Donald corrected.

"You're the expert," Webby brushed a loose hair from her face.

Slowly, they joined again and Louie led a bit before talking.

"You know... that dress is uh- very... beautiful," he said.

"You really think so?" She asked.

"Yes," he said, spinning her in a circle. "It was nice on the hangar but it looks even better in you. You should wear it."

"I am wearing it," Webby teased him.

"Oh- yes. Right. Of course," he internally face palmed. "I'm just trying to give you a- uh..."

"Compliment?" She asked, looking into his eyes. He paused his speech.

"Yes," he nodded. He closed his eyes a moment before opening them and seeing Webby still hadn't broken her gaze into his and just like that he was sucked in. They both stopped talking and just focused on the dancing and each other's eyes.

Meanwhile, Donald was smiling softly, petting Lena while he watched them dance.

"I see it now Lena," he said. "All it took was a bit of intervention and time and now look at them. Smiling and dancing," he sighed happily, before his smile fell.

"Oh dear... how will we get through this? If they are actually in love and this actually works, then..." Donald looked at Lena who whimpered sadly.

"No, let's let this be for now. No harm in letting the present be the present," he said. Lena nodded and he set the small dog back down in his lap.

"Louie..." she whispered. "I'm feeling a little lightheaded and... dizzy."

"Me too," he stopped, still ever so engaged with her eyes. "Maybe it's from all the spinning."

"Maybe we should stop," Louie said.

"Louie, we have stopped," she pointed out.

"O-oh right," Louie laughed a little, before looking back into her eyes. "Webby, I..."

"Yes?" She leaned closer. Slowly, they both closed their eyes and leaned in, but Louie stopped himself.

"You're doing great," he said, before walking away and down to the cabin. Both Webby and Donald's smiles fell.

"I'm sure he didn't mean anything by that Webby," Donald placed a soft hand on her shoulder. "He's just... protective of himself."

"Yeah..." she slowly lowered her arms and sighed.

"I'm going to bed," Webby said. Donald nodded.

"I think that'd be best for all of us."

.o0o.

"There she is master!" Poe de Spell pointed at the projection coming off of the purple stone. Magica nodded.

"All sound asleep in her little bed," she fake fawned over her. "And pleasant dreams to you, princess," she smiled widely at it.

"Yes, sweet dreams indeed," Poe chuckled half heartedly.

"What's with the pathetic laugh?" She raised an eyebrow.

"You never told me what you were planning to do so if im honest, i'm a bit confused," Poe admitted.

"Imbicile," Magica growled to herself.

"I am going to infiltrate her dreams so she cannot escape me and falls to her doom off this little dinky boat!" She shouted.

"Oh wow master, that is very evil of you. Congrats," he clapped.

"Why thank you Poe I do try," she smirked. "Now say goodnight to the princess."

"Goodnight Princess," Poe said.

"And sweet dreams to you," Magica finished.

.o0o.

Meanwhile, over in the land of the living, every passenger on the boat was sleeping soundly in their cabins, so no one was awake to notice the dark purple shadows rising from the air vents and searching for their target. Quickly they found her, and began their work.

Webby found herself in a field with butterflies and warm sunshine all around. A little boy called her name and three butterflies traveled from him to her. She giggled, accepting his invitation and following, both in dream and real life. Webby slipped out of her bed and began to walk, following with a smile on her face. Lena's head perked up at the sound of the door closing. Lena quickly went to the door and began to bark, but it was no use. Webby was in a trance. Lena was quickly desperate, and on discovering she couldn't reach Donald (he slept on the top bunk), she went to Louie (who was on the floor). She got on him and began to bark in his ear.

"What do you want?" Louie groaned, trying to turn over.

At the same time, Webby chased the little boy up a steep staircase of stone, making sure to keep her footing. She skipped and pranced and laughed along with him. Finally the boy stopped and there were three women who waved and laughed before diving down into the calm and warn waters below the cliff. Webby beamed.

Lena bit Louie's hand and he jolted up with a start.

"Hey- what was that for?!" He picked up the dog before looking over to Webby's bed and seeing it was empty.

"Webby!" He gasped as lightning flashed. It was now pouring heavily. He set Lena down and the dog ran to the door and whined. Louie got up and ran out, accidentally slamming himself into the wall due to the massive rocks the boat was now taking.

"Webby!!!"

"Webby! Come join us Webby! The water is fantastic!" One of the women called to her. Webby climbed to the edge of the boat.

"Hello!" She called to them. They looked to familiar, and so friendly. The little boy lept with joy and jumped in, so the water couldn't be all that bad or dangerous.

"Webby!" Louie nearly fell due to the amount of water on the deck, but he kept his footing, running to find her. A wave crashed in the deck and he clung to a pole with all his might and pulled himself up so he could find a better view. With another flash of lightning, he saw her familiar silhouette, about to jump off the boat. Louie gasped. "Webby!!! Stop!!!" He took a rope and prepared to swing over.

Webby turned her head to see where she had heard her name. The man from below called to her again. "Jump!!!" He was angrier than before now. Webby flinched back. "Jump I say!!! The Vanderquack curse!!!" With that, he turned into a hideous demonic creature. Webby gasped as it grew larger in size and grabbed her hand and began to drag her off, when she suddenly felt someone else grab her from behind. She kicked and flailed her arms and legs desperately.

Louie was the one who grabbed her. He took her off the ledge and brought her down to safety, while she still kicked and flailed while shouting the whole time.

"Webby! What's gotten into you?" He set her down and she opened her eyes. He had never seen anyone look more scared in his life.

"Th-the Vanderquack curse!" She shouted, breathing heavily.

"Wh-what?" He wasn't expecting that.

"Th-the curse! I keep seeing faces! So many faces! All familiar," she grabbed his shirt and sobbed into it. Louie didn't know what to do or say so he just wrapped his arms around her.

"It was a nightmare Webby," he stroked her back. "It's alright now," he rested his head on hers.

"You're safe."

.o0o.

"NOOOOO!!!!!! HOW COULD THAT HAVE POSSIBLY NOT WORKED?!" Magica exclaimed, lightning flashing with her anger.

"Magica! You're getting yourself worked up over a small setback!" Poe said.

"Small??? That was the last straw!!! I can't give up but it's time i stopped depending on a little trinket telling me what to do," she scowled. Poe gasped.

"You don't mean..."

"Oh yes Poe. I do mean," she grinned ear to ear.

"I say it's time we say hello to the princess ourselves. Face to face,"

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

[auncyen]

Eye of the Beholder

this has been in my drafts for over half a year, and it was supposed to be longer, but I just cannot so ONE-SHOT TIME. Ren snorts after discovering what the classically handsome, mostly naked shadow with a flower growing out of its blond head calls itself. Of course the conceptualization of Narcissus would be found on Shido's boat. It must have been drawn to the man's titanic ego, a case of like calling to like; the shadow is still oozing self-confidence as it acquiesces and becomes another of Ren's personas. I suppose I can help when you need me, it simpers, as if Ren would consider letting it take up space in his head just to lounge around and think it looks pretty. Just the idea makes him roll his eyes behind his mask. The personas of the Lovers arcana can certainly be confident in themselves, bolstering the flirtatiousness some of them show, but Narcissus takes it a few steps beyond to self-involved. Good thing he already has a strong bond with Ann that no longer needs help from personas, because he's really not sure how he could associate Narcissus with her, besides the fact that they're both blondes. He should see if fusing Narcissus will create anything interesting. After they're done here. The infiltration goes as normally as it can in a Palace full of statues that turn people into mice. It's aggravating and tiring, and they've only gotten up to letter number three by the time everyone is worn out, but that's--not good, but manageable. There's still about two weeks before the election, and Ren sets himself down to schedule those in coded shorthand in his probation diary (which means the code is "I'm a good boy, honest") while he and everyone else gets their breath back in the safe room. Then Ann catches his eye. Or rather, the compact mirror she's holding with one hand as the other brushes her wild hair back into order. "Ann. Can I borrow that?" "My brush?" Not like he'd need one when he's just going to pull a hood over his head as soon as he leaves the Palace. He shakes his head. "Mirror." "Oh! Here," she says, passing it over without a second of hesitation. Though she does add, "Don't worry, you look just fine," with a cheeky smile. He's surprised to find he agrees. There's a mark on his cheek from the interrogation still, mending but plain as day, plus the sweat from the day's work. It's obvious he's tired, his eyelids starting to droop. Yet he feels more awake as his eyes roam over points of his face. His fatigue, the sweat, the mark, those things are all temporary, and he can look past them to the shape of his face, the set of his cheekbones. The wild curls of his hair. The thought he had when he first caught sight of himself in the compact mirror comes back. Beautiful. It's not a thought he's had often before in regards to himself; he knows he can look good, but it takes a certain affectation, an effort to make it look effortless. This is spontaneous, natural. It probably ties back to Narcissus. 'I am thou, thou art damn fine' and all. So maybe that really makes it unnatural? Considering he found Narcissus inside the psyche of a man whose egotism could ruin the entire country in the near future. But there's nothing wrong about this feeling. It's good for him to appreciate himself. He should appreciate himself. He winds a curl of hair around one finger before letting it go and tracing his jawline instead. He's worked so hard, been through so much shit, and he still looks good. "--Joker?" Ah. The sound of his name startles him out of his fascination to realize that Ann and now Makoto are staring at him. Haru is preoccupied, talking with Ryuji, but she glances over with thinly veiled curiosity herself. Yusuke makes no disguise of his own interest, fingers framing Ren. Closing the compact and passing it back to Ann, he gives the artist a smug smirk, something he would do anyway in this situation, but surprises himself with: "I'd ask you to paint me, but I'm already a work of art." "Indeed," Yusuke agrees, disarming in his complete frankness. He drops his hands. "I have been wrestling for some time now with the question of how one would adequately capture your essence. You had an interesting expression just then. Might I ask what you were thinking of?" The honest answer is 'himself', which makes Ren's cheeks grow hot. Right. The myth of Narcissus is where the English term 'narcissist' comes from; he's starting to act self-absorbed, and he needs to toss this persona out soon, as he has with a few others. He knows that all of them simply reflect different aspects of his personality, that none of them are truly alien to his being, but over taking in dozens and dozens of personas, a small handful have managed to throw him off-kilter with just how much they exaggerate certain traits. There's a fine line between 'self-assured' and 'obnoxious', and Narcissus is going to make him cross it. "Lost track of my thoughts," he fibs. "It looked like you got lost in your own eyes," Ann teases. "They are pretty ones." "Just as lovely as yours." "Man, are you complimenting her or yourself there?" Ryuji's caught what distracted Haru and is now hooked on the conversation himself. On the other hand, Morgana looks uneasy now, so it's better if they cut this short. Besides, there's a persona to execute. Ren shoots Ryuji a grin and a little half-shrug, a non-verbal 'you decide', and then stands from the chair. "Everyone good to go? Let's start heading out. I'll be last. Need to sort my personas." He keeps the visit to the Velvet Room short. The others might worry if he doesn't follow them out into the real world quickly enough. Justine is always efficient at listing his options for fusion, so it's just a quick scan through the list to pick Scathach as Narcissus' unlucky partner, producing Norn, an overseer of fate. Her appearance as a woman atop an ornate clock is familiar: he fought her in Sae's Casino. Her temperament is level compared to Scathach's sharp wit and Narcissus' outsized ego, the two seemingly spliced to create a pride tempered by knowledge of things greater than man and perhaps even herself. Yes, Norn will keep him in line, and he leaves the Velvet Room satisfied. Morgana wriggles into his bag as soon as he's out in the real world, and they make their way through the cityscape of Tokyo, passing dozens and dozens of windows and reflective surfaces on their way back to Leblanc. And the first time Ren catches his image being mirrored back to himself, he kind of wants to laugh. Huddling under a hood with a big mark on his face, yeah, real pretty. He's got to grin at just how strange Narcissus' way of thinking was. He smiles a little again the second time he catches his mug in the glass, and the third, too. By the fourth time, though, it's not funny. His eyes flick away from the window, and he presses his fingers against the bruise on his face. Not too hard, because Takemi will be annoyed if he picks at injuries, but just hard enough to feel a throb of pain that reminds him how much of his face it covers. It's so ugly. Ann probably played along with his little burst of vanity to be kind. And Yusuke, well, his fascination with Mementos shows the artist can find inspiration even in the grotesque. Ren's a real work of art, sure, painted in black and blue and purple and yellow and white, too white, too pale. He keeps his eyes away from reflections after that. Ever since...that night, his face has been a mess, and looking at it just makes him feel the mess inside, anger and rage and fear and shame. Why should he feel ashamed? That's a mess in itself, and trying to pick it apart just makes the cage rattling in his chest feel tighter. Maybe...next time he comes across Narcissus, he'll keep him. If the options are being a little obnoxious or hating to look at himself, the others can cut him some slack.

[colonel-insomniac]

The Thief’s Prince (Part One)

Ok, Aladdin AU, anyone? keep in mind that since Aladdin had a genie, I kinda have to write one in too. 1 2 3 4 5 6 AO3

Bobby wouldn't be a thief if he really had any other choice. As it is, he’s simply doing what he has to in order to live, and keeping his friends alive. Instead, he’s known as a thief, a street rat, a sweet talking deceiver, and a lot of bad things he won’t repeat to anyone. Sometimes, it makes Bobby upset to know that other people think badly of him, he only ever tries to be the best he can be, but money is tight, and not everyone can afford it, or afford the reputation he’s made for himself. So he does what has to be done. 

He wishes people were kinder, or would at least see him as a robin hood of sorts, but that probably won’t happen. The only thing to comfort him right now is that no one but those closest to him are aware of his track record. They call him Acro, and where they got that name, he isn’t sure, but it’s better than them knowing his real name and calling for Bobby Porter’s head. Instead, they look for someone who doesn’t exist. 

So he wears a hooded cloak when he’s out trying to…shop. His boss, Eugene Krabbes, runs the Krustie Krabbe, a restaurant front for the true mission, in which Bobby’s managed to reach the top of the pyramid. Their mission is simple—steal from the fortunate and give to the unfortunate. Tomorrow, they’re supposed to attempt a theft mission from the palace, but Bobby isn’t really sure how they can do that without failing severely. 

Right now he’s in the marketplace, wandering through the crowded area, trying to see what he can manage to take without necessarily being noticed. The hood of his cloak is pulled over his eyes to shield him from the sun and to keep out prying eyes. Of course he only gets more stares, but there are several others with hoods up, and they’re normal people, so Bobby prays that no one suspects anything. 

There are apples, bread, cheese, pastries and so much more. There’s also some valuable-ish jewlery, but Bobby doesn’t dare try to steal those. He’s been instructed not to go that far, no matter how much he itches to. Bobby gets that they can’t really sell stolen jewlery at a restaurant, but they’d be able to sell it for more than it costs and use the money they earn to actually buy the things they need. Mr Krabbes just doesn’t listen to Bobby. 

He stops that train of thought before it can really take off, and unhooks his bag. He’s preparing himself for an easy grab-and-go. Today was a good day to hit the markets, it’s so busy they might not even notice him. Bobby inches himself towards the apple stall, inspecting the red and green and yellow fruits. His acting skills kick into effect when he brings a pale arm towards the apples, running a short finger over their unblemished skin. When he’s sure no one’s looking anymore, he tosses four apples in succession into his bag, before slowly walking away. 

No matter how many times he does this, his heart always pounds rapidly when he walks away. He knows it’s wrong to steal in theory, but is it still bad if he’s doing it for a good cause? He figures maybe it’s some sort of paradoxical situation, doing the right thing even though it’s wrong in the basest of its theories. 

Regardless, no one shouts at him to stop, and he hits up the next stall: bread. He operates this one exactly like the apples. Inspect, touch, and once the coast is clear, take. Maybe Bobby gets a little too confident with his abilities. He’s on his seventh loaf of bread when he hears the familiar phrase “Stop, thief!” 

Rolling his eyes, he takes off running, closing his bag hurriedly. He weaves through the throng of people, hoping to lose the guard that caught him, but every time he thinks he’s shaken them off, a new guard joins. It’s like running instantly means you’re guilty for something. Bobby can hear the guards barking at one another that it’s him, or rather that it’s Acro. Same difference, he supposes. 

His bag thumps against his leg, and his hood blows almost all the way off his head, but no matter how bad the stitch in his side gets, he doesn’t stop. He can’t, uness he wants to lose everything he just got. Bobby runs into a random building, up the stairs, into a random open door. He slows for a moment, trying to be as quiet as he can to throw any authority figure off his metaphorical scent. Bobby can hear them running up the stairs, their boots pounding out the beat to an unheard melody. He stops, fanning himself with a hand, before rushing to the window. The guards footsteps and yelling are quieter, but it’s only a matter of time until they have to come back down.

He thinks of the fabled Aladdin, the thief turned prince, many kingdoms over, somewhere called Aghraba. Maybe Bobby looks up to the guy a little, but only in a “he turned his life around” kind of way. Bobby can hear them coming back down, and scampers out the window, scaling the wall as fast as he can. In hindsight, maybe he should have gone down instead of up. 

On the roof is a blanket that’s rather big, and Bobby immediately knows what he ought to do. Whether it’ll work or not is another thing, but life isn’t fun if you always play by the rules. He grabs the corners of the blankets in his hands, and hopes that it works as a makeshift parachute. No time for second thoughts, he gulps, and runs, leaping off of the rooftop. 

And of course it works. Well, he doesn’t plummet to the ground, so it’s a success in his mind. He takes off running toward the Krustie Krabbe, mentally patting himself on the back for his quick thinking. Bobby notices the guards watching him from the roof he once stood in when he glances over his shoulder, still ordering him to stop. 

They really think he’ll stop when he pretty much succeeded? He laughs to himself, it’s honestly just a foolish way to think. He’s won, that’s it. 

He slows down and takes the cloak off as he nears the Krustie Krabbe, folding it up nicely before entering the establishment. Krabbes waits for him in front of his office door. Bobby knows the drill by now, and just breezes into the room, taking a seat in the velvet chair. “So.” He says, folding his freckled arms, relaxing now that he’s safe. His bag lies on the ground next to him. 

Krabbes doesn’t bother waiting for Bobby to hand him the bag, he snatches it off the floor and looks inside. “Four apples, seven loaves of bread.” Bobby states, proud of his accomplishment. It’s the most he’s managed to take in one go. 

“Good job, me boy. This is why you be the one at the top of me recruits.” Bobby shrugs, but can’t resist a small smile. 

“Anyway, that ain’t the only thing I want to talk to y’a about, boy.” Krabbes sits down behind his desk, hands fidgeting with a pen. Bobby leans forward, thoroughly intrigued. 

“About the attack on the palace tomorrow, yer the one that needs to go in.” Bobby feels the shock running through his veins like electricity. 

“What—me? But I thought… ” Bobby trails off. He’d thought about the mission before, and he wanted to be the one to go inside, but he didn’t expect to actually be chosen to go inside. 

“Look boy, you’re the only one fast enough, and you’re also the only one of my recruits who’s innocent looking. No one will suspect you, boy.” Bobby nods, stomach in knots. 

“Alright, so what’s the plan?” He asks. 

“We send you in tonight, dressed as a servant. But you are not to interact with anyone unless absolutely necessary, boy. You get too cocky sometimes, but the stakes are high for this one.” Bobby blushes and looks at his shoes. It’s true, though. He does get too sure of his abilities sometimes. 

“You are to tend to the prince and when he’s sleeping, take whatever might be valuable. You know that part of the drill. You fill up your bag, your pockets, everything that you can. We’re taking the money and giving it to the people boy, but only after we make sure our organization has enough to satisfy our needs.” Bobby nods, tended at the thought of the prince. 

Once upon a time, when Bobby was just a little boy, the prince would wander the streets of the kingdom. That’s where they met. The two became fast friends in the way children usually do, and had loads of fun despite their different backgrounds. 

But then prince Patrick’s mother died. After that, the prince hasn’t been seen again. It’s been ages since Bobby last corresponded with the prince, and he wonders if prince Patrick remembers him. 

Bobby’s never told anyone about this, and he poses a risk by showing his face around the prince at all, but Krabbes wants him to do this. And so he will. 

Later, when the shop closes, Bobby heads to the living area he shares with Sandy and Edward. Sandy’s a girl, and she’s really funny and she’s good at using her body as a weapon. Edward has less tolerance for Bobby, though. Bobby isn’t really sure of Edward’s skill set. 

He has a moment to rest before he has to set off to infiltrate the palace, so he naps, and after that, he puts on the disguise Edward had managed to get him and leaves. 

He scales the palace walls with a little bit of difficulty. They’re smooth walls so he doesn’t have much to grab onto, but he manages to climb it with relative ease and jumps down once making sure the coast was clear. 

He smooth’s out his uniform and walks on the palace pathway. He has a layout of the palace on a small piece of paper. It’s a simple drawing with the names of each room simplified by the removal of their vowels. It’s a shorthand way of writing that Bobby has found to be rather useful. 

“Hey, you!” Bobby stops in his tracks, and turns around. He recognizes the voice as one of the guards from earlier that day, but he tells himself to remain calm. He was cloaked, there’s no way he’d know that Bobby was the thief. 

“Yes sir?” Bobby replies, trying to appear as innocent as he can. 

“I haven’t seen you before. Do you have any form of identification on your person?” Bobby shakes his head. 

“No sir,” he begins, making his eyes tear up to sell the act. “I don’t come from much money and I applied for this job a while back. I only recently got approved. The king took my only form of ID and promised he would return it but he still hasn’t.” 

He sniffs, mentally crossing his fingers that this works. “I didn’t want to bring it up for fear that I’ll lose the only way I can earn a living, and my friends are very sick, I can’t afford to lose my job.” The guard looks at Bobby suspiciously, but ultimately nods, allowing him to leave. 

Bobby makes sure to profusely thank the guard before continuing on his mission. He hooks a left, then a right, and then another right before walking straight for what feels like forever, but eventually he stands face to face with an oak door. 

He knocks, waiting to hear his invitation inside before he enters the room. Prince Patrick, in Bobby’s eyes, is a sight to behold, and in a good way. He stares a moment too long before remembering to curtesy, and he can feel his cheeks heating up. “Do I…know you from somewhere?” Prince Patrick asks, his head tilted slightly. “You seem so familiar.” 

Bobby looks at him for a moment before replying “My name is Robert, but everyone calls me Bobby.” Patrick nods, eyebrows still furrowed in thought. 

“Well, Bobby, I don’t really need anything right now, but I do know it takes forever to walk all the way over here from wherever you must have been here in the palace, so you are welcome to stay.” Bobby nods, silent for maybe the first time in his life, and he can’t help thinking Edward would so appreciate Bobby being quiet. 

He takes a seat on the ground, looking up at the prince. “So,” Patrick breaks the silence. “What do you do for fun, Bobby?” 

Bobby has to think about that for a moment. He doesn’t really do anything he considers fun. It’s all in the name of survival. “I don’t do anything fun, I run errands in the marketplace sometimes.” That, Bobby thinks, isn’t a lie. He just chose not to tell the whole truth. 

“What’s the marketplace like?” The prince asks this with such intensity that it takes Bobby back before he remembers that Patrick hasn’t seen the outside world in quite some time. 

“It’s not really that interesting, Your Highness. There was a thief today, though.” 

“Did you see this thief?” 

“Not really.” Bobby feels bad lying through his teeth like this but he has to throw Patrick off any suspicion he might have against him. “They call him Acro, though that likely isn’t his real name.” 

The prince is full of questions, it seems. “What does Acro look like?” 

“I’m not really sure, they wear a cloak and always have their eyes covered. The guards haven’t caught him once. I caught a glimpse of Acro once, though. He doesn’t appear like a thief, from what I remember.” Bobby’s practically boasting now, and he has to scold himself internally. He’s getting too cocky, this is what Mr Krabbes was worried about. 

Prince Patrick regards Bobby with a curious smile, as though he knows something. “Oh really?” 

“I mean,” Bobby stammers, nervous now. “I mean that’s what I think? I can’t be sure.” The prince is onto him and he’s gonna face execution. 

Patrick studies him, nodding thoughtfully. “Well I want to leave the palace. I haven’t seen the outside world in ages.” The prince’s eyes light up. “Oh! I used to know this great boy, he also went by Bobby! Maybe you know him?” Bobby blushes and looks away, unsure of how to respond. 

“Well…I think—er I mean, it was me?” He doesn’t meet the prince’s gaze, and the heat that courses through his body is nearly unbearable. 

Neither the prince nor the thief say anything for a couple minutes. “Well how have you been, then?” Prince Patrick asks, a gentle smile on his face. 

Bobby answers as honestly as he thinks he can without confessing his crimes: “Money’s been tight across the kingdom, we’ve all essentially been scraping by, and I mean, the thieves have been making the kingdom a little unsafe. But I’m fine, really.”

“Yet you work for your money and food, correct?” Bobby’s sure this isn’t some random question. He’s convinced the prince knows, or is starting to be aware of Bobby’s background. 

“Yes, Your Highness,” Bobby begins, pausing to think of what else he can say. “I work at a dining establishment named the Krustie Krabbe, and I can manage to get by with the meager wages I earn.” Upon seeing the saddened face of the prince, Bobby makes sure to add “But it’s honest work. And life in a palace? That must be wondrous!”

The prince lets out a one syllable laugh, turning his head away from the thief. “Yeah. There are rules galore, and no one who’s actually a friend in here. It’s so lonely here. I want to leave.” He can practically see the wheels turning inside Patrick’s brain. “Oh, you could sneak me out!” 

“I—what?” Bobby asks. 

“You could sneak me out of here, and take me to the marketplace. That would be great.” Patrick claps his hands together, beaming at Bobby in such a way that he feels inclined to say yes.

“I don’t know if I can do that, I’ll have so many chores to work on here—“

“Oh please, I know you’re the thief they call Acro. I’m not that dim. Not to mention you talked about working at a restaurant. Anyone working for the palace knows this is the only job allowed!” The prince looks smug as he knows he’s beaten Bobby. 

“If you don’t take me outside these walls, I will yell for the guards and tell them exactly who you are, and say that you confessed everything to me.” Bobby mulls over his options, and decides to pull out this emergency card of his sweet talking. He usually only does this when he knows he’ll get caught otherwise, and that only happens when he’s wearing his cloak. No one he knows has ever seen him do this, but Bobby guesses maybe Patrick will have to be the first. 

Bobby stands, and Pat follows suit, scrambling off his bed and standing beside it. Bobby leaps up on the edge of the bed frame, careful not to get his shoes on the clean bed, and brings his face inches away from the prince’s. The prince looks at Bobby with wide eyes, and Bobby smirks back, tossing caution to the wind, and grabs the prince’s chin with his hand. Bobby’s curly hair sits a little over his eyes, but he doesn’t bother moving it. Maybe it adds to the effect. 

The prince practically radiates warmth, one Bobby can’t say he’s ever felt before, but it’s so great of a feeling that Bobby practically revels in it. “You wouldn’t tell anyone.” He states this with such an air of confidence it takes him by surprise. “Right?” the prince nods, cheeks flushing a delicate pink. 

“I didn’t think you really meant you’d hurt me like that.” Bobby added on. “Your sweet little Bobby would never think you’d hurt him.” He internally cringes. Every time he says that line, he always cringes. It’s just so cheesy. He cups the prince’s cheek with his hand, and his blue eyes meet Patrick’s brown ones. 

“No, I…” The prince blinks, “I would never hurt anyone.” Bobby leans away, satisfied, but still maintains the same air he had been. 

“That’s what I thought.” He leaps off the bed frame and takes the prince’s hands in his own. “Now then, I’ll take you outside the palace walls, but not because I’m afraid you will tell anyone, but because I genuinely feel bad. First, though, we must wait till everyone’s asleep.” Patrick shakes his head and nods once. 

“Only one problem with that.” Patrick points out, and Bobby’s smile falters. “The guards have shifts. They switch off every four hours.” 

“I’ll take care of that, don’t worry.” Bobby says this so confidently, even he believes it. 

“You aren’t going to murder anyone, right?” The prince cautiously asks Bobby this, and honestly, Bobby would be lying if he said it didn’t hurt a little, even if he deserved it.

“No! Of course I’m not gonna murder anyone!!!” He keeps his voice lowered, “I’m just a petty thief, not a murderer.” The comment stings, though. Bobby knows the prince doesn’t have a reason to trust him, but it still hurts. He removes his hands from Patrick’s and pivots, marching to the door. “I’m gonna go figure out how to do this, you…stay put.” He says as he opens the door. 

“Robert—Bobby, wait!” The prince rushes towards Bobby, and pushes the door back closed. “Don’t go. I’m sorry that must have been really rude.” 

“No, you’re right. You haven’t seen me in so long, you don’t even have a reason to trust me, technically. You being suspicious of me is a good thing.” Bobby’s just not used to people being suspicious of him, but that’s not Patrick’s fault. “I just gotta go figure all this out.” 

“So let’s figure it out together!” Patrick exclaims, clinging to Bobby’s arm. He seems so desperate for a friend, and Bobby can’t find it in himself to leave. He sighs and nods, allowing himself to be dragged to the prince’s bed. 

“Alright. Where are the guards in the daytime?” Bobby pulls his map of the palace and opens it, placing it on the bed for Pat. 

“Hm. They usually stay towards the front gates and with my father. They’re supposed to accompany me too, but they don’t, which is good.”

“Okay so what I’m understanding is the whole back area is essentially clear?” Patrick nods, and Bobby can feel an idea forming in his mind. “Right. I’ll meet you over at this back wall,” he places a finger on the paper, “tomorrow at noon exactly. No sooner, no later.” When Patrick nods, Bobby simply nods back. 

He’s managed to get completely distracted by his mission, all because of the prince. Truthfully, Bobby would be lying if he said he wasn’t quite enamored by the prince, but just ‘cause Aladdin wound up marrying Jasmine doesn’t mean Bobby will have the same luck. 

“Now, I seriously do have to go. I need to maintain a disguise.” Bobby practically leaps off the bed, trying to show off a little. 

He bows real low, “Good night, my prince.” 

Patrick nods, distracted and pink in the face, and Bobby winks before heading out the door, feeling much too confident in his abilities. Now, time to get on with the mission.

He heads inside the building, which interestingly enough, is quite cold despite being the middle of the summer. Bobby walks through the first room he finds, and opens all the drawers and cabinets. Nothing of much value, which is stupid. It’s the palace. Shouldn’t the knives be made of diamond and the bread dusted with gold? He shakes his head and grabs some silver knives anyways. 

Of course, he’s already strapped with a dagger, but there’s no harm in a little extra protection. Bobby goes from room to room in this manner, ears alert for any sort of noise. No one comes though, so he figures he’s safe. 

And then he comes across a dainty locket that is encrusted with emeralds. He pockets it for himself, intrigued. 

Eventually, he scrambles up the palace walls again, loaded with a bagful of semi-valuable items. And the locket, of course. It feels wrong, though. He knows Patrick, and the prince doesn’t suspect Bobby of robbing them. Maybe he doesn’t have to know that Bobby was the one who looted the palace. He will have to drop off the items with Krabbes and head back, insist on staying with the prince. A solid alibi. They can’t accuse him if he was with the prince. 

“Mr Krabbes, it was a success!” He calls, cloak still draped on him. He put it on at the palace, in case he got caught. The restaurant is abandoned at this time in the night, but Krabbes calls out to Bobby, telling the boy to go to his office. Bobby complies, and strides into the office, grinning past the guilt he feels. 

“Good job me boy, I knew y’a could do it. Any issues we gotta take care of?” Bobby shakes his head, even though there potentially could be. 

“I gotta head back though, boss man, otherwise they might suspect me.” Krabbes freezes at that, but nods, warning Bobby to keep his guard up as he leaves again. 

He knocks on the oak door again, and enters again, brushing the dirt stain from when he toppled over the wall on his way out. “You’re back!” Patrick exclaims, and the glee on his face makes Bobby’s heart pang in guilt. 

He nods, “Yeah, I finished my task, so I figured I’d come back.” The prince claps happily and beckons Bobby forward. 

“You’re clothes are dirty and so are you.” Patrick states matter of factly. 

“We aren’t able to bathe ourselves often in the outside walls. The last time I bathed must have been last week.” Bobby reminds himself not to get angry at the thought of how wasteful it must be to bathe every day. 

“That’s terrible. You’re free to use my washroom, if you would like to, that is.” Bobby’s eyes instantly widen at the offer and he nods shyly, slightly embarrassed at being offered a bath.

The prince shows Bobby to the room, which is complete with a marble tub with gold feet. Patrick excuses himself, and Bobby strips, stepping into the tub as it fills up with water. 

He takes the locket out of the outfit lying on the ground, and dunks it under the water in an attempt to clean it. Bobby’s fingers rub at the gold base of the locket. The emeralds glimmer under the light of the kerosene lamps. 

Bobby squints, because if he’s seeing right, it seems that there’s green fumes exiting the locket. A silhouette appears before his eyes, the same deep green of the emerald, but he has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming when yellow eyes meet his. “Greetings, Robert Porter.” The thundering voice resonated through the room and Bobby shushes the mystical form. 

“I am so dead.” Are the only words that managed to exit the boy sitting naked in the tub. 

[physical-manifestation-of-spite]

Jam - a Doctor Who Fanfiction

 Rating: General Audiences (but it has some bad words in it)

Warnings: Cursing and jam violence (they’ll see me in court)

Categories: F/M, Gen 

Relationships: Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Tenth Doctor & Rose Tyler 

Genre: Humor

Chapters: 1/1

Words: 5947

Summary: In the unfortunate circumstances of the universe, all the Doctor had to be was the Doctor--which was to say, absolutely bleeding Mad--and the rest would follow. “The rest” being a chemical reaction resulting in fizzling, sticky goo, the distinct smell of sulfur, trioxygen, and cherries, and Rose Tyler’s infamous Look. Or: The Doctor smears himself with jam, and Rose suffers.

Read on Ao3 (advised, because I really didn’t want to have to re-italicize everything I wrote, and so I didn’t.)

--

The Doctor was an odd one.

It didn’t have to take long to know this. In fact, it didn’t have to take more than a second to know this. All it took was one look.

It wasn’t that the Doctor was particularly unfashionable. In fact, one could argue that his wardrobe, all tucked safely away in the many storage rooms of the TARDIS, contained the costumery needed to infiltrate the Buckingham Palace to look like the guards, the ministers, or the royal family themselves. No, no, the Doctor was quite alright with fashion, pinstriped suit and long-coat a frequent favorite of his, the slowly-browning converse betraying the clothing’s formality. And it wasn’t any unusual shade of skin color, like a blue or mauve, that suggested his non-nativeness to Planet Earth (the Doctor often enunciated “Puh-lanet” with a pop of his lips and a cheery grin). In fact, nothing really was odd about his appearance. (Well, save for perhaps his wild hair.)

Except the eyes.

Such glee in those eyes, such a wild fascination with the unknown--or perhaps known to him, but forgotten. They glinted at the most inappropriate moments, barrel of a gun (the shape, the material, and Earthly--or unEarthly--manufacturer varied daily) pointed at his head, or spinning razor heading toward the belly of one of his companions. Their respective aggressors would say something--and they always did --and the Doctor’s eyes would gleam with a sort of unbridled excitement. Then, he’d open his mouth.

Cheers to you if you could understand even a word of it, aside from the “ands” and “buts,” and those he didn’t use often. He spoke science, physics (still a part of science), various forms of molecular theory, space-travel--the works, really. No one, not even his companions, quite knew if he was doing it as a tactic to distract their assailants or if he really couldn’t help himself, like a child reaching for a sugar cookie. If you were to ask his companions afterwards, they would comfortably say he was doing both, and if you stared at them long enough, a bead of sweat would form on their temple and they’d ask you to please leave, yes thank you, take some biscuits on the way out.

Point is, the man was Mad. So Mad, in fact, that it was principle to capitalize the M to prove that he was the chief of it, or at least to make sure people got the hint. It’s just that they didn’t realize he was the sort of unEarthly Mad reserved only for Gallifreyans (but since we have no other Gallifreyans to look toward for reference, perhaps just for the Doctor) and it took them a while after meeting the Doctor to realize he was less Earthly mad and more a sort of alien Mad. The eyes, coupled with that unnatural grin, often helped get that idea along faster, though.

Rose Tyler was used to his Madness. Well, she’d say “used to,” but a better term would be better-to-adapt-to-it-in-a-high-stress-situation-instead-of-stare-at-him-blankly. Was there a word for that? (The answer is yes, and the word would be “acclimated.” Or “conformed.” Or maybe just “patient.” If you’re not reading this in the Doctor’s voice, you should be. In the same way his Madness is a part of him, so is his wise-assery.)

Rose wasn’t particularly immune to his Madness, but she had managed to develop what they both agreed upon (nonverbally, and without any prior conversation, consideration, or even hand-gesture) as The Look--a sort of defense mechanism. The Look was rather versatile in its meanings, adapted to the many changes in mood to her dear Doctor and the many situations that they had been in, which had become so repetitive during their travels that she could almost pinpoint when their assailants would pull out the death-ray (“It’s a figure of speech , Doctor, I know they’re not all death-rays.”) and never get a chance to actually do anything with it because the Doctor would either physically or metaphorically tear it out of their grasp.

The Look meant whatever Rose needed it to mean. A selection of her most frequent translations went as followed:

“Doctor,” (and they always started with “Doctor,” in an exhausted sort of sigh,) ”I’m sure this is fascinatin’ and all that (to you and only you), but if you don’t shut your mouth and start doing that thing you said you’d do to get us out of this mess, we’re all going to die a horrible death, and when we’re in Hell, if there is a Hell, I’ll tell you what I meant to say at the start: Shut up.”

“Doctor, this person’s parent/lover/child/close-friend and or relative just passed away and it’s probably for the best if you stopped talking about the marvelous way in which they died by a long-lost technology that you’ve never seen but would much like to piece apart. Insensitive is the word, yeah.”

“Doctor, you are the last living Time Lord in existence, and this act that you have performed not only threatens your life but my own as well, not because I was in physical danger, but because I don’t think I could bear living in a universe where you’re dead and I’m alive, so if you ever want to see me again, you better start treating this with the appropriate level of gravity it deserves to be given.”

and

“Doctor, take that out of your mouth.”

Respectively, these translations were ordered in the frequency that they were used.

And whilst today was supposed to be quiet, a sort of “off-day,” by the Doctor’s description, the universe had a sort of nature to it. Drop a rock in a vat of water, the water will ripple. Flip on a switch and watch a light turn on. Eat Jackie Tyler’s homemade haslet, get sick at exactly midnight.

In the unfortunate circumstances of the universe, all the Doctor had to be was the Doctor--which was to say, absolutely bleeding Mad --and the rest would follow. “The rest” being a chemical reaction resulting in fizzling, sticky goo, the distinct smell of sulfur, trioxygen, and cherries, and Rose Tyler’s infamous Look, being a variant of both the third and fourth regularity.

Because, while the Doctor was considered one of the most brilliant beings in the Universe, coupled with his Madness, Rose Tyler found him, on more occasions than not, utterly daft.

--

Presently, the Doctor smearing himself with jam.

Fourteen jars of it, sold for two pounds each at the local market down William Street*. Small glass containers, three hundred seventy grams each, all stacked together and rattling haphazardly on the metal-grated floor, compact with enough pectin to maintain structural integrity and hold the London Bridge together (not naturally, of course--otherwise the architects would be using blueberry jam instead of solid concrete--but the sonic screwdriver was handy in many situations, and strengthening the pectin bonds was no difference).

It was cherry jam (only because they were out of blueberry), and when he had gotten to the register, balancing all fourteen jars in his arms, the clerk had noted unhelpfully that there were trolleys at the entrance, before she began scanning the jars. Fittingly, because of the unusual number, and because it was one of the rules in the Unofficial Clerk Handbook to ask customers questions that the clerks didn’t honestly care about, she had asked, “Wot you doin’ with all these jams?”

The Doctor had perked up. “Well,” he began conspiratorially, “if you really want to know, I’m collecting enough pectin-laden adhesives to counteract the electric flow of my ship and redirect the pulsive energy centralized on the main control panel--since, well, the central control panel sits directly above the main engine--out and back into the capacitor--that’s broken, you see, the whole thing is broken, just ca-poot--and hopefully dissolve and/or store the excess energy that leaked from three of the central components. Well, that’s for seven of the jars.” He paused to take in a great gasp of air, scratch his chin, and point to the jars. “The other seven is for me and my companion--Rose Tyler, lovely girl, likes jackets a lot--to cover ourselves in during the process so that the propulsive energy doesn’t enter into our bodies and fry the very core of us from the inside out while the TARDIS is rebooting.”

He finished it off with a sniff and a smile. He waited, not particularly for applause, but for something, maybe that sort of daunted surprise that a lot of his past companions made their first several conversations with him. The clerk didn’t give him any of that. In fact, now that he thought of it, she had that distinct look of a divorced great-aunt whose love and affection was reserved only for her cat, Fransis, while she watched the rest of the world with slitted, vengeful eyes. Not that the Doctor ever had an aunt like that, or had seen one before, but some conclusions are easier to reach than others. Besides, you couldn’t trust anyone who named their cat Fransis.

“I’m making pies for a friend’s party,” he had said.

The clerk lady had nodded. “‘Ave fun with your pies.”

The Doctor took his bag of jams, suitably subdued from the conversation.

Which led to the now, where the Doctor was smearing himself with jam in the privacy of his own TARDIS. Which, to a human, sounded odd--even to a Timelord, it sounded odd (and this time, we do not need another Timelord to compare their feelings with). But for your information, he was fully clothed, thank you--didn’t want Rose running into the main room with the Doctor in such an embarrassing, ah, disposition, even if it meant smearing his pristine pin-striped pants with jam. To be fair, however, he was in a bit of a hurry--the sharp, bitter scent of burnt insulars, for one, can invigorate one’s adrenaline levels if you had enough knowledge to know where the scent was coming from, and that it was bad --and hadn’t the time to change, so when the Doctor saw the clouds of steam (and other things, most of which humans should not breathe in) coming from all the wrong places, he all but threw the bag of jams onto the ground, several shattering in the process, and began smearing the contents onto himself, internally weeping as the sticky ooze touched his suit. He didn’t have dry-cleaning on the TARDIS.

Rose was gone. This was not particularly unusual, and he did wish that she’d leave him a note sometimes, you know, so he didn’t have to wonder about her general safety during another alien invasion that would happen in the foreseeable future (it always happened when he was around, didn’t know why), but at the moment, she was placed in the back of his mind. Alarms were blaring. The TARDIS was informing him, with the clarity of a wailing banshee, that it was eleven minutes away from exploding. Well, metaphorically. Well, the TARDIS didn’t talk in metaphorics. Well, sort of with him it did. Or he just exaggerated the stakes a bit. The TARDIS was only going to explode a little bit. The three components he had mentioned to the clerk and the capacitor (which was already broken, but he supposed it would break some more, to an unfixable state) would shatter and likely rain sparks, fire, and pulsive energy which would effectively poison him, if the sheer heat didn’t burn him alive, and then to death. Or regeneration. Which would result in another explosion.

He rammed his entire fist into another jar and scooped the contents out like an over-eager toddler, spilling half of the red jam onto the grates below. He grumbled to himself, under the din of a dozen shrieking sirens. He’d never get the smell out.

The Doctor had estimated that it would take roughly 8 minutes to arrange the jam in its suitable position, which gave him an extra three to check and double-check and triple-check the positions. In the end, it took the Doctor exactly one minute to smear himself with jam, and four to cover half of the console and two of the components before the TARDIS gave a sort of ungodly wail. The Doctor looked up in a frenzy, stared at the monitor above him, before his face become suitably pale. “Oh,” he said, as if he’d found out his sushi had eel in it when he asked for crab. He fumbled for his sonic screwdriver.

Let it be said that, when under high-pressure situations, Timelords were especially good at manipulating time to their whims. There was no actual evidence for this, but the general public assumed that there was a sort of magical--or scientific--quality to the Timelords that allowed them to live up to their names, and, if they had the will, they could freeze time itself to accompany their needs.

The Doctor felt that this was a load of bollocks. It was adrenaline, nothing more, that forced the body to work at an intense pace. And he was running on so much at the moment that he made a sort of Mad titter as he cranked several dials and sent jam flying into the Unknowns of the TARDIS (not to be discovered until perhaps three decades from now, by which the little sliver of jam will have cultivated a generous colony of rare fungus, which the Doctor won’t have the heart to disinfect). The ship gave a resounding moan, and sparks began to fly. The Doctor busied himself with throwing the rest of the jam onto the necessary components, not caring anymore about the pristine arrangement. The sonic screwdriver whirred in his hand.

Another minute. That was all he got before the TARDIS made a sound like no other, and sparks became flames. His screwdriver had gone from a wild whir to a chaotic screaming, and the Doctor made a noise that could have been intended as a curse but was drowned out by metal roaring above him. The floor rattled. The last of the jars shattered into glass. The steam was building. It was getting hard to breathe.

As Mad as the Doctor was, as much of a clever, ancient genius he acted to be, even a Timelord, living for centuries upon centuries and building his experience with humans and aliens alike, surviving unusual occurrence and unexplainable oddity, always found one constant in all his travels: he couldn’t account for all of the variables.

The TARDIS exploded.

--

Rose Tyler was currently walking down Queens Road, on the complete opposite side of town. She wore a pink-lace dress, white jean-jacket, and her high heels--dangling from her two hooked fingers--clacked against each other as she walked down the road. She had a half-eaten muffin in her other hand.

She looked rather peeved for a shoeless girl at 1 o’clock in the afternoon. Perhaps the shoelessness was what made her peeved, if any fellow pedestrians were to speculate. High-heels had a strange power of doing two simultaneous things: making a woman look exceptionally powerful in almost all situations, and making the woman Lord Beezlebub, the spawn of Hell that all should avoid, directly an hour later. It probably had something to do with the swollen ankles. As Rose passed by, local shopkeepers wisely strayed away. (Let’s call someone else in, they mused. I don’t think I’m ready to atone for my sins just yet.)

The truth was that Rose Tyler wasn’t angry at any of the shopkeepers, or at her shoes, or even at her muffin, even though it made an ugly brown smudge at the hem of her dress when she nearly dropped it. She was angry at the one thing that  had been consistently the source of her frustration, her exhaustion, and her swollen ankles, which would often lead to her tearing her hair out of shear strain or her falling asleep for twelve hours straight, on a weekly--and more often than not daily --basis: the Doctor.

It probably had something to do with their last conversation, which was less of a conversation and more of the Doctor talking at himself and then made a sort of noise when Rose asked a question. The TARDIS had apparently done something irregular, which was hard to discern for a human since all of the sounds the TARDIS made triggered that innate human instinct that said that the TARDIS was unusual and dangerous and that meant bad and Rose should very much get out to prevent her innards from exploding. But this was part of the thrill of travelling inside the police-box-shaped spaceship. Among other things. Such as the Doctor practically leaping from beyond the control panels and surveying the symbols on the monitor (which all looked like… well, it looked like alien language to her) with the excitement of a schoolboy child just recently gone out for recess.

“Oh, remarkable!” he cried, and the TARDIS made another noise that did not sound remarkable. “‘S never done that before.”

Rose felt a reasonable amount of alarm. “What’cha mean?”

“The capacitor!” The Doctor cried, still looking at the monitor as he fished inside his suit for his screwdriver. Rose wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be an explanation or if the Doctor was just talking to himself. “It’s broken.”

“ Broken ?”

At this point Rose knew that the Doctor was pointedly ignoring her. He began to scan the control panel. “Oh, dear,” he said when one of the buttons shined a color Rose had never seen before. As in a color she never knew existed. Her human mind, which could only contain so many impossible oddities, decided that this phenomenon was not something it was willing to comprehend, and she promptly forgot that the color ever existed. The Doctor sped past her.

“Doctor, what’s wrong?” Thankfully, the TARDIS wasn’t moving, so they were under no threat of crashing and being thrown around the main control room like a sack of potatoes. But the alarms were still blaring, and Rose’s ears were starting to hurt.

The Doctor disappeared beyond the grated floor down into the winding tubes and glowing lights below, and looking more greasy by the second. Rose could hear the sonic screwdriver whirring in between the pauses of the alarms, and the Doctor said something that Rose couldn’t understand. He stared unhappily at something that was blocking Rose’s vision.

“Doctor?” she urged, a tad irritably. The Doctor’s head popped back up, hair completely wild.

“Blueberries,” he said as an explanation. He vaulted himself back up and over the railing, onto the metal floor. He was shrugging on his jacket before Rose could blink. “I’ll be right back, don’t worry. Just gonna--- market, yes, probably has the most jars-- S’no problem.” He twirled his screwdriver into the air and caught it with one hand before slipping it back into his suit. His face split into that cheeky grin that always made Rose’s chest twist, and coupled with the wild hair and soft brown eyes, she couldn’t get a word out. “I’ll be right back,” he said again, and made his way toward the door. He paused and pointed to her. “Don’t go anywhere. It’ll only take a minute.”

Rose was going to tell him that his perception of time was skewed, and what would be a “minute” for a Timelord would be more of an hour to a human, and that she wanted to know what was going on, and why she couldn’t come. What she managed to get out, however, was, “Wha--” and then the door slammed shut.

In hindsight, she should have run after him, but she didn’t. She instead stood there in the still-wailing TARDIS and waited, just like he had told her to.

It had definitely taken longer than a minute. It had definitely taken longer than five. And ten. Fifteen as well. She made a strangled sort of sound in the back of her throat by the twentieth minute, fumbled for her phone, remembered that the Doctor didn’t carry a mobile on him, and made another strangled sort of sound albeit more passionately. She stormed out of the TARDIS and decided to search for him.

This had been a poor decision because she had gone (unknowingly) the complete opposite direction that the Doctor had gone. She found herself on the other side of Bristol after thirty minutes without seeing any sign, or even a trail of the Doctor (and there was often a trail, at least of several people who looked dazed and uncomfortable and obviously pretending like there had been nothing wrong). She came to the conclusion that she had gone the wrong way and mourned her loss by buying a small chocolate muffin from a local shop. She then spun around, shoes clacking against each other (she had taken them off sometime after buying the muffin, feet throbbing and on her half-way transformation into Lord Beezlebub), and made her way back.

On a whim, she called the Doctor on the TARDIS.

He didn’t pick up.

--

A white cloud clung to the ceiling. Sparks were slowly dying down, sputtering and coughing out from the wires with a sigh. The alarms, once shrieking and grating against the walls, were dead. The central control panel looked scorched along its lights and buttons, covered in a sort of blackened sticky soot that smelled like charcoal and something bitter. There was a coat, thrown over the metal railings, that was edging dangerously down into the abyss of wires and engines below. On the grated floor above the humming murmurs lied a figure, more still than the machine itself, legs crookedly folded over the metal, steam still trailing from the shoes. Beyond him, a strange thin tube, small enough to hold, fizzled in the dark, its round blue stone cracked.

Inside the TARDIS, it smelled sweet.

--

Rose was craving candy. Specifically cherry candy, the sort that you only find on Halloween night that were given by the odd old women who were missing an eye or a finger. (They weren’t actually missing any fingers or eyes, but a child’s imagination should never be challenged, and Mrs. Thompson did have a tendency to squint a lot.) The ones that you would find in grocery stores, that had the same brand and same wrappings, tasted like cough drops. Rose had privately wondered, when she was younger, if there had been a mischievous spirit that danced along the aisles and cursed the candy into sickly-sweet medication, else the candy be too powerful and become a new form of currency.

With this, she felt a bit self-consciousness, seeing as she just finished her muffin and shouldn’t feel the slightest bit peckish. She sniffed and regarded her stomach with a frown, and then sniffed some more. She raised her head.

Something was wrong. She couldn’t quite place it, with the wind rustling her hair and throwing dust and leaves and old-Bristol air into her face, but she felt suddenly cold. Uneasy. That sort of nervous sickness that settled in your gut and stewed a hot, sweaty chill in your bones.

The Doctor had emphasized, years ago, that those feelings were good, that they were built-in sensors, much like the alarms in his TARDIS, that all humans should listen to. The mind subconsciously gathered data from all surrounding sources, calculating various patterns from both the living and unliving to form a sense of normalcy, of safety, and that twist in your gut was your mind sensing that one of those patterns was off. “Listen to it, Rose,” he had said. Not that Rose ever didn’t. It was just pinpointing the what was the difficult part. What was causing the annoying twisting and churning and chilling?

When she turned around the corner, back to the empty park, and saw the blue TARDIS with its door cracked open and the trickle of smoke, she knew.

--

The door rattled against the hull when Rose burst in. She sucked in the air to shout for the Doctor, but there was smoke and mist and a horrible smell, and she choked halfway through before her eyes started streaming. Nearly tripping over her feet, she ran back and threw the other door open to let the cloud of smog out, lungs burning as she tried to cough out the muck. She staggered back inside, up the railing.

“Doctor!” she tried again. She heard a faint sizzling, a sort of hissing noise beneath her feet, beyond the railing and into the tubes and electrical wires and engines. The twist in her gut twisted more. She didn’t have to be the Doctor who know something was broken. Things that were broken tended to do things like hiss and sputter and groan, so Rose took an educated guess and assumed that the pattern wouldn’t be broken amongst universes, even in a craft that transcended space and time. She surveyed the clearing fog, heart pounding in her throat, hoping.

She felt sick when she saw something dark crumpled on the ground.

“Oh my god.”

She ran for the Doctor. He was lying on his back, bits of glass scattered around him--his head, his arms, some of it in his hair--and his legs were crooked as they were splayed haphazardly on the floor. His eyes were closed, his face covered in soot, and his clothes were covered in…

“Oh my god .”

A deep red soaked his clothes, stretched along his suit in streaks. It was along his neck, thick clumps of it dotting the skin, streaked over his cheeks and crusting over bits of stubble where he had missed when shaving that morning ( “Rose, have you seen the shaving cream?” he had asked that morning. “This one smells funny, like vanilla…” God, it was just a few hours ago. She should have told him, should have said something; the TARDIS had been making weird noises ages ago and she had thought it was all a part of the design, but she should have made a fuss, should have told him sooner, maybe if he had known-- ). The red was on his hands, like paint that smelled rotten and sweet , and oh God the TARDIS was spinning from underneath her. His fingers had made a trail, bright and glittering red, grotesquely dazzling against the dull metal, and she followed it along the floor and up the control panel. Her head throbbed when she saw fingerprints smeared over the buttons and lights, strips of red in the shape of claws. He had tried to stop it. Something was wrong with the TARDIS, and he had tried to stop it.

She couldn’t get her hands to stop shaking. The floor swayed beneath her and she tumbled down, right beside the Doctor, as her head sagged down and down and down. She covered her mouth with her hands. She was going to throw up.

“Doctor?” She reached out to touch him.

The Doctor’s eyes snapped open.

Rose screamed.

“Oh. Hullo, Rose.” said the Doctor, who was covered in red and soot and smelt like burnt fruit but was clearly and obviously staring at her, awake and not possessed by a zombie parasite (or, at least Rose hoped). He sat up, which apparently wasn’t a good idea, and immediately swayed, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sorry, sorry, excess thermal energy still coursing through. Makes me woozy.” His face twisted in a sort of exaggerated concentration and sniffed. He stayed there for a second, sniffed again, before snapping his eyes back open. “There we are.” He smiled and leapt back onto his feet. He surveyed the TARDIS, dimly lit and smog still clearing out, with an apparently satisfied conviction. “Damage not so bad, I suppose, and conveyors suitably sealed.” He leaned over the railing to stare below them. “Let’s see, one, two… and…. Three! Three components all properly contained, just in the nick of time, with some sugary sweetness to boot. I might just say…” He bent over and retrieved his screwdriver, ignoring the cracked gem as he gave it a spin in the air and caught it with a wink “An unequivocal success.” He frowned at his companion. “What’re you doing on the ground?”

Rose’s head was still spinning. “You’re covered in blood.”

“Blood? No, no, no . Not blood.” He smeared a bit of the red off of his suit and popped it into his mouth. “Jam! Not blueberry, sadly; the market didn’t have it. Which, by the way, what market doesn’t have blueberry jam? They had blueberries, of course, but not blueberry jam. Would have helped to even have some apple jam, though mind you, I don’t really expect a market to have apple jam** , sounds almost weird, apples-- You know, I don’t think the human race much likes apples. What with the story of Eden, and that one American who chopped down the apple trees, and with students bringing their teachers apples, hoping they choke--and don’t you act like I don’t know that, you can tell in their eyes-- Anyways, ” the Doctor took a breath. “Cherries! They had cherry jam, which wouldn’t be my first choice what with their lower pectin concentration, but it’s not like any of the human markets have pure pectin tubes that sit on a rack, so I had to do with the cherry jam and just aggravate the chemical bonds to--”

“It looks like blood,” Rose said.

The Doctor stared at her.“Well. Yeah. It probably does.” He scooped another swab of jelly with his fingers and examined it. “Must’ve gotten darker when it absorbed the smoke. And the pulsive energy must have unraveled the pectin bonds and… well, made it more watery to make it look… oh yes, strikingly similar to blood, yeah. But!” He popped his fingers back in his mouth, giving the jam another lick, before shrugging off his suit jacket, still smothered in sticky red, and tossed it aside to reveal his unblemished shirt. “Perfectly fine! See? No holes, no burns. My face feels a bit sticky and I think some of the residue energy is gonna settle into my calves for the next couple hours, but nothing a good bath won’t solve--”

“I thought you were dead,” Rose said.

The Doctor’s smile wavered. He glanced at the controls and poked at a few switches, the TARDIS humming around them, before he swiveled back with forced cheeriness.  “Oh, you don’t need to worry about me! My biology is different from yours; blast was completely harmless--could only give me a little sizzle, like a bug bite.” His teeth clacked together, and he fiddled with the jam still on the control panel, all burnt and filled with soot. “This helped. Not just fruit preservatives. A small container filled to the brim with sugar molecules that sort of stick together, like cement--but not actually cement--that helps with not only with binding the components together and preventing the leakage of poisonous gas the TARDIS typically keeps filtered, but to also direct the pulsive energy into the jam and not me. So,” his voice light and squeaky, “I’m fine.” He licked his fingers a third time.

Rose hated this. This pretend little game the Doctor did, acting like nothing was wrong. It burned something deep inside her, something that made her teeth itch and skin crawl. His insistent independence, the unwillingness to tell her when something was wrong, drove her mad. One could even say Mad.

And as the Doctor continued to lick the jam, Rose fitted all her malcontent into the Look, and stared at his finger.

Maybe she burned it. She hoped she did, because the Doctor retracted his finger as quickly as he had popped it in. “Right,” he said. “Sorry.” He had the sense to look ashamed.

The good thing about the Look is that it was silent, and the Doctor was a smart man. All of the things Rose would struggle to say verbally was translated properly into the Look, and the Doctor understood, or at least deduced, as much as Rose intended. As said in the beginning, this time it was a version of the third and fourth variation (Don’t put yourself in stupid danger, and Don’t stick that in your mouth),*** and it seemed that the Doctor had gotten it. Slowly, the Doctor extended his arms as a hesitant invitation. Rose, never one to refuse the offer of a hug, fitted herself into the Doctor’s arms. They stayed there for some time, Rose listening to the Doctor’s double heartbeat, and silently choked on the scent of burnt cherries.

When they parted, Rose rubbed irritably at her nose. “Just,” she huffed. “ Tell me when you do stuff like that.”

The Doctor frowned. “I did.”

“No, you said ‘blueberries.’”

The Doctor made a face that said that “blueberries” had sufficed as a proper explanation, and when Rose made a Face of her own (one terrible enough to earn its own capital F), he stepped back. They both heard a crunch.

“Aw,” the Doctor whined, and looked forlornly at his feet. The remains of a small glass jar rattled against his sole, the red mush staining his converse. “That was lunch.”

They settled for a small cafe at the edge of Bristol an hour later, and after a couple of glasses of wine, they completely forgot about the jam.****

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* The market in question is called plainly the Fruit Market, located on William Street in Bristol, UK. It was a bit difficult to find a proper market that had inside cashiers in Bristol, especially when all you have is Google and absolutely no knowledge of the UK. (I might have just chosen a supplier and not a legitimate grocery store.) I embarrassingly discovered later that markets and grocery stores were not the same thing and almost changed the store. But then I got too attached to the idea of a rumbustious Doctor entering a homey fruit market, looking deranged with grease smeared all over his face, complaining over the fact that they didn’t have blueberry jam, and doing a general job-well-done of disturbing the peace in this little market.

** Blueberry jam and apple jam have the highest level of pectin content, which is why the Doctor would have preferred either of them to use as a sort of glue for his capacitor and other broken things. If you couldn’t tell already, I am making up 90% of this, but within reason. I did a bit of research about the chemical bonds and makeup of jams, and how pectin are sugar-based bonds that hold the molecules together and make a jam harder or softer. If you’re actually a biologist, please don’t ruin this for me; I have a vague sense of knowing this would never work, but I’m proud of my bullshitting nonetheless.

*** After this incident, the fourth version of the Look (Don’t put that in your mouth) moved up the hierarchy to become the third version, because she had to repeat it several times afterwards. The TARDIS smelled like cherries for weeks.

**** Not because of the wine, but because another spaceship had crash landed three kilometers away from their cafe (remember what the Doctor had said about invasions happening near his vicinity? Must be another force of nature, like gravity.), and later in the day they discovered that the alcohol content was a good form of camouflage, and they had to douse themselves in several extra glasses. It was a poor day for both of their wardrobes. It was also a blessing nothing flammable was on board.

[moderatelypanickedbiromantic]

Reclaim Your Crown... Part One

Word Count: 903

Pairing: Royal Guard!Dean x Crown Prince!Castiel

Warnings: death, war, and sad cas

A/N: I’m trying something new, and I got really inspired by a couple of songs so here we go... hope you enjoy!

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Dean dismounted his horse as he approached the castle, it was within walking distance now and he wanted to take his time getting back. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to return, he enjoyed his work as a palace guard. But there was nothing quite like walking through the woods alone. The sound of birdsong filtering through the trees. And the wind rustling through your hair. As part of the princes personal guard Dean didn’t get as many opportunities to go strolling through the forests as he’d like.

His horse Wendigo, shook his head and huffed a breath when Dean grabbed the reins to lead him. Wendigo was of a wild spirit, loyal to Dean and only Dean. Many who met him swore he was a creature turned horse, not meant to be tamed. They say there’s something wild and strange in his eyes. But Dean saw only his horse, his most trusted ally and friend. And he knew Wendigo would never fail him.

A squirrel ran across the path in front of them, another followed closely behind and the corner of Deans mouth lifted up in amusement watching them chase each other through the trees.

It wasn’t long before the city gates rose up before them, and in an even shorter amount of time Dean wound his way through the city streets and into the castle stables. He combed, fed, and watered his horse before making his way into the barracks with plans to bathe and feed himself before going to his prince and delivering the news the messenger had brought from the war front.

It pained Dean greatly to not be on the front, fighting alongside his brothers. But his first duty was to the prince, and the prince had ordered he remain here. His reasoning being that if their army was to fail then Dean would be of better use here… to protect as many of the citizens as possible. Dean wasn’t a soldier. He was a warrior, yes. And a damn good one. But he was no soldier. And that was why Dean had been placed immediately into the princes personal guard instead of doing his fair time in the war camps.

Once Dean had changed into fresh clothes he went to the princes chambers expecting to find him there shuffling through reports or with his nose in a book. When Dean didn’t find him there he searched the castle, first the kitchens, then the training grounds and everything in between. Just as Dean was beginning to grow worried he found the prince in the gardens admiring a honey bee resting on a lavender sprout.

The prince was focused intently on the bee, a small smile toying at his lips. Dean watched him for a moment taking a moment to look the prince over. For the first time in months the prince look peaceful. The war and not being able to fight with his kingdom had taken its toll. But for the moment he wasn’t weighed down by any of it, like a weight had been lifted off. Dean's eyes shone with a love he could never speak of or acknowledge. “My prince,” he finally said with a tilt of his head.

At once the princes attention snapped to his guard, and that weight settled back over him like it had once again found its home. He was tired, and his blue eyes shown with grief and regret. “I’ve told you to stop calling me that—“

“My liege, then,” Dean teased with a quirk of his mouth and a small bow that had the prince shaking his head; amused. He held out the letter he had retrieved this morning from a messenger sent from the front. “This is for you. Your monthly report from the front, I believe. And this,” he reached into his coat to retrieve a smaller envelope, “is from your father.”

The prince winced as he took the letter from his father turning it over slowly in his hands, the king only ever wrote to deliver bad news. And he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear it.

Dean offered a tight smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Cas,” he said even though he didn’t believe it himself. The last letter was to tell Castiel that his brother, Gabriel, had died. And his body had arrived shortly after. The prince had laid him to rest with no one but Dean at his side. Dean hadn’t known how to help him through his grief, but he stayed by him always ready to offer a kind word, a joke, or a bit of strength if his prince was to ever need it.

Castiel shook his head. “We both know it’s not anything good,” he said softly. With a sigh he tore the letter the letter open. It was better to face the news now with Dean by his side then later alone his chambers. His eyes scanned the page, once… twice… and his heart sank. Dean was to be sent on a mission that would most likely result in his death… and he was to go alone...

“What is Cas?” Dean asked, worry lacing his tone. Castiel's face had lost all colour and Deans mind had begun to race with possibilities. They had lost. Their enemies were marching this way. The kingdom had fallen—

“You’re to be sent to infiltrate the fortress of Edowathe and kill the royal family…”

A/N: Thank you so much for reading!! And if you’d like to be added to the taglist for future parts let me know!