#Multi-Chapter

[alive-gh0st]

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: after defying a divine directive and choosing mercy over order, you—a cupid built not to feel—fall from the realm and crash into a world you don’t belong to. wingless and exiled, you land on a planet bruised by war, grief, and something worse: apathy. but one figure watches your descent. he’s not a hero. not a god. just a man turned monster, carrying the weight of a planet he helped destroy. you were made to spark love. he was made to conquer. so why can’t he walk away?

❤︎ contains: sfw. celestial mythology. lonely immortals. slow-burn dynamics. post-war emotional fallout. deconstruction of love as a weapon/tool. and a wingless cupid with a cracked heart and a crooked smile.

❤︎ warnings: emotional manipulation (brief). themes of exile and identity loss. canon-typical violence references (omni-mark’s past). light blood/injury mentions. quiet existential grief. soft heartbreak. and the inconvenient ache of wanting to be wanted.

‪❤︎ wc: 4455

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i wanted to write something aching. something soft and sharp and too pink in all the wrong places. this is my love letter to the ones who were built to help others but never expected to be helped. to the hopeless romantics. to the heartsworn. if you’ve ever looked for your own thread and found nothing but empty space—i see you. let’s fall together.

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Before time had a name, there was love.

And before love had rules, there were those who enforced them.

You were one of them.

Cupids were never born in the way humans or any other beings are.

There was no crying, no clutching warmth, no heartbeat against heartbeat. You weren’t given to anyone—because in your world, nothing is ever truly given. It’s assigned.

And you were assigned to love.

Long before your first breath—or what could even be counted as a breath—your existence was stitched together with rose-gold thread and spun into something soft.

Something radiant. Something shaped to serve.

The Realm of Threads didn’t believe in accidents. It believed in connection.

Harmony. Devotion.

These were your first lessons—woven not from stories, but from structure. From a place built not to feel love, but to uphold it.

Cupids, as humans might call them, are not gods. They are not angels. They are not the chubby, winged caricatures drawn on glossy cards each February.

They are constructs.

Beings built from emotion itself, shaped by the pulse of the universe and tasked with one divine, inescapable truth—make them fall in love.

All of them.

Every soul in every world is marked by a thread—red, golden, soft, or shining. Invisible to most. Tangible only to your kind. And where those threads exist, your kind follows.

Weaving. Binding. Mending.

You never asked why. You were taught never to ask why.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

In your realm, the sky is made of lace.

Not literal lace—but that’s what it looks like, with its rippling tapestry of lights and longing.

You drifted through it as a child, surrounded by other Cupids—silent, graceful, unwavering. They didn’t speak unless they had to. Words wasted time. Emotion was observed, not expressed.

You were the odd one out almost immediately.

You giggled when you shouldn’t have. You sang with no rhythm. You watched humans too closely, too curiously. You wondered what it felt like to be kissed—not as a target, not as a mission—but as something wanted.

The Supervisors said your strings were too tight.

They meant your emotions.

You cared too much. Thought too hard. Dreamed in colors that didn’t belong to you.

But you were a prodigy, so they didn’t clip your wings. Not then. They praised your precision, your instincts. You’d never missed a target. Not once.

But love, you would learn, is only beautiful when it behaves.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You were trained before you ever knew what training meant.

In the Realm of Threads, there is no childhood. Not in the way humans define it. There are no lullabies, no scraped knees, no tumbling laughter in the grass. There is structure. There is schooling.

There is silence.

You were given a pod—not a room, not a bed. A pod. Sterile and softly lit, humming faintly with emotional frequency.

It pulsed with the echoes of distant connections: engagements, kisses, heartbreak, soulmates colliding on foreign soil.

It was meant to teach you. Not to feel—but to understand what feeling looks like.

Your first lessons weren’t in numbers or words. They were in observation.

Screens stretched across your wall like windows into other realms. Every second of every day, you watched humans love each other. Fumble and flourish. Make mistakes. Fix them. You learned the cadence of confession, the stillness before a first kiss, the ache of waiting by a phone that wouldn’t ring.

You took notes.

You practiced on simulations. Shadow versions of real people, constructed for training. They were emotion puppets—coded to respond, to mimic the human condition, but never feel it.

You pulled their strings like a composer, conducting the perfect crescendo of a meet-cute or a second chance.

And you were so good at it.

Even the elder Cupids, old as planetary rotations, took notice.

They called you “Silken.”

They called you “True-Handed.”

They said your instincts were woven with clarity few possessed.

But even then—you knew something was wrong.

Because love wasn’t clean. It wasn’t predictable. It wasn’t math.

You saw it in the gaps between the simulations—in the real footage, in the stolen glances and unsent letters.

Love was messy.

And you weren’t allowed to say that.

So instead, you smiled. You bowed your head. You aced your assignments. And when it was finally time to receive your bow—the instrument that would mark you as a field Cupid, ready to enter the human realm—you let them place it in your hands like a crown.

Ceremonial. Divine. Cold.

Your wings fluttered for the first time that day. Not from pride. From something else.

Restlessness.

Because you weren’t sure you wanted to be part of this system.

But you’d been shaped for it. And in the Realm of Threads, shape is everything.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

They say Cupids don’t feel the way humans do. But if that were true—why did it ache?

You never had a red string.

That was the first thing you noticed.

You saw them everywhere—thread-thin, glowing like veins of fire across the fabric of reality. Around wrists, through hearts, tied in impossible loops from continent to continent, galaxy to galaxy.

Red. Gold. Silver.

Some pulsed softly. Some burned bright. Some frayed at the ends—doomed to break.

But you?

You had none.

You looked. Every year. Every cycle. Every mirror.

And there was never one waiting for you.

The instructors said it was proof of your purpose.

You were meant to love, not to be loved.

Cupids didn’t need soulmates. You were the threads—not what they tied together.

But still, when you were alone in your pod—your crown-glass screen humming with soft simulations—you sometimes wrapped a ribbon around your own finger and pretended.

Just for a moment. Just to feel what it might be like to belong to someone.

To be chosen.

To be someone’s reason.

You told no one.

Cupids weren’t supposed to pretend.

Not about that.

You always grinned too brightly. Talked too much. Got too close to the humans you helped.

You asked too many questions.

Why this couple? Why that connection? Why did heartbreak sometimes look so much like love?

You weren’t supposed to wonder. You were supposed to execute. Deliver arrows. Create outcomes. Adjust the threads.

But you liked watching after the mission was done.

You stayed longer than you should have. Saw the way people clung to one another. Fought. Forgave. Grieved. Moved on. Sometimes, even when the threads said they wouldn’t.

And worse—you started to feel happy for them.

Genuinely.

Not in the approved, detached sense of “mission accomplished,” but like… something warm bloomed in your chest just watching two people choose each other.

One day you told another Cupid—casually, as if it was no big thing—that it must feel nice to be loved like that.

She looked at you like you were malfunctioning.

Reported you. Quietly.

You were summoned for evaluation.

They used soft words. Nothing cruel—just… firm.

“Attachment undermines your clarity.”

“You’ve been too immersed in lower realms.”

“Emotional mimicry is a known side effect. You’ll adjust.”

You didn’t adjust.

You just learned how to lie better.

You laughed louder. You perfected your posture. You earned the nickname Heartsworn, and everyone said it with admiration.

But you felt empty most days.

Like a thread that had never been tied.

And it gnawed at you, that emptiness—because you were built to help others find connection.

So why did it feel like you’d never have your own?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It happened on a world not so different from Earth.

Small. Blue. Quiet in the way only dying stars can make a planet feel.

The threads there were thin. Brittle. Nearly broken.

It needed love desperately. That’s why they sent you.

Because you never missed. Because your aim was perfect. Because you were the shining example—the “Heartsworn,” the favorite, the infallible.

And at first, it was routine.

Two beings. Two threads. One frayed at the end, knotted tight around grief. The other hesitant, flickering. Their paths crossed in a way that felt almost poetic—a shared umbrella. An open bookstore. A laugh like recognition.

You hovered above them, bow pulsing in your palm. A clean shot. Two arrows. One for each.

But then something shifted.

The woman—your target—she looked up at the man, eyes tired but tender. And the way he looked back… like he was remembering how to breathe.

And you saw it.

She had already loved him.

It hadn’t been forced. It hadn’t been orchestrated. No divine architecture. No thread pulling them forward.

Just… choice.

Human, messy, miraculous choice.

You hesitated.

And that’s all it took.

Your bow trembled in your hands. Not from error—but from resistance.

Because for the first time—you didn’t want to interfere. You didn’t want to force it.

You wanted to let them be.

You lowered your weapon.

And then—because you were soft, and reckless, and maybe stupid in the eyes of the Supervisors—you spoke to her.

She didn’t see you. Not clearly. Just a shimmer in the corner of her eye. But you whispered anyway.

“You don’t need help. You already chose him.”

The words weren’t authorized. Your presence was meant to be undetectable. You were not allowed to alter the script.

But you did.

And for a moment—nothing happened.

Then the red thread between them sparked.

Bright. Violent. Uncontrolled.

It burned itself into existence. Without your arrow. Without divine sanction.

And they kissed.

Not because you told them to.

Because they wanted to.

Your lips curled into a soft smile.

You didn’t regret it.

But the moment you returned to the Realm of Threads, you knew something was wrong.

The lights were dimmed. The supervisors were waiting. No lectures. No trials.

Just one sentence.

“You interfered.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself—but the guards were already reaching for your wings.

You’d heard what it sounded like.

The sound of ripping. The way it cuts deeper than bone.

But you’d never imagined it would hurt like this.

Your knees hit the lace-floor. Your mouth stayed silent.

You didn’t scream.

Not because it didn’t hurt—but because they wanted you to.

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted to take that from them.

Dignity, you told yourself.

Dignity is all I have left.

You were told you would not be recycled. You were too “contaminated.” Too unstable. A bad example.

So instead—they exiled you.

You didn’t get to ask where.

Just a flash of cold light—

And then the sound of wind.

Falling.

Alone.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You hit the ground hard.

Not like a leaf drifting. Not with grace. Not with poise. Not like the Cupids in the stories.

Like a comet.

A streak of light through an unfamiliar sky, dragging heat and ache in your wake.

You didn’t black out right away—but you almost wished you had.

Because the first thing you felt wasn’t the crash. Wasn’t the way your ribs seized or the way your shoulder twisted beneath your fall.

It was the space between your wings.

The hollow.

The absence.

You gasped.

Air—not laced with threadlight, not humming with frequency, just air—rushed into your lungs like punishment.

You curled onto your side, dirt grinding into the soft parts of you. Wet grass clung to your skin. The sky above was wrong—blue, yes, but so still. No shimmering frequencies. No glowing red filaments. Just clouds, soft and slow.

You were somewhere real.

Somewhere unmarked.

Somewhere alone.

It wasn’t the pain that made you want to cry.

It was the quiet.

Because back home—even when you were alone in your pod, even when no one looked at you—there was always something.

The buzz of love blooming. The echo of longing. The soft, constant pull of other people’s threads, humming just outside your senses.

But now?

Nothing.

It was gone.

You sat up slowly.

And then immediately flopped back down with a tiny, theatrical groan.

“Ouchie,” you mumbled to no one, voice breathy and soft and definitely not pained—because no, you were totally fine. Just a bit… stunned. And mildly bleeding. And definitely wingless.

But you were smiling. Kind of. Maybe.

Okay, so it trembled a little at the edges.

“I’ve had worse landings,” you said aloud—which was a lie. You’d never landed before. You’d always floated.

You tried again, slowly, every nerve screaming. Your knees trembled. Your arms buckled. You caught yourself on the soft slope of a hill, hands sinking into wildflowers and moss.

You blinked down at them.

Yellow, pink, violet. Stubbornly bright.

They looked like something out of a simulation.

They weren’t.

They were real.

Your mouth twisted.

Of course you landed in a field of flowers. Of course.

You laughed.

It came out cracked and hoarse. Almost a sob.

Because everything hurt, and everything was still spinning, and you had no idea where you were, and no one was coming for you, and—

No.

No, you weren’t going to cry. You weren’t.

Cupids didn’t cry.

Even clipped ones.

Even broken ones.

Even ones bleeding into someone else’s sky.

Still, you tried to push yourself up, wobbling on legs that hadn’t had to support you since your designation. It felt wrong. Heavy. Like gravity had teeth and it didn’t trust you. You teetered. Fell to your knees again.

And giggled.

Which also trembled a little.

“I meant to do that.”

You dusted imaginary dirt from your imaginary uniform and gave an exaggerated little curtsy to the empty air.

No one clapped. Rude.

You dragged yourself to your feet.

Shaky. Awkward. Wobbly in a way you hadn’t felt in cycles. The Realm of Threads taught you to float everywhere. Gliding was cleaner. More efficient. Less emotional.

You hadn’t really walked since childhood simulations.

The ground felt weird under your feet. Solid. Gritty.

Your bow was still intact. Miraculously. You hugged it close like a stuffed toy, curling in on yourself for a moment, letting the quiet press into your bones.

You could still feel it.

That place between your shoulders—where your wings had been. Like a ghost limb. Like something sacred had been carved out of you and left a silence behind.

You hated it.

But you kept moving.

Maybe—if you helped someone on this world—they would come back for you. Maybe if you just kept doing your job, proved you were still useful, still good, they’d rewind the exile.

Reattach what they’d taken.

Please.

You stumbled once. Then again. Then face-planted into a patch of daisies with a grunt so undignified you groaned into the soil.

“Get it together,” you mumbled into the grass.

You pushed yourself back up. Sat on your knees for a second. Took a breath.

You didn’t know how long you wandered after that.

Minutes? Hours? You lost time in the way only the heartbroken can.

It got dark fast.

The sky burned gold, then violet, then black. Stars blinked overhead—foreign constellations, wrong patterns.

You were still limping through the field when the noise came.

A whoosh.

Sharp. Cutting. Like something splitting the air in half.

You froze.

Turned slowly.

And then—saw him.

Not a blur. A shape. Coming toward you like a storm with legs.

You only had a second to register what was coming at you: tall, fast, red and white—a storm in the shape of a man. And a scowl, carved from thunderclouds.

Flying.

He was flying.

You squinted.

Not a Cupid. Definitely not a Cupid.

A human?

No.

No, he felt… too much.

You didn’t have your thread-sight anymore, but you could still feel.

Emotions. Echoes.

He felt like gravity.

Like something that had no business coming closer—and was doing it anyway.

He landed hard. Just a few feet away.

Harder than you had. The ground splintered beneath his feet, shockwaves rippling out in a perfect ring. Dust and wildflowers burst upward like a gasp. He stood there for a beat—motionless.

And you… just stared.

Red suit. White accents. Red cape. Black goggles like midnight slicing across his face. He didn’t glow. He didn’t shine. He loomed.

His presence felt like gravity doubled—like the world bowed to his weight and dared not rise again.

You blinked at him slowly. Then offered a tiny wave.

“Hi.”

Silence.

He didn’t move.

You glanced behind you like maybe he was staring at someone else, but no—those mirrored goggles were fixed on you.

“Hiii,” you tried again, voice cheerier. “Okay, so I know this looks weird. But I promise I’m not here to hurt anyone! Unless, um. You count your planet’s gravitational field. Which did kinda kick my butt—ow.”

No reaction. His posture didn’t shift. You had a sudden, vivid mental image of being vaporized.

“I’m just passing through!” you rushed, hands up. “A… a tourist! On a very involuntary vacation!”

Still nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing—he was breathing.

Barley.

His voice, when it came, was sharp enough to slice open a planet.

“You’re not human.”

Your grin faltered for a second before rebounding, like a rubber band that’s been snapped too many times.

“Nope. Not even a little bit! But I’m very human adjacent in a lot of ways! I’ve watched a lot of rom-coms and I know how to do a proper hug—although full disclosure, I might fall over during it because of the whole… clipped wings situation.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes—hidden though they were—felt like twin drills boring into the softest parts of you.

“Why are you here?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then plastered on a sheepish smile.

“That’s kind of a long story,” you admitted, voice dipping softer now. “The short version is… I got kicked out of my hom—my realm. For caring too much.”

Something flickered across his face. Brief. Gone before you could catch it.

“And now,” you continued, tone brightening again as you gestured to the wildflower field like a very proud but slightly concussed game show host, “I’m here! In… wherever here is. Honestly, it’s pretty. Good flowers. Ten out of ten. Bit of a rough welcome, but I’ve had worse.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Your hand drifted unconsciously to your back, fingertips brushing the jagged place where wings used to rise.

You shrugged. “It’s mostly cosmetic.”

He said nothing. Just stared.

You took a step forward—then immediately lost your balance and fell face-first into a patch of daisies.

There was a beat of silence. Then two. Then three.

And then—so faint you thought you imagined it—you heard the faintest exhale of breath from the man in red and white.

Not a laugh.

But maybe the ghost of one.

You rolled onto your back and grinned up at the stars.

“See?” you said, voice light. “I’m great at making first impressions.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The second he saw you, he didn’t trust you.

Not because you looked dangerous. No—you didn’t. You were crumpled in a bed of wildflowers, wobbling like a broken marionette and smiling like someone had painted joy over grief and hoped no one would notice the cracks.

But that was exactly why he didn’t trust you.

People didn’t fall from the sky and grin. Not here. Not anywhere. Not anymore.

So he hovered, silent, watching you crawl upright like you didn’t know how to use your own legs. Like the planet was something foreign. Like gravity was something new.

That wasn’t normal.

Mark had seen a lot of things in a lot of universes—false gods, black holes, men split into fractions of themselves—but this? A girl with stardust on her skin and nothing in her hands but a bow? That was new.

He landed hard. On purpose. Let the ground feel him.

You flinched. Not at the sound—at the silence that followed it.

And then you looked up.

Big eyes. Bare feet. Mouth bleeding at the corner, but curved like you hadn’t noticed. Or didn’t care.

And then—

“Hi.”

Like you hadn’t just fallen from orbit.

He didn’t speak.

“Hiii,” you tried again, softer. “Okay, so I know this looks weird. But I promise I’m not here to hurt anyone! Unless, um. You count your planet’s gravitational field. Which did kinda kick my butt—ow.”

Still he said nothing.

He didn’t move.

Mark watched.

Measured.

Assessed.

You were glowing at the edges—not visibly—but in some low, stubborn frequency. Like the kind of candle you couldn’t blow out even after you’d shattered the holder.

It irritated him.

He spoke without meaning to.

“You’re not human.”

You beamed, wounded and bright. “Nope! Not even a little bit!”

You kept talking. Rambling. Fumbling your way through some patchwork lie about tourism and rom-coms and wings—clipped, apparently.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t need to.

He was looking for something. A tell. A crack.

“Why are you here?”

That stopped you.

Just a second. Barely.

But it was enough.

Your grin shrank. Eyes dipped. Voice turned soft.

“That’s kind of a long story. The short version is… I got kicked out of my hom—my realm. For caring too much.”

That flickered something inside him.

He crushed it before it could breathe.

Mark didn’t do soft. He didn’t do “caring.” That was the problem with the others. They hesitated. Thought. He didn’t. That’s why he survived.

So why was he still here?

Why wasn’t he flying away?

Why hadn’t he broken you in half the moment you lied?

You stepped forward. Tripped. Fell face-first into a clump of flowers like a deer learning how to walk for the first time.

He didn’t flinch, but he exhaled—just once. Quiet. Almost amused.

You rolled onto your back and smiled at the stars.

“See? I’m great at making first impressions.”

He hated how you said it.

Like it mattered.

Like someone out here was still capable of being good.

He walked toward you.

You didn’t run. You didn’t crawl away. You sat there, hands splayed out behind you, watching him like you weren’t sure if he was going to help you up or crush your skull.

Smart.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head.

“I should kill you.”

Your eyes widened, but you didn’t move. “You could. You really could. But I’d prefer we didn’t start there?”

“Then give me one reason not to.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked up at him like you were weighing the clouds.

“I don’t have one.”

Mark stared.

You continued.

“I mean—I don’t know if I’m important. I don’t have a secret code or an army or even a sandwich right now. But…”

You reached up, touching your back—where the blood had dried, sticky and shimmering.

“But I used to be someone. I used to help people fall in love. And maybe that doesn’t matter to you—but it mattered to them.”

There was a silence.

He wasn’t sure what he expected you to say.

But it wasn’t that.

He should leave.

He should fly away and chalk you up to another anomaly.

Instead, he said:

“Can you still do it?”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Make people love.”

Your lips curled up. Slowly. Sadly. “I don’t know.”

Another pause.

You were watching him too closely now. Like you were trying to read a string that wasn’t there.

“You’re not really from here either,” you said softly. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

You already knew.

“Are you gonna hurt me?” you asked.

He looked at you, at the way your voice didn’t tremble, even though your body did.

And for once—he told the truth.

“I don’t know.”

You nodded.

“Fair.”

Then you reached up and offered your hand.

Not in fear. Not in desperation.

Just… like someone who was used to offering something and not getting it taken.

Mark didn’t take it.

But he didn’t crush it either.

He looked past you—at the dark hills, the useless stars, the broken silence.

After conquering this place and killing his father—he didn’t know what this planet was anymore.

Didn’t care.

But he had nowhere else to be. Not anymore.

He turned.

Walked.

And when he didn’t tell you to stay—

You followed.

Not too close.

Just… close enough.

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˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Once, you were small. Once, you believed everything they told you.

Your first robe was the color of a peach blossom.

It shimmered when you turned, sleeves brushing the floor, too big for your arms and still perfect in every way. You’d never worn something so soft.

You twirled three times in front of the mirror, arms out like wings, giggling because everything felt light.

“You look very neat,” said one of the elder Cupids, gliding past with a clipboard. “Remember to keep your posture upright when you’re selected for observation.”

“I will!” you promised, standing taller.

The robe swished when you walked. You liked that. It made you feel important. Like you were finally what they said you would be—purposeful.

Part of something big.

You didn’t understand everything yet, but that didn’t matter.

You were going to be a Cupid.

And Cupids were good.

“Today,” said another instructor, voice warm and practiced, “you’ll learn about threads.”

You beamed. Sat up straighter. Listened with all your heart.

“Every being has a thread,” they explained, conjuring a floating hologram that flickered softly through the training chamber. “They wrap around us, tie us to our people. See?”

The threads shimmered—red, gold, silver, glowing like starlight.

You gasped. It was so pretty. It made your chest feel warm.

“You’ll help people find each other,” the instructor went on. “You’ll guide their steps. Fix what’s frayed. Strengthen what’s fragile.”

“I can do that!” you blurted.

A few other young Cupids turned to look at you, but you didn’t care. Your legs were swinging off the floating bench and your hands were already up.

“I wanna do the red ones,” you said proudly. “Those are the soulmate ones, right?”

The instructor smiled. So gently. Like they were talking to someone a little slow, but very sweet.

“Oh, darling,” they said. “You don’t get one.”

You blinked.

“Huh?”

“You won’t have a red thread,” they said again, same caring voice, same soft smile. “Cupids don’t get them.”

You frowned. “But… we’re people too?”

“No,” they said kindly. “You’re not.”

Another Cupid, older, came to kneel beside you. Their hair was smooth. Their smile too perfect.

“You’re something better,” they told you. “You were made for love. You don’t need to be in it.”

“But—” you started.

“We give it,” the first instructor interrupted gently. “That’s your gift.”

You hesitated.

“But doesn’t anyone ever want us back?” you asked in a small voice.

The instructor’s smile didn’t change.

“No one has ever asked that before.”

You blinked. Sat very still.

They stood again.

“Alright, little hearts,” the elder said, clapping once. “Time for simulation prep. Let’s learn how to listen when a thread hums.”

Everyone got up.

You did too.

You smiled. Because they smiled. Because everyone around you looked so sure, so peaceful, so right.

You didn’t want to be the wrong one.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[endursent]

- God Shattering Star

【 content; morax | rex lapis x reader , slow burn , mutual pining , multi-chapter , archon war period , afab!reader 】

【 note; i need to stop saying "dw guys next chapter wont take that long!" every time i do i get pulverised by a boulder | read on ao3 】

【 word count; 6.305 | previous chapter - next chapter | masterlist 】

- Chapter 13 - Dissolution

Your poor forehead was itchy the entire day following “the incident”, it didn’t bruise nor form a  large bump, thankfully, but you still felt sore if you pressed on it… 

  “It looks fine, just be glad it didn’t poke your eye out, idiot,” Ming Hui says after having tugged your head down to inspect it. She’s thankfully not mad at you anymore, not after you offered her both the youtiao—about four boxes of it, four sticks in each… she berated you for the number of them for a few minutes but seemed satisfied when you offered to take one box for yourself. 

  You straighten again after she inspected it, and wonder if you should tie a ribbon around your forehead to cover the small raise of your skin. “I didn’t sit under its trajectory on purpose,” you grumble—how are you the idiot for a branch falling on your head? You don’t have the reflexes to knock it away or dodge… if anything, you just sat there and watched it plonk down towards you. 

  She turns around to grab some bottles off the table behind her, setting them on a tray before walking past you—while you’ve been… otherwise occupied, Ming Hui has been studying medicine and healing arts under Ground Mender. You feel a bit bad for missing out on the lessons, but perhaps you can convince Ground Mender to let you attend as well. “What are you doing?” you ask curiously as she pops open the jars and bottles.

  “Making a tonic that numbs your mouth,” she says and starts… just pouring all of the liquids into one larger jar, the colour is blue and a bit misty. 

  “Ah…” you make a sound of understanding. You’re not sure what it would be used for, perhaps oral infections…? “Does it not require more… gentle mixing?”

  “Doesn’t matter once it’s all in there,” she says, closes the lid, and shakes it wildly. 

  Sure. You’ll take her word for it. 

  In the few days after arriving, there wasn’t much for you to do—you feel like a war general in a province without war. There were no patients suffering from afflictions relating to foul energies in the infirmary, mostly just routine injuries that you helped dress, keep an eye on, and assist the patients themselves be comfortable.

  You’ve never been much of a nurse, always preferring the ‘you’ve been cleansed please go home and rest’ approach… 

  Just as you’re tossing out some dirty shirt— a poor man has been vomiting endlessly for the last few hours and always just barely misses the basin before it comes out, and thus has gone through a few shirts since the morning—you spot a white robe moving in the corner of your eyes and see that Ground Mender has decided to grace the infirmary with her presence. 

  She’s been busy, you assume, as she has barely come around the infirmary in the last days—so you seized the opportunity and quickly jogged after her. “Ground Mender!”

  At the call, the adeptus stopped and turned towards you, eyes curious. “Ah, my apologies—I’m in a bit of a hurry, I’ll have free time tomorrow if you want to chat.”

  She didn’t give any details, as usual—you don’t expect the adepti to tell you anything at this point unless it’s very important. “Oh, it’s okay, I’ll talk to you later then,” you quickly reply. You would like to ask her where she’s going, or what she’s doing, but Ground Mender is already halfway down the hallway by the time you could think of what to ask her. 

  Next time, then…

  Feeling so restless is annoying, you can’t even relax and read a book or take a walk after leaving the infirmary without feeling as if you should be doing something else, something more important… doing what you always do.

  There’s no one to cleanse in the capital, there’s no one—at least that has been brought to you—suffering from afflictions relating to foul miasma or strange energies… but you know that somewhere, in places outside of the well-guarded cities, there are people suffering, perhaps sick and unable to get better, because their illness is not the cause of bacteria or themselves, but a foreign energy invading their body.

  You kick a rock in front of you as you walk through the city streets, it bounces four times before you’ve approached it again give it a good swing, causing it to bounce ahead of you again. 

  Perhaps… it’s okay if you leave for a while—there’s not much for you to do anyway, you can always just be summoned again if something happens? 

  You’re not used to being so… tied down to a place, to feel like you don’t have the option to leave whenever you’d like—but you’re unsure why you feel like you can’t leave, it’s not like you’re being held here, you doubt you’d be dragged back kicking and screaming if you expressed that you truly wanted to leave. 

  But you can’t bring yourself to pack your clothes and depart. It’s been on your mind for two days now, and no matter how it bounces back and forth in your head like this stupid pebble, you can’t figure out whether you want to go or not. 

  Besides… who knows where that massive demon went, staying here for the time being would be the safest option—but you’ve never been particularly pressed about your own safety over others, what if he’s devouring people by the villages as you’re wandering the city streets and munching on rice cakes?

  Finally, the pebble you’ve been abusing for a while bounces off to the side and down a stream that hugs an empty home—you won’t go digging for it, so you keep moving. 

  Coming to the stall you were looking for, old man Zhou’s son has reached much popularity with his mixed cuisine, taking what he learned in the west and both selling specialties he learned there, as well as integrating them into local dishes. 

  There is a row of people that splits into two waiting to be served, and you can see the top of his head behind the stall, as well as two shorter heads running to people waiting by the side with their ready orders—his cousins, if you understood currently from your brief visit yesterday. 

  They had just closed the stall when you came here last night, so you were out of luck getting something warm—but Zhou’s son, Shi Hao, had told you to come again early the next day… it seems even leaving at sunrise wasn’t early enough to avoid the crowds. 

  Preparing to wait for a while, and taking a spot at the back of the queue, you couldn’t help but listen in on a conversation between a young girl and boy waiting in front of you. “—uncle told me there’s ghosts in the west, I wonder if the buns here are made of ghost hairs.”

  “What?” the boy next to her gives the girl a confused look. “Why would anyone make buns out of hair? It’s made of dough.”

  “Pigs have hair, why can’t buns have hair? When I poke father’s pig, it feels like I’m poking dough,” the girl shakes her head. “And ghosts have a lot of hair, you can’t cut your hair when you’re a ghost.”

  You decide to tune out of their conversation, every time you listen to kids talk you feel like you understand them less and less.

  The wait stretches on forever, you’re halfway into the queue and feel as if you’ve been waiting for two hours—though it could also have only been one. After an eternity of waiting, it’s very hard to wait when such delicious, strong smells of cooking are wafting by you every second. The sun has risen into the sky, but it’s not very warm despite the brightness… people are dressed in warmer layers as they wait for a hot meal or snack. You hear chatter as a woman behind you keeps rubbing her hands together to keep them warm. 

  Shi Hao barely notices that it’s you when you step up to the front, the headband he’s tied around his forehead to keep sweat from dripping onto the food news changing soon and his hair looks as if a dragon blew him away. “Good day, precious patron!” he calls as he ducks down to fetch more herbs from below. “What could I make for you today? Please look at the menu!”

  You already knew what you wanted, as you had visited the night before. “One traveller’s delight, please,” you lean a bit over the stall so that he could hear you—just as the man shoots up into a standing position and almost knocks heads with you. “Oh—”

  “Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was you!” Shi Hao grabs your left arm and shakes it heartily, and you have to grit your teeth to not flinch—that guy’s grip is intense, and your poor arm doesn’t take shaking very well, not shaking like this at least! “I’ll get on it right away—Qi Xuan! Orders seventy two and ninety eight are ready!” 

  One of his cousins came running, it was far before noon and they already seemed as if the two had run three laps across the capital. Maybe you should fetch some water for them after having your meal. 

  You step aside after giving Shi Hao your order as well as setting the sufficient more in the little box on the counter to let the next person approach. While this stand seems to be doing very well… it’s blocking the narrow street that the entrance to Thousand Pots lies in quite a bit. The large crowd both waiting in line and for their food on the sides doesn’t make it easy to spot the small restaurant. 

  Making the mental calculation that your food would likely not be ready in the next seven minutes, you duck into the alleyway and see that Thousand Pots is open as usual, and despite the crowd outside there were still three people inside having a nice meal. 

  As soon as you took two steps in, something hard knocked you on the back, you make a sound of surprise and discomfort and turn to see what had hit you—only to be met with Zhou, holding a ladle, the offending weapon. “Ow… master Zhou, why are you—”

  He whacks you again, but the old man doesn’t exactly have good joints, so it makes it easy for you to predict the next whack and dodge accordingly—by almost banging your hip on a table a poor fellow is eating on. “A youngster like you should be able to fend off an old man like me more easily!” 

  You don’t recall making Zhou angry, and as you almost fall over when your foot hits a chair in the small space, the ladle whacks you on the forehead—right where you had been sore already—and you groan, halfway to falling to the floor and barely able to hold yourself up by grabbing the side of a table next to you. 

  “It was a small tap, don’t tell me you have a skull like a tea pot?” he taps you with it again, and this time you grab the long arm of the ladle and hold it away from you. 

  “Ow… why are you attacking me?” you grumble, rubbing your poor forehead as Zhou lets go of the ladle, leaving it in your care. “Isn’t the restaurant open? I didn’t break in.”

  Shi Hao’s cousin enters the restaurant behind the old man, holding a sealed basket—likely your much anticipated meal. “Gramps does that every time we do something stupid,” the girl says and hands you the basket. “Like when uncle was teaching me to make fish soup, but I forgot to gut the fish.”

  “I don’t recall fumbling a fish soup,” your eyebrows draw together as you’re suddenly holding both your food and the damp ladle Zhou had been using, you extend the ladle to the girl and she accepts it. “But I’m sure I would, I’ve never made one before.”

  Zhou makes a humph-ing sound and takes the ladle from the girl, but doesn’t take another swing at you—thankfully. “We heard all about your condition, and right as you were getting better, you up and leave! I had prepared a week’s worth of delicious meals for you!”

  “Ah…” your lips part, and you’re not sure what to say; for one, who is feeding this old man information from within the palace? You feel a bit bad immediately after his words settle in your brain, you’re not a very wasteful person, and knowing that food was prepared—or more likely, ingredients were prepared and would be used over the week—and were then not used makes you feel uneasy. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware…”

  “Of course you weren’t, it was a surprise,” Zhou said and walked into the back of the restaurant, the girl behind you left as well—and momentarily you were a bit lost as to what you should do, was the conversation over? Are you free to go? 

  Hesitantly walking past tightly spaced tables and into the kitchen, you just manage to see the short old man duck under a flaming pan with two other people preparing for lunch. “Now look at you, like a wet rat.”

  Though a bit exasperated by being scolded so much—especially when you just came out here to get some tasty food—having a elder berate you is a bit nostalgic. “I’m sorry, master Zhou, can I repay you for the foods you had prepared? I hate to hear it went to waste.” The kitchen is steaming hot, with one of Zhou’s daughters working at a broth and another person you haven’t seen before taking a jar that’s been prepared to ferment what’s inside, though already sealed, so you can’t see what.

  “Waste?” the old man popped up again, and suddenly plopped a fat, heavy dough wrapped in a dry bag into your arms—you barely had time to put your basket of ordered… and likely going cold, food aside on a clean surface to catch it. “Little Ming Hui gobbled it up like a starving beast, she didn’t let anything go to waste.”

  It was a relief that nothing went to waste, and you’re not exactly sure how you would repay him—you didn’t bring a lot of mora with you. 

  “That’s good,” you hum, but feel a bit out of place—you had got a taste of the kitchen-rhythm and were very self-aware that you were standing in the middle of it, possibly about to be in someone’s way any second. “Eh… why am I holding this?” you ask hesitantly, it smells a bit like dumpling-dough, and fresh at that.

  “Repay you can! Now come here and cut that dough into even pieces, I’ll teach you how to make my dear wife’s favourite,” he suddenly appears behind you, having rounded the tiny kitchen in seconds without knocking into a single thing, and is now pushing you through the tight space. Pots, plates and other dishware stack up to the ceiling on both sides, and you can really see why they decided to name the place “Thousand Pots”, you couldn’t begin to count them.  

  “O-of course, but, my food—” you start to protest. It’s not that you have important places to be, but what about that lovely smelling basket you just got?? How do you keep getting roped into such things?

  “Bah, Shi Hao can make you more later, put the dough on the counter before you drop it!”

  You feel as if the strings of fate have been forcibly guiding you into kitchens a lot recently, doing hard work with dough… and you feel like you’re really starting to get a hang of it too, though having to take frequent breaks to rest your arms has slowed your progress quite a bit.

  Heat emanating from behind you where Zhou’s daughter is steaming some vegetables makes you feel as if your clothes are sticking to your skin, you wipe your hands after stuffing another bun and look over your shoulder to find the old man, to tell him the buns are ready for the steamer—but your name is called before you could even open your mouth. 

  “In here,” Zhou walks back into the kitchen with a familiar man in tow—Morax ducks under the flaps at the entrance to the kitchen and lets his eyes wander over the pot-filled space before landing on you. “Ah, done already? Well done! Let’s get them ready,” the old man nods eagerly and scoops up about five buns at once from in front of you. 

  For a moment, you thought you were hallucinating—no one else seems to greet or notice him there, and you’re unsure how to test this hypothetical illusion… you kick the counter before you, and sure enough, despite the sting in your poor toe, Morax remains. 

  His eyes lower down to your foot, and then raise up to meet your eyes again with swirls of confusion. “Are you… experiencing jerking symptoms in your leg?”

  His confused and rather innocent question makes you feel a bit bad. “No, I just—it was an accident, my legs are fine,” you quickly say, wiping your sticky and flour-covered hands on your pants. “Why are you here? Er, I mean—are you here for any specific reason? Or, is it a coincidence…? No…” you started out too harshly, then got too specific and ended up asking a strange question. You need to socialise with wider circles on a more consistent basis. Maybe you should find a council to join and relearn how to be polite in a manner you won’t fumble so easily.

  Morax simply waits until you finish talking, no longer seeming confused or concerned—despite the fact you feel that you’ve been around him quite a bit more than many, at least many mortals like yourself, you still struggle to understand his expressions… or perhaps he’s the one who struggles to form them. “I was searching for you. Ming Hui told me that you had gone to taste young Shi Hao’s new menu, and the little ones outside told me you were put to work.”

  It’s a little embarrassing that he had to search for you, but you can’t be blamed too much—you got roped into kitchenwork, you can’t exactly abandon half-cut dough.

  “Searching for me? What for?” your fingers still feel sticky from the dough, and you look around for a washbasin or towel, but find nothing that seems to be for washing your hands, perhaps it’s behind the middle counter where the broth is being made. It must be somewhere—it’s a kitchen after all. 

  Morax notices your mild discomfort, searching around subtly—or so you think—as you wipe more at your clothes that are already powdered by flour. He chooses not to comment on it nor inquire what you need. “It is best discussed with more privacy, if you… have finished here, I would like you to accompany me.”

  You immediately nod. “Oh, of course.” but as you glance to the heap of chopped and worked dough next to you, a small part of you feels like you’re leaving a job only half-done. 

  Thankfully, before you can either ask the god before you to wait a moment or that you’ll come to him later—Zhou behind you calls that you’re done for the day, and that you can leave if Morax needs you. “I’ll save some buns for you! Come back later!”

  The air feels cold when you’re back outside, you didn’t realise how stuffy the kitchen had become until now. The fresh, cool air almost makes your teeth tingle as you follow Morax, his long feet allowing him to outpace you quite well. 

  The walk is silent between the two of you, but the streets are alive and loud with people as the afternoon brings them out from work and obligations, you have to shoulder past a few to keep in pace with him as you pass through a busy street and almost feel that you need to grab ahold of his clothes or arm to not lose sight of him—though the thought is equally as terrifying as it would be embarrassing would he turn with question or discomfort. 

  You refrain, you don’t make a habit of touching people anyway—surely you could just give him a shout and he’ll wait by the nearest street corner? 

  Thankfully you manage to follow Morax through the crowd until the two of you reach the high streets leading towards the palaces, where he looks over his shoulder to see whether you were still behind him—and upon seeing your form still trailing behind, he tilts his head slightly and turns back forward. 

  “Were you enjoying yourself?” Morax suddenly asks as you begin to ascend the stairs towards the palaces, he climbs them so easily it seems as if he were merely gliding upwards—meanwhile you have to fight to keep up with him, and hope he doesn’t hear any heavy breathing. 

  You take two steps at a time to try and catch up to his side. “In the kitchen? I don’t know,” you admit. You just did what you were told, kneading was a bit straining—and not the most interesting thing you’ve done, but you were too focused to get too bored. “I don’t mind cooking, or baking. But I don’t spend time perfecting the craft…”

  He hums, golden eyes faced forward as you finally seem to match his pace. “Your dedication to your work is admirable.”

  You almost stumble face-first onto the rocky stairs, your poor toe impacting the step you intended to push onto too early. With a lack of grace you manage to steady yourself before cracking a tooth, or possibly breaking your nose on the ground. “A-ah, thank you…”

  The sudden compliment startled you, weren’t you talking about cooking? You suppose the reason you haven’t learnt the optimal ways of making your favourite meals and opting for the quicker route instead is because you are often more focused on getting back to whatever you were doing before dinner time… maybe you’re not as hard to read as you expected, or hoped. 

  You’re not sure what to say, and he doesn’t offer any more words as you continue to climb the stairs—should you offer a compliment in return? It doesn’t feel right to just leave it at that, but you haven’t directly done so before, wouldn’t it feel too forced?

  “The Guili Assembly has always been home to me, and I hate to see the people suffer unnecessary sickness,” you add. To have a healthy body, a fate unburdened from illness—and have it forced upon you by conflicts out of your control… how can it be fair? 

  You hate to see the pallid skin of a person who climbed a tall mountain to collect flowers for their love, the foreign ichor that crawls beneath their muscle and steals life from it. You wish for them to be healthy and whole again, as they are meant to be. Without the interference of a godly war for territories and strength—

  You hear your name spoken in front of you and realise you fell behind, a good eight steps between the two of you. Morax is staring at you, considering your words. “It is a noble thing, to devote oneself to easing the pain of others.” 

  A second acknowledgement, your heart feels a bit too noticeable in your chest—beating too firmly against your ribs. He seems like he wants to say more, but as a cool breeze pushes at your side, his eyes flicker from your face when a leaf flows between the two of you, breaking your eye-contact and he quickly sets a foot to the next step. “Come, I wish to show you something.”

  You’ve never been at the top of Morax’s palace, it’s mostly bare compared to Guizhong’s well decorated and pretty hallways. The wood is elaborately cut and polished, of course… but there’s a distinct lack of… soul within it. No artwork, no artefacts or curtains. You can’t help but wonder why as your gaze finds his back again. 

  The room you step into is shaped the same as the one Guizhong called you into a while ago, but whilst her was a blend of an office and workshop, Morax’s seems more of a war room. There is a map on a table at the centre, the Guili Assembly is outlined at the centre, the vast oceans to the east and the mountains that warp into a swirl to the southwest—many mapped lands that you have never set foot in, and some you have only heard of and never seen on a map. 

  The windows are tinted and closed, casting the afternoon sun onto the floor as unlit lamps hang from the ceiling. You feel like the air is a bit heavy, it could do with an open window…

  “He Shan disappeared into the western highlands, I did not manage to trace his exact location or where he has chosen to hide himself,” Morax says as he closes the door behind you, he moves past you and approaches a large cabinet sat against the wall to your left. It’s large and has a lot of different doors to it—you could imagine scrolls and small artefacts could be kept inside each one. 

  Opening one, Morax reaches inside and takes out an object wrapped in a cloth, golden lines shimmer atop the covered item as he taps it twice. The centre of the seal quivers before disappearing into particles, floating into the air and disappearing above your heads. As he unravels it, the object looks like a stone slab of some sorts. You approach the war table as Morax does, he sets the object down and your nose scrunches as a terrible stench emanates from it. “He leaves behind traces of himself, this is a chipped piece of his scales, likely torn from his body when moving around the landscape.”

  A scale? Well, part of a scale, the serpent was so massive you imagine one scale is half the size of your body—or at least the size of your torso, this chipped scale fits into your palm. “Why does it smell like this?” you ask, you don’t remember such a stench filling the air as the demon emerged from the mountain, only the oppressive weight of his resentment. 

  Morax is silent for a beat, before he turns the scale around—and beneath it is an inky, writing mass. It gleams as if it’s wet, but it doesn’t stick to Morax’s gloved hands, not leave a damp imprint on them. “In two villages I visited while following his traces, I found that their waters had been turned to sludge—they could not use the rivers to wash nor drink.”

  You looked at the mass on the inside of the scale again. “Is it safe to touch?”

  “Briefly, to my knowledge. But I have not tested prolonged exposure with mortal hands,” he says and gestures to the map on the table, his finger tapped on a dotted spot to the west of the Fangyuan mountains. “He moved from the mountains and west, past this village, as well as the town north of it,” Morax’s finger glides along the highlands separating the Guili Assembly from the deep forests further west. “I traced him to Tianqiu Valley before my path led to a dead end.”

  Your fingers curl at your chin, a hum leaving you. “Surely a serpent so large can’t just… hide?” it’s hard to imagine, he spanned so many kilometres you’re unsure how he would rest without leaving his tail in the open somewhere—or perhaps gods don’t require rest? You’ve never seen a god sleep, or an adeptus for that matter. 

  “Unfortunately, were he to hide further north there is too high of a risk to send scouts into foreign territory,” Morax shakes his head. “This scale, does this resemble the miasma you encounter during cleansing?”

  You eye the squirming mass, trying to gouge it from sight alone—you don’t really want to touch it, but just looking at it isn’t giving you much. It’s certainly more solid than the usual foul energies you pull out of people, miasma feels… slimy and wet, but not like you’re clenching a rat in your palm, even when it fights your pull. More like trying to grasp thick mist. 

  Reaching your hand out, you lay your palm over it—careful not to touch it as you feel for the energy. It’s much warmer than the usual miasma, but doesn’t shirk away when you get close… it’s definitely not the same, but has a similar tinge in a way that’s difficult to explain. “It is… different,” your brows pinch and you lift your hand away from the scale to see that the mass had lifted upwards and then deflated as soon as you moved—like bread being uncovered when it’s set to rest while making it. 

  “Different?” Morax moves the scale slightly, he didn’t quite like how it raised towards your palm. 

  “It’s got a similar aftertaste,” you wipe your hand on your clothes, it didn’t touch you, but you get an uncomfortable tingle from the thought of it. “Since he’s a demon, wouldn’t his energies be inherently different than the ones that infect the lands?”

  You’ve only dealt with a demon once before, and you didn’t stay long enough to get to know it properly—personally or in nature. 

  “Not necessarily,” Morax said. “The beings whose remains leave poison behind are all very different, many are classified as gods by mortals—it can be difficult to differentiate between them. Even Guizhong and I are very different in nature, but you would simply see the two of us as divine beings. Demons are similarly different among themselves.”

  You nod along as he talks, it’s surprisingly easy to listen to his voice when he’s explaining things to you. You did know that gods are very different in nature, rarely are gods one and the same. “I see… and we need to understand what kind He Shan is?”

  He nods and takes the scale from the table, wrapping it into the pale cloth again. “General Huang has extended contact to Mei Lan, it would greatly speed the process if she were willing to divulge their history. Facing the demon head on without any information of his nature is too dangerous.”

  After closing the cloth around it, the seal seems to close itself without his interference, Morax offers it to you. You blink at him, eyes moving between his expression and the scale. “... why are you giving it to me?”

  “The affinity you have for foul energies can be utilised for more than cleansing,” he says and takes your wrapped arm from your side, lifting it up and placing the wrapped scale in your palm. “Keep this in your bedroom, not by the nightstand, but on the desk.”

  Your fingers instinctively wrap around the clothed scale, but your eyebrows furrow. “Is it safe?”

  “I would not place this burden on you had I any doubts,” he shakes his head, and his warm hands leave yours. “Every evening, feel for its energies and move it from it’s spot every other night. When you wake, try to sense it across the room.”

  The pieces in your mind start to align as he gives you the instructions, clicking together in realisation. “You want me to be able to track him?”

  “My senses cover a large distance and can find a target’s location across the land,” his expression pinches as he talks, eyes narrowing slightly. “But as I reached Tianqiu Valley, his essence seemed to scatter, and each time I approached; it evaporated.”

  Some kind of trick, no doubt—you’re unsure how exactly you’re the solution to it, but you trust his foresight. “I see… you must forgive me, but I’m struggling to understand how I can be of assistance if you couldn’t find him.”

  You wince at your own words, maybe you could have worded it better—but can you be blamed for doubting yourself compared to him? 

  Morax doesn’t seem offended by your question, he moves towards a shelf and takes a book from it—it looks old, the cover doesn’t shield the spine of it and is made of a thick material you’re unsure what it is made of. “Many demons are proud beings,” he turns back towards you and holds the book out for you to take, you accept it with your free hand that isn’t clutching the uncomfortably warm scale. “They… over and under prepare simultaneously. You are not preparing for battle, do not worry overmuch,” an everso small tug lifts at his lips, so faint that you wouldn’t notice if you were not used to seeing his expression so lacking of one. “Tracking and cornering He Shan is the difficult part, but not the most dangerous. I will handle the rest swiftly afterwards.”

  You look down at the book, it seems to be a collection of old folktales, though they exaggerate, they can help give you an understanding of how demons behave around mortals. 

  Morax is asking much of you—that he knows well, to ask you to risk your safety to assist him. Defeating demons is mostly a game of mind, the physical battle will be a smaller feat for him; Morax has defeated many demons in the past. “If you are not willing, I will not force this task upon you,” he says, a mild concern touching his gaze by your silence. 

  Raising your head from staring at the book, you shake it. “I am willing. If it will prevent harm and disaster upon innocent villagers and townsfolk.”

  The small touch of a smile widens briefly, a gentle expression gracing his face—you truly wish he would be more expressive, every smile and soft gaze makes your palms sweat slightly, but they warm your chest as well. It might also make it easier for you to talk to him without feeling that you’re overstepping, or sounding silly. 

  “Very well, then I employ your assistance with this task,” Morax nods. “You will of course be well compensated.”

  Payment is always nice, but you hope he knows that you’re sincere when you say that you want to assist for the safety of others. You’re sure he’s only being formal. “Thank you. Is there anything else I must do other than… sleeping with this thing around?” you lift the clothed scale for emphasis. 

  “Yes,” he turns to the map beside the two of you again and meets your eyes briefly to ensure you’ve followed his movements before he gestures to the two villages he mentioned before along the western edges of the Assembly. “I did not manage to stop for long when I was tracking He Shan, the waters are likely still infected and must be cleansed. I requested supplies be sent from nearby towns to assist them, but it will not last for long.”

  It’s not too long of a travel distance, but you stay silent to let him continue. Surely you won’t be going alone? Not that you can’t, but what if the serpent decides to slide through again?

  “I cannot accompany you just yet, but I will convene with you in a few days.” Ah, as you suspected—you suppose it’s not so surprising, Morax must be very busy… He Shan is just one among many threats that the Guili Assembly faces in these times, many of which you are unaware of. “I will ask that Indarias join you, I suspect that He Shan’s potent energies will attract smaller demons that mistake it for remains.”

  You just nod along to his words, you don’t know who Indarias is but if they’re going to be joining you specifically because there might be demons about, then you suppose they must be capable. “When will we set out?”

  “Two days,” Morax straightens again, turning away from the map to face you completely again. “Indarias has been tasked elsewhere, but she will return quickly once summoned. I suspect two days will be enough—will you require longer to prepare?”

  “No… but…” a thought suddenly strikes you, something you hadn’t considered as you were discussing everything. “I lost my tools in the south, they were blown away at the start of the conflict,” you scratch your cheek awkwardly. Finding or getting cleansing tools isn’t a simple task, much less so crafting them from scratch, they need specific qualities and material to be effective. 

  Morax’s lips part slightly. “Ah, I see. I will speak with Ground Mender and see if she has any solutions, I will find you before you depart…” he pauses for a moment. “They were well used.”

  They were, well used and loved by your family, your grandmother before you and many before. You always promised to take good care of them… you swallow your saliva and just give Morax a nod. “Yeah, it was used by my family for a long time. It’s impressive how long it lasted, I suppose it was an eventuality.”

  Silent, Morax doesn’t seem to know what exactly to say. “I am sorry that you lost a family heirloom… it will not replace what was lost, but I can commission new tools for you. It will not do to be without.”

  It won’t be the same, but you will need new tools either way, you bow your head slightly. “Thank you, I’m grateful for your consideration.”

  You feel something touch your head—familiar and warm, a tinge of déjà vu prickling your mind. Morax had set his hand atop your head, giving it a small pat before retreating it again. “No need, it is my duty.” you gingerly raise your head again, head tickled a little from the touch. “Please use it well to continue your good work.”

[divine-blade]

Because I’ve been dying to write sonadow fake/pretend relationship trope. 🙏

Summary: To top the success of the Year of Shadow, Sega sets its sights on something bigger, better, and more popular.

Introducing 2025: the Year of Sonadow.

[incandescentlysomething]

Lady of the Ashes: Chapter 1

House of the Dragon Season 1

Aemond x TargaryenOC

Chapter Word Count: 7390

She was his everything... For her...he would do anything.

From the moment of her birth, Aemond Targaryen swore himself to the protection of his niece Aelinor Velaryon. As the two grew up inseparable, they find themselves entangled in the Dance of Dragons, battling to stay together even as their families try to pull them apart.

A/N: Canon compliant but things change around. Currently cross-posting on A03. Will be approximately 12 chapters aligning with season 1.

Let me know what you think!

Masterlist A03

115 AC

On the second day of August, in the year 115 AC, the worst storm in a hundred years swept through King’s Landing. Ships smashed against each other in the harbor, livelihoods and people being whisked away by the tossing waves. The maesters — or the bolder ones anyway — whispered that the gods were unhappy with the Westeros, or specifically, with the ruling family. But those whispers were silenced almost immediately, for this was King’s Landing after all, the very seat of Targaryen power.

Rhaenyra Targaryen watched the storm from her window, one hand braced against each wall, her face being bathed by the pounding rain. Her maids had begged to close the shutters to conserve some of the warmth in her room, but she would not have. Her labors had been ongoing for nearly a full day, and only the sound of the wind and the cool spray of the rain could calm her as she breathed through the pain. From her spot high above the city, she could see clay tiles being ripped from their roofs, and in some places entire buildings were collapsing. It shouldn’t have been calming, but it was a welcome distraction and a stark reminder of her place in this world.

“Please, Princess,” her midwife pleased with her. “You must keep warm.”

“I am plenty warm!” Rhaenyra snapped, “and I will stay where I damn please.” As if summoned by her anger, another painful contraction rippled through her abdomen. 

She could hear the midwife turn to one of her maids, beseeching the woman to find her husband. Rhaenyra let out a scoff. Since they had returned from their yearlong sojourn to Dragonstone, during which time she had entertained her uncle Daemon and his wife, Laenor had taken to spending time with one of the knights of the house. He was no uncaring nor unfeeling, but she doubted he felt any guilt about sheltering elsewhere in the city while his wife labored.

A door opened behind her. “The Queen wishes for news of the Princess.”

Rhaenyra groaned loudly, feeling the child move lower. She could hear her maid speaking in hushed tones to the intruder, assuring her of the steady progress of the birth. It didn’t feel steady. In fact, it felt rather like being torn in two. 

A heavy gust of wind pelted her face, and she found she could breathe easier under the onslaught. It was a necessary distraction from the conversation happening behind her, which was in itself an echo of the same conversation that had been happening every hour on the hour for the past day. She should have expected it. Alicent had been even more of a presence when Rhaenyra had labored with Jace, insisting that her own maids be present to ‘assist the Princess’. It had been for that very reason that, following the birth of her son, Rhaenyra had withdrawn her family to Dragonstone. But there would be no escaping Alicent this time.

Something smashed against the stone walls, and Rhaenyra screamed as another contraction hit her. She was not made for this. What did it say about her, that she was bringing her child into the world on such a day?

Queen Alicent Hightower paced in her chambers, bundled in a fur as the fire roared to keep the chill of the wind out of her room. The windows in her rooms had been boarded up immediately after the King’s, and she had ordered her children be brought to her. They played on the floor now, Aegon with a small collection of wooden knights, and Aemond and Helaena looking over a book of insects.

The Hand of the King, Lord Otto Hightower, sat at her desk, putting pen to a stack of letters that had amassed in the past week. They both turned when the doors opened and Alicent’s maid, Talya, stepped inside.

“The Princess’ labors are nearly finished,” Talya announced. “The midwife expects the babe within the hour.”

Alicent picked at her fingernail. “Have it brought to me and the King as soon as possible,” she ordered, “so that we might offer our congratulations.”

Talya curtsied and left the room.

Congratulations were far from Alicent’s mind, thought she knew her husband, who was sequestered in his own rooms to work on his model, would be anxious to see his grandchild. Alicent, too, was not without sympathy for the Princess, who had returned from her months away heavily pregnant and now labored alone in her chambers. But the birth of Rhaenyra’s first son had all but confirmed rumors of adultery, and Alicent was anxious to see if the second would lend further proof to the theory.

“I wish she had summoned a maester,” she said, half to herself. “So we might trust she is in good hands.”

“Her first son arrived without issue,” Otto said, seeming bored with his daughter’s worry. “Put it from your mind.”

But how could she? Rhaenyra’s child it might be, and Jacaerys too, but Alicent could not, by the light of the Seven or her own love for her own children, see a bastard seated on the throne. But that did not mean she wished for Rhaenyra to suffer in childbirth.

“Will the dragons be alright in the storm, mother?” It took her a moment to realize who had spoken. Aemond, her third child, looked up from his book, eyes shining in concern for the creatures he loved more than anything. Aemond was…a soft child, though she knew it delighted her husband to see him so enamored with the dragons and his Targaryen heritage. Alicent struggled to imagine a place for Aemond if Rhaenyra’s children were to succeed the throne, soft and sensitive as he was.

“They have survived far more difficult storms than this,” she assured him. “They will be fine.”

Aemond gave her a relieved smile, flipping the page for Helaena.

“What do you care?” Aegon sneered. “You don’t even have one.”

“I have an egg!” Aemond protested.

“It’ll never hatch,” Aegon laughed.

Aemind stood and ran from the room, tears already brimming in his eyes. Alicent sighed, moving to go after him. Some version of this argument was a near weekly occurrence between her two sons, and she struggled to decide if it was childish rivalry or if it represented something deeper.

“Let him be, Daughter,” Otto cautioned. “Boys must work through these things on their own.”

The urge to comfort her son already fading, Alicent resumed her pacing. She needed to be ready when news of the birth came. Through the cracks in her boarded up window, she could see rolling gray clouds in the distance.

Prince Aemond had managed to stop crying by the time he emerged from the tunnels and into the Princess’ Tower. He knew there were many passageways in the castle, but he was only aware of the ones that led from his room, as they afforded him the opportunity to seek out his freedom, and to hide his tears. He was embarrassed to admit, event at the tender age of five, how often he wept behind these cold stone walls.

It wasn’t fair how Aegon treated him, and it wasn’t fair that he had a dragon. Aegon might love Sunfyre, but he didn’t love dragons the way that Aemond did. He didn’t pour over stories of Old Valyria, trying to learn things that seemed impossible for a boy of his age. He deserved a dragon. He was ready for it.

Even Helaena, who did not have a dragon, had her love of science and bugs and all crawling things. It wasn’t proper, or terribly interesting to Aemond, but at least she had something. The only thing he had ever really loved or wanted, continued to be out of his reach.

He hadn’t meant to come to the Princess’ Tower, but it seemed to be the one place in the Red Keep with any type of activity. His mother usually forbade the children from playing here, wanting to keep them far away from his elder half-sister for some reason he didn’t quite understand. And if he wasn’t going to be allowed to go outside and see the dragons, which his mother had strictly forbidden, then he must find entertainment elsewhere.

Two maids scurried past his hiding place. “The babe is here, but the Princess has asked us to delay so that she might compose herself.”

This interested Aemond. He knew that his mother had ordered the babe to be brought to her immediately, though he didn’t understand why. Surely a babe was still a babe an hour after its birth as much as a few minutes? But the babe was here, and he was here, which meant he might get a chance to see his new niece or nephew before his mother and Aegon did.

His mind made up, he ducked out from behind the tapestry and marched up the stairs to his half-sister’s chambers, knocking sharply on the door. The chatter inside fell to silence, and he listened as a pair of footsteps moved toward the door.

A maid answered. “Prince Aemond?” She curtsied through her confusion. “Whatever are you doing here?”

���I wish to see the babe,” he declared, trying not to look like a little boy who had been crying not too long ago.

“My Prince, this is a birthing chamber, and it is not—”

“He may enter,” his half-sister’s voice carried, and it was all the invitation he needed to push around the maid (rather rudely, as his septa would tell him) and into the room.

Rhaenyra’s chambers were confusing to him. The window was wide open, and the sounds of the storm and a wicket chill swept into the room. Someone had stacked blankets at the base of the window to soak up all the rain coming through. Despite this, the fire was roaring in its hearth, nearly suffocating in its heat. Two women he had never seen before were rolling blankets stained with crimson into a bundle, while another was dumping red-tinged water from a metal tub out of the window. He blinked in confusion. That was more blood than he had ever seen in his life, even more than when Aegon had broken his nose with a practice sword. 

His half-sister was reclined on her bed, propped up by pillows, a bundle of blankets in her arms.

“Are you injured, sister?” He asked, creeping forward and trying not to think of the blood. He might not be overly close with his half-sister, as she was much older and not liked by his mother, but he did not like to see anyone hurt.

“No more than is expected, Aemond,” she said, not exactly warmly, but with a fresh dose of kindness that made his press a bit closer. He thought she looked exhausted, and her hair hung in sweaty mats about his face. Perhaps it was very difficult to have a baby, if it made such a mess. “Would you like to meet your niece?”

“A niece?” he moved forward, drawn by his curiosity. “It’s not a boy then.” A shame, for he would rather have liked a new playmate.

“No,” Rhaenyra laughed. “But rather a beautiful little girl. And you may be the first to meet her.”

Aemond wrinkled his nose. “Is she like Helaena? I like her well enough, but she talks often of bugs.”

She laughed again, a bit more brightly. “She is too little to have interests yet, Aemond. She does not even have a name.”

A person with no name? Somehow, that was utterly fascinating to Aemond, and he boldly leaned over the bed, trying to peek at the bundle in Rhaenyra’s arms. He could not imagine a world in which he was not Aemond, and this little baby did not even have a name of her own.

“Here she is,” Rhaenyra smiled down at the bundle, before lifting it to where Aemond could see.

His mouth dropped open as he beheld the tiny babe. He had expected an ugly, messy thing, and while she might be a bit wrinkly, and slightly blue, she was absolutely perfect. Small enough that he could have easily lifted her, with slick silver hair plastered to her head, and a tiny white hand curled into a little fist. He was reminded of depictions of the Mother in the Sept, who was often shown cradling a small, impossibly beautiful baby. 

“She’s pretty,” he said finally, though even he knew the word did not nearly suffice. “She doesn’t look like Jace.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Rhaenyra sounded a bit sad. “But I love her nonetheless.”

The baby cooed, and her tiny eyes blinked open, revealing a stunning shade of lavender more beautiful than anything Aemond had ever seen. She shuddered and stretched, her tiny, bird-like limbs shaking with the effort. Instantly, Aemond was flooded with worry for this little creature. How frightening it must be, to come into the world and meet so many strangers, all while a dreadful storm wailed outside. He wanted to keep her far from the world, to demand that his half-sister bar the windows and keep her locked away, warm and safe. 

But that wouldn’t be fair to the babe. Aemond knew all too well what it felt like to be suffocated within stone walls, and this little one deserved to see everything. When she was bigger, he could take her to the dragon pit, where she might watch the dragons train with him. Perhaps she would enjoy hearing stories of Old Valyria, and he worried that he may not know them well enough to do them justice. But those thoughts were overcrowded by fear. They were plans for tomorrow, when this little bird did not, to him, look strong enough to last the day.

“She’s too little,” he protested. “Will she be alright?”

“She’ll be alright,” Rhaenyra promised. “But she might need to be protected and helped while she is still small. Could you…help me do that, Aemond?”

Aemond studied the babe for a long moment. “Mother said it is a bad omen for her to be born during a storm.”

Rhaenyra frowned. The babe kicked her legs, and Aemond boldly reached forward to tuck the blanket back around her.

“But I don’t think she’s right,” he admitted. “She’s like a little sunbeam on a cloudy day.”

Perhaps the little boy did not mean to be so poetic, but his words filled Rhaenyra’s heart with a little bit of hope. It was true that the babe did not look like Jace, for they did not share a father, but she was the picture of a Targaryen beauty. No one could deny that she was Rhaenyra’s, or that she was perfect. She was a worthy reward for such a difficult labor. Not even Aemond, it seemed.

“You know Aemond,” she began cautiously. “She does not yet have a name. Might you have a suggestion?”

“Me?” He was shocked. “What about Ser Laenor?”

“He isn’t here,” Rhaenyra’s voice was harsh. “Come, we mustn’t let this little one linger without a name of her own for much longer.”

That did seem to be a terrible injustice, in Aemond’s opinion. He struggled to think of a name as perfect as the little creature in front of him. It would have to be a Valyrian name, he decided, for she deserved one, and it would have to be beautiful and unique, only to her. He was struck by the realization that this was the most important thing he had ever done.

“What about Aelinor?” He suggested shyly.

Rhaenyra smiled, looking down on her baby. “I think that is perfect. Will you help my little Aelinor, Aemond? When the world is harsh and cruel, might she have you to lean on?”

Aemond could not imagine the world ever being cruel to little Aelinor — his Aelinor, he decided — but he made the promise anyway. 

“I swear,” he said earnestly, vowing not only to himself, not to his half-sister, but to the precious thing in her arms. He lifted his hand and gently stroked one finger along her tiny arm, the skin impossibly soft and delicate beneath his touch. “I’ll become the strongest dragon rider in the world, so that I can protect you. I swear it.”

And for those few minutes, before news reached the Queen, Rhaenyra felt that the world might not have been as harsh as she knew it to be. Her daughter was healthy and beautiful, and already she was winning hearts. Little Aelinor was exactly what Aemond had said, a spot of sun on a dark day, and she was loved.

No one could ever have imagined that in the years and wars to come, it was tiny Aelinor, and her sworn protector, who would shape the future of House Targaryen. 

119 AC

At the age of four, Princess Aelinor Velaryon ruled over the Red Keep like a little queen. Though not one for barking orders — she was both too meek and too shy for that — she found the castle filled with those resolved to fulfill her every whim. Never in her short life had she known a moment’s hardship, for such inconveniences were kept fiercely away by those who loved her.

Her mother, the Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, doted on her only daughter, even as she brought a second son into the world. Her daughter was the perfect image of her mother, in looks if not in temperament, and Rhaenyra was determined to keep her under her wing for as long as possible. The motives could not be entirely unselfish, for Aelinor alone of Rhaenyra’s children bore the look of a true Targaryen, and contributed heavily to the preservation of Rhaenyra’s reputation. 

The Lord Laenor Velaryen, the girl’s father, found himself rather at odds with what to do with the girl. Though she did not resemble him in the slightest, he found her sweet, and reminded him of a calmer, meeker Laena. The reminder of his sister was enough to generate some fondness in his heart for the child, if it could not be called a true fatherly love. He did not spend much time with the girl (or indeed any of his children), but he made sure to always bring the child a bauble from his travels, and offer her a story should she ask.

King Viserys, her grandfather, doted on the child, whom he found to be the perfect image of his late wife, Aemma, and even Her Majesty the Queen could not find it in herself to hate the child. Not when little Aelinor so often looked up to Queen Alicent and declared her ‘beautiful like a faerie’.

The only true hardship in Princess Aelinor’s life came from her brothers, the Princes Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon. Luc was young, and so it was most often Jace who took to bullying the young girl. It was difficult to say why, and perhaps that was why their mother did so little to stop it. It might simply have been the way of things with siblings, for Rhaenyra had none of her own. But many in the curt whispered that the boys had far darker motivations for taunting and teasing the little girl, even if the children themselves were unaware.

When Jacaerys pushed Aelinor from her chair so that he might sit next to the King, the court whispered ‘it is because she has the look of a Targaryen, and the boy does not’. And when Luc pulled her hair, they suggested that his jealously moved him to hurt the girl.

Aelinor loved her brothers though, and were she a little stronger or a little bigger, she would have teased them right back. She knew her brothers would never hurt her, not truly, and so she did not let herself be too bothered by their harassment. 

Aelinor remained a happy child, through and through, in large part due to her best friend, for there was no one in the court, nor in her family, as devoted to her happiness as her beloved Aemond. On any given day, one could expect to see the young prince following behind the little princess like an ever-faithful shadow, quick to pick her up should she fall, to wipe away her tears, and fight her battles for her. For all the rumors of rifts between the factions of House Targaryen, their loyalty to each other seemed to bridge the gap of familial animosity.

“Aemond,” Aelinor said eagerly. “Can you tell me what you see?”

They were hiding in the rafters, in a space normally reserved for servants lighting chandeliers, spying on the feast and dancing taking place in the great hall below. It was Prince Aegon’s eleventh name day, and the dancing was expected to last right into the night. Aemond had been forced to attend for the first few hours, but had managed to sneak away and find Aelinor, who had been too young to be invited. Now they were hidden behind a wall on the upper level, Aemond tall enough to peer over and Aelinor trying to stand on her toes.

Aemond considered his answer. “What would you like to hear about? The dancing or the food?”

“The dancing!” She exclaimed. “Is it like in the stories?”

He knew which stories she was referring to. Aemond spent much of his time regaling Aelinor with the stories of Old Valyria, and while she loved tales of dragons and spells as much as he did (though he did tend to leave out some of the gorier details of blood magic), it was the great romances that really captured her young mind.

“The ladies are all spinning around, and their dresses are very fine,” he said. “And I can see that all of the lords are very much in love with them.”

Truthfully, he could only really see his mother, who danced with her uncle in the middle of the nearly-empty dancefloor. The hired musicians now played over the sound of drunken revelries, most of the guests draped over taples with tankards of ale in their hands. All of the other children had left by now, including Aegon, who had arrogantly boasted that he would stay up all night for his party. He also couldn’t see Princess Rhaenyra  But Aelinor didn’t need to know any of that. 

“I wish I could be down there,” the girl sighed, spinning around so that the edges of her bedrobe twirled outward. “I could meet a handsome prince.”

Aemond turned from watching the party, smiling down at her as she spun about. “Am I not handsome enough for you, Lina?”

Aelinor stopped then, looking very serious. “You’re the most handsome, even more handsome than your brothers or mine, or any of the princes in the stories.”

Aemond grinned. That was what he loved best about Aelinor. Even at the age of four, he knew without a doubt that she meant everything she said with every fibre of her being. As far as he knew, she had never even told a lie to anyone. She just loved and loved with her entire heart, and he felt grateful that she shared even a small piece of it with him.

“Come then, if you wish it, we shall dance,” he held out a hand, leading her through a clumsy imitation of one of the dances he had seen earlier. Aelinor held her skirt up with one hand and he whirled her around, careful not to let her trip over her dress.

“What’s your favorite part of the stories, Aemond?” She asked him, swaying from side to side.

He answered honestly. “I like the dragons. I like hearing about the bond between dragons and their riders, and how they became heroes and legends.” He was filled with a great sadness then, for her did not have a dragon of his own. Aelinor did, her little egg had hatched shortly after her birth, though she was too young to have done more than pet the hatchling. 

“You’ll be the best dragon rider ever,” Aelinor promised. “I just know it.”

He didn’t doubt that she believed it.

“Do you want to know my favorite part, Aemond?” She asked, giggling as he swayed her from side to side.

“Of course, Lina.”

She sighed dramatically. “I like the happy endings, when the heroes bring their princesses a troven.”

“It’s a token, Lina,” he smiled. “And yes, I know you love the happy endings.” He was prone to adding happy endings to all his stories, knowing how much she loved them. 

“Come now, it is time to get you to bed.” It was well past her bedtime, and Aelinor did not protest as he took her hand and returned her to her family.

Early the next morning, Alicent walked into her sitting room to find Aemond digging through one of her jewelry boxes.

“Aemond, whatever are you doing?” She glanced briefly at the breakfast table, where Aegon was slathering a fruit spread on a piece of bread, but chose to take nothing for herself.

Aemond didn’t reply, setting a gold chain to the side and continuing to dig. “Just looking for something.”

“Hm,” Alicent hummed. “Did you have fun with Aelinor last night?”

“Yes, we watched some of the dancing.” 

His brother laughed, but Aemond chose to ignore it. He now had a selection of jewels set next to him on the table, and was continuing his hunt.

“Why are you laughing, Aegon?” Alicent asked.

Aegon snorted. “I just think it’s funny that Aemond hangs out with babies rather than acting like a man.”

This was rather funny, especially coming from a boy as flippant and juvenile as Aegon, but Alicent couldn’t deny that the thought had occured to her as well. Aemond was nearly nine, and his closest companion was a little girl of four. Aemond was already an odd child, and it didn’t bode well for him to be so distanced from his peers.

“Aelinor isn’t a baby, she’s special,” Aemond declared, spinning to face his mother, holding his palm outstretched. “Mother, may I have this.”

Balanced on his palm was a large sapphire, too large for him to close his fist around. It was roughly cut, and had been given to the Queen for her to choose its cut and setting herself, but she had never gotten around to it, preferring emerald tones over sapphire.

“For what?” She asked.

A red flush stained Aemond’s cheeks, and Alicent did not even need to hear his reply. “Are you sure, Aemond? That is a very large gem, and she’s very little.”

Aemond held it tightly in his fingers. “Please. She loves treasure.”

That was a gross underestimation of Aemond’s motivations. Yes, Aelinor did love treasure as much as any little princess, but the truth was, her sleepy mumblings about heroes and tokens had rattled around his brain all night. She had called him a handsome prince, and he felt he needed to do something to earn it.

“Please?” He repeated.

Alicent considered her next words carefully. On one hand, she did not want the court to hear of her passing a gift of such value to the Princess Rhaenyra’s family. Or rather, she did not want her father to hear of it. But she had no real attachment to the stone, having already forgotten which visiting lord or lady had gifted it to her, and it might serve to address what she saw as the larger concern.

“Very well,” Aemond’s face erupted in glee, “but you must make me a promise.”

“Anything!” He exclaimed.

“From now on, you will join Aegon for his morning lessons. That means with the maesters some days, and in the training yard on others.”

“What?” 

“Why?” Aegon demanded.

Alicent held up a hand to silence both of her sons. “You’re not as little as you were, Aemond. This is important.”

“But Aelinor —”

“Aelinor must also study with her Septas,” Alicent said. “Do I have your agreement?”

Aemond looked a bit dejected, but nodded slowly. “I promise.”

“Well, I don’t even want him to train with me!”

The next day Aelinor had to hunt for Aemond throughout the castle. He wasn’t waiting outside her door when she awoke, nor was he in the library, picking out a new story for her. It took her nearly an hour to find him in the most unlikely of places.

He was testing out the different practice swords, trying to see which felt the least foreign in his hand, when Aelinor emerged on the walkway above the training yard. Ser Harwin Strong lifted her easily, carrying her down the steps and setting her down on a flat stone. His efforts were futile, for she immediately leapt off and splashed through the mud to reach Aemond.

“Are you going to learn to fight, Aemond?” She asked, excited. “Can I learn too?

The thought was ridiculous, but Aemond didn’t laugh. “When you are bigger, Lina, I promise.” He couldn’t bear the thought of her being injured, so this was one of the few instances in which he had no choice but to refuse her.

“Alright,” she sighed. “Can I stay and watch?”

Aemond was suddenly embarrassed at the thought of her watching him train. He would not be very good, and he couldn’t bear for Aelinor to think any less of him. The sapphire hung heavy in his pocket, and he was thankful for the distraction.

“Not today, Lina. But I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?” She bounced on her toes. The hem of her lilac dress was already stained with mud, but her silver hair was tied back neatly back with a ribbon. Her whole frame shook as she bounced in anticipation. “What is it?”

Aemond pulled the sapphire out of his pocket, unwrapping the silk handkerchief he had used to cover it. “This is for you. Just like from the stories.”

Aelinor’s gasp was almost comical as she took in the stone. “For me?”

“Yes,” Aemond said, letting her take it in her small hands. She had to grip it with both hands to hold it, the gem ridiculously large for her. “But you must be very careful with it, alright?”

Aelinor stared at it for a moment longer. In the morning light the gem reflected a ripple of cerulean blue across her palms, and she felt she could have wasted away the day studying it. Suddenly she leapt forward to wrap Aemond in a hug. “Thank you, thank you!” She cried. “It is the best thing in the world.”

Aemond squeezed her back. “I am glad you like it. “Now go, we both have lessons.”

Aelinor gave him one last squeeze, before turning to stomp back to her waiting Kingsguard. Aemond just smiled, pleased with himself.

That evening, Aelinor sat in front of the hearth in her mother’s chambers, half-listening as her brothers recounted their day, but mostly studying the sapphire in her hands. Her mother had been astonished to see the magnitude of the gift she had received, but she had not taken it away.

“Boys, stay here with Aelinor. I have something to discuss with your father.” Rhaenyra disappeared into the next room.

Jace squatted down next to his sister, pointing at the stone. “What’s that?”

“It’s my token!” Aelinor exclaimed.

“It’s pretty,” Luc was on her other side.

“I know!” Aelinor beamed. “Aemond gave it to me. It’s just like the treasures from the stories and I—”

Jace interrupted her. “Aemond? You let him give you a gift?” Unlike his younger siblings, Jace wasn’t entirely unaware of the whispers that followed him at court. And he was more than aware that while he dealt with sideways glances and whispers, he knew that Aelinor was largely immune to those comments. That spark of jealousy colored his relationship with his sister, sometimes overclouding his love for her with envy.

Aelinor was confused by his question. Why shouldn’t Aemond give her a gift? He was her Aemond after all. But Jace’s question made her worry. Perhaps she needed to give him a gift in return. But what did she have that was as wonderful as this?

“Aemond isn’t our friend, Aelinor,” Jace cautioned. “You can’t trust him.”

“Aemond is my friend,” Aelinor countered, her faith in him steadfast. “He just doesn’t like you.”

All of a sudden, Luc snatched the gem out of her hand, holding it away from her reach. “It’s so blue!”

“Let me see it, Luc,” Jace took it, holding it near the fire to see it better.

“Give it back!” Aelinor sprung to her feet. “It isn’t yours! It’s mine!”

“Why should you get a gift like this, and from Aemond of all people?” Jace, who thought himself much older and wiser, tried to reason with his sister. “You cannot keep it.”

“I can! He gave it to me!” Aelinor jumped to reach it, nearly tripping over her skirts.

“I’m sorry, sister. But this is for the best. “And Jace, with the type of carelessness that only a boy can muster, tossed the sapphire into the fire.

Aelinor wailed. “You stupid, stupid boy! Aemond gave that to me!” She beat at his side with her little fists.

Jace pushed her off, sending her stumbling to the floor. “It’s just a trinket, Aelinor. We can find you another one. A better one.”

But Aelinor already knew in her heart that there would never be a better gift than the one Aemond had given her. She pushed onto her knees and crawled closer to the fire, sniffling as she watched the flames lick at the blue gem. Already black was creeping up the edges, marring its beautiful surface. Aemond had given her that gift because he loved, she knew it. And she wasn’t going to let her brother’s jealousy take it away.

New determination flowing through her veins, Aelinor reached forward into the fire, and grasped the gem firmly in her hand.

Her screams echoed through the hall of the keep. 

Aemond was reading by candlelight, just beginning to nod off when a pounding began at his door. A thousand things occurred to him as he scrambled from his bed. It could be his mother, angry that he was still awake, or it could be something more serious, such as a fire or an attack of some kind.

He had scarcely set his feet on the floor when the door burst open, and he was surprised to see not only his mother there, looking very perturbed in her nightgown and robe, but also Ser Harwin Strong, the Kingsguard to the Princess Rhaenyra.

“Aemond,” his mother sighed. “I’m sorry, but there was no helping it.”

“No helping what, mother?” Aemond was concerned. Was that sweat on Ser Harwin’s brow? “Is there a fire?”

“No, child. There has been an…unfortunate accident.”

“What do you—”

Ser Harwin interrupted. “The Princess Aelinor has been grievously injured, and she calls for you. Her mother hoped you might calm her, so that she might let the maesters—”

Aemond was already pushing past them, running down the stairs as fast as his bare feet could carry him. Aelinor, injured? He could not imagine what might have happened, his thoughts already filled with the most horrible images. He should have been there, should have protected her. And where were her parents, her brothers, her guards? What were they doing that allowed her to be hurt?

He could hear Ser Harwin rushing behind him, but he did not stop to look. He just ran down the familiar corridors and began climbing the steps to the chambers the Princess Rhaenyra occupied with her family. No sooner had his foot landed on the bottom step of the tower that the most horrible wailing reached his ears.

“Aelinor!” She shouted, rushing up the steps and bursting into the room. He shoved past a crowd of maesters and Aelinor’s own parents and brothers, ignoring the rudeness of his arrival. Rhaenyra looked close to tears, her sons just as distraught, but Aemond only had eyes for Aelinor.

She sat on a divan, wilted against one side, her hand cradled in her lap. She was still wearing her beautiful, mud-covered dress from that morning, though the dirt had now dried into dust that flaked onto the velvet furniture. She was sobbing: great, heaving sobs that shook her entire body with the effort, letting out alternatively loud wails or soft moans of pain.

“Lina!” he exclaimed, dropping to his knees next to her. “What’s happened?”

She wailed louder, and he saw that she was gripping something in her little hand. The skin that he could see, mainly the sides and back of her hand, was a frightening shade of bright red, as though she’d left it out in the sun for too long.

“She wasn’t supposed to go after it,” Jace said. “She just reached right in!”

“What did she reach for, Jace?” Rhaenyra demanded. “You were supposed to watch her!”

Aemond ignored them, carefully lifting a hand to brush away the flood of tears. A maester knelt on her other side. “Young Prince, we need to let us see her hand. We fear she had been grievously burned.”

Burned? His Aelinor?

He spun his gaze around, zeroing on Jace. Little Luc clung to his brother’s shirt, tears running down his face. The nerve of him to cry, when his sister was suffering so.

“What have you done?” He demanded. “Why did you hurt her?”

“She was the one stupid enough to reach into a fireplace for a dumb jewel!” Jace spat back.

“Jewel? What jewel?” Ser Laenor asked, and his wife began to explain.

Aemond felt a feeling of dread come over him as he realized what Aelinor was holding so tightly in her hand. What she had hurt herself for. He leaned close, wrapping one arm around her shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Lina. Does it hurt terribly?”

She gave a pathetic nod, and he resisted the urge to cry. This was his fault, after all. He had given her the sapphire, and she had scarred herself just to save it from the fire. 

“Lina,” he whispered. “Please, you must let them help.”

Her lip quivered. “Make it stop hurting, Aemond.”

He hated himself for being unable to grant her wish. It made him want to turn around and punch Jace, and even little Luc, for putting her through this. It was their teasing and tormenting of her that had led to this, he was sure of it.

“Open your hand, Lina,” he coaxed. “And once they’ve taken care of you, I’ll tell you a new story, alright?”

That seemed motivation enough, and he moved to sit beside her, taking her uninjured hand in his as the maesters worked quickly to uncurl her burned fingers. Aelinor whimpered as the sapphire dropped to the floor, and Aemond felt like vomiting when he saw the mess left behind. A melted mass of burned skin and liquid flesh, her fingers curling in as if to protect the wound from the air. As soon as it was exposed, Aelinor began to cry anew, and Aemond drew her face into his shoulders.

“It will be alright, Lina,” he promised, even though he didn’t think it would be. “I’ll take care of you.”

Aelinor didn’t respond. She just clung to Aemond’s side and sobbed as they applied a salve and a bandage to her ruined hand. Both her mother and father came forward to try and comfort her, but any attempt to pry her away from Aemond only led to more tears.

Aelinor whispered something, and Aemond leaned down to hear it.

“Am I going to be ugly now, Aemond?” She said quietly.

“Never,” he swore. “You are as beautiful as ever, and no one could ever do anything to change that.” That, at least, he was sure of.

She seemed to take a little comfort in that, and Aemond worked with the maesters to convince her to drink some milk of the poppy. She fell asleep, slumped against Aemond’s side, her hand an unidentifiable mass of bandages. 

“Thank you, Prince Aemond,” Ser Laenor said, gently placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I will take her to bed now.”

Aemond wanted to protest, but while he might be strong enough to carry Aelinor playful around the castle, he could not move her without jostling her. Instead, he carefully passed her to her father, and stood from the sofa as she was carried away. He wanted to insist that someone stay with her through the night, but movement at the side of the room drew his attention away.

Rhaenyra had collapsed into a chair at the table, Jace and Luc sitting beside her. In Luc’s hand was the blackened sapphire they had pried from Aelinor’s grasp.

“You…you bastards!” Aemond shouted, walking up and snatching the jewel from him. “I gave this to Aelinor, not to you!”

“Boys, there is no need for—” Rhaenyra started.

“Who are you to give our sister gifts? You’re just trying to…trying to..” Jace struggled for words. “To turn her against us!”

“I’m not! I—” Aemond caught himself before he said I love her. “It doesn’t matter. You stole from her, and you hurt her, and I won’t ever forgive you for it.”

“Enough!” Rhaenyra stood. “Jace, take Luc and go to your room. I’ll be in to speak with you in a minute.”

Aemond watched as they walked away, scowling all the while. Only once the door had closed behind them did Rhaenyra turn to him.

“Thank you, Aemond,” she said sincerely. “I did not say it earlier, but you were a great comfort to Aelinor, and a great help to us all tonight.”

He did not think that his mother would enjoy hearing that he had been a ‘great help’ to his half-sister, nor was he particularly endeared to her at the moment. It was on her watch that Lina had been injured, after all. “I did it for Lina.” And not for you.

“I know you did, but I am grateful all the same.” Rhaenyra sighed. “She will be very unwell in the coming days. Can I trust that you will be there to help?”

It was a silly question. When, in all the days since Aelinor had been born, had Aemond not been there? Short of prying him from her side and locking him up, there would be nothing anyone could do to keep him away from his little princess.

Aemond looked down at the jewel in his palm, rubbing some of the soot away with his finger. “Can she have her jewel back? I picked it just for her. I didn’t mean for her to be hurt.” It wasn’t quite an admission of guilt, and indeed, no one could accuse him of being at fault save himself, but Rhaenyra could see that it already weighed heavy on the boy.

Rhaenyra held out her hand, and he obediently placed the sapphire in her palm. “Not only may she keep it, but I shall have it placed in a setting, so that she might carry it easier.”

That sounded perfectly agreeable to Aemond, and he nodded. “Very well. Then I shall look after Aelinor.” He did not say because you cannot, but the thought was in his mind. He had trusted Aelinor to the care of her mother and brothers, and now she was hurt. It would never have happened on his watch. He wouldn’t have allowed it.

“May I ask one more favor of you, Ameond?” 

He gave a slight nod.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, as if debating whether or not to speak. “Please don’t call my boys bastards. It cuts deeper than you know.”

Aemond did not agree, or disagree, he simply cast one last longing glance at Aelinor’s door,and then left the room, determined to return in the morning with an armful of sweets for his princess.

Years later, Rhaenyra would wonder if that was the first day the lines were drawn between their families. When she inadvertently handed Aemond Targaryen the words with which to wound her own children. But at the time, she knew only that he cared deeply for her daughter, and she hoped and prayed that it would be enough to preserve this tender peace.

[jomiddlemarch]

And whilst our souls negotiate there  

Chapter 3

“This wasn’t my idea,” Harry said, in lieu of a greeting. It had been a dozen years since he’d defeated Voldemort and it seemed he still hadn’t managed to learn to use a brush or Tersus capillus. Slovenly, that was what Draco’s mother would have said, if he could get her to talk about anything other than her bloody rose garden, but it was reassuring in a way that Harry looked so much the same, save that his dark hair was threaded with silver. In any other wizard, Draco would have assumed it an affectation, but given’s Harry’s personal habits and history, it was more likely a sign of the trauma he’d lived through and his indifference to appearance; one could claim that indifference as a point of pride if one was the preeminent hero of Wizarding Britain, still largely Mugglish in attitude despite being a Half-Blood by birth.

Harry had also refused to get rid of his glasses but as Draco also had an aversion to any spellwork that involved his eyes, he wasn’t about to judge.

“Neville made that clear. I won’t read anything into this,” Draco said evenly. There was a rumor the Sorting Hat had considered Slytherin for Harry but that only underscored the folly of relying on mad millinery to identify someone’s character. Harry may have been able to speak Parseltongue but any subtlety was in short supply.

“I didn’t think you’d agree to this,” Harry said.

“To meet with you? To try and help Hermione? To eat in this,” he paused to look around, “Bloody shithole?”

“The shepherd pie’s not bad,” Harry said, smiling. “I didn’t think you’d agree to any of it. I didn’t think you’d agree if we ate at Tizona—”

“They do nice tapas,” Draco said. “And their house Rioja is perfectly acceptable.”

“Why are you here?” Harry asked.

“Why do you care? Everyone else in the literal world has given up hope and still I sit here and am presumably about to eat an extremely mediocre plate of shepherd’s pie and swill warm beer,” Draco countered.

“You haven’t changed,” Harry said. “You can’t admit—”

“Just stop,” Draco said, raising a hand to underscore his words. It was something, to make the Savior of the Wizarding World shut the fuck up and many lesser, wiser wizards wouldn’t have attempted it. They also wouldn’t think there was any chance of helping Hermione. “You’re terrified that I’m all that stands between Hermione and a living death because my track record on miracles is shite. I think I’m caught between trying to make up for being a Death Eater and my, as Neville put it, ‘overweening Malfoy pride. We have to put all that aside, if we want a chance to help her, all those emotions and all the old animus. I’ll need your help, Weasley’s too, I imagine. And her journal—”

“Journals. There are six volumes,” Harry said.

Draco laughed.

“Of course there are. Neville didn’t say plural,” Draco replied.

“He considers it one journal. We’ve argued about that too,” Harry said, nodding slightly at the waiter who had been hovering. “Two orders of the shepherd’s pie, two Burton Ales.”

“Burton Ale?” Draco said.

“It’s not far off from butterbeer. I bet you’ll like it more than whatever they’ve got on draught,” Harry said. 

“What would Hermione order here?” Draco said. It stood to reason Harry had come here with her, that the memory thereof had guided his choice to return. That she hovered like a ghost at Harry’s side, her chin lifted and eyes narrowed in appraisal of Draco and his anticipated shortcomings.

“Hermione? Here? She’d never come. She’s not fond of pub food. She likes curry, especially vindaloo,” Harry said.

“Then you picked this place because?”

“Wasn’t sure you’d show, despite what Neville said. If you did, you’d be sure to make a fuss, which you have. And I do like their shepherd’s pie,” Harry replied.

“I see,” Draco replied, leaning back in his chair. Harry looked more relaxed now and since he was pants at dissembling, was likely to be more relaxed. Thus, it was time to talk shop.

“Have you already done the decrypting spell on the journals?”

Harry had the grace not to look surprised but also did not look overly impressed.

“I cast Enodare omnia and Neville Soilshaghey folliaghtyn, but all we can see is Meroetic hieroglyphs. Bill Weasley took a look but he’s not been able to make much progress,” Harry said.

“No? He’s reputed to be a highly competent codebreaker,” Draco said.

“They worked together for a while, Hermione and Bill, and he says she’s taken that into account and used all his weaknesses against him,” Harry replied. 

“Then perhaps it’s good she doesn’t know me well,” Draco said.

“Yeah. Ron thought so,” Harry replied. “And even Hermione agreed that he has a better head for strategy than she does.”

“He still plays chess?”

“When he can find a decent opponent,” Harry said. The waiter appeared with two steaming plates and set them down with an abbreviated flourish, Draco giving a quelling glare. Harry grinned and Draco was transported back to Hogwarts for a moment, the delight on Harry’s face etched into Draco’s hippocampus. Draco put his serviette across his lap and picked up his fork, striving not to scowl at the mashed potato and mince inelegantly slopped on the crockery dish.

“You don’t have to eat that. Or stay,” Harry said. “I’ve got the journals with me, I can give them to you and you can go.”

“I think I’ll try it,” Draco said. “When Hermione wakes up, it will be good to have something to commiserate about.”

[its-in-the-woods]

The Woman Who Couldn’t Die Part 16

master list

Part 1 , Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Par 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10 , Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15

Pairing: The Ghoul/Cooper Howard x Original Character

Synopsis: “I think we should pull her teeth,” Nat muttered to himself, he wasn’t much for body desecration but teeth fetched a good bag of caps.

MINOR GET OUT. Rating/Warning: This is based on Fallout expect typical horror, blood, gore, death, weapons, memory loss, necrophilia themes, desecration of a body,

Hello! I am back, for those who don't know me outside of this.. I get SAD really bad between Nov-January, but I seem to be on the up and the words are flowing. Thank you for all ! Can't wait for the next chapter. New series coming soon!

***

The leaf litter rustled against the fabric of the worn coat, a bloody head covered in the dirt, and brain matter left a bloody trail behind them. The men’s heavy boots echoing against the low bush, as they march side by side, one leg in each hand. A coordinated effort to get the body out to the trail. As the bush parts open to reveal another man, going over the spoils of what they had found at the massacre site. They had found several dead bodies, the smell had alerted the ragtag group that there may have been something worth gathering. Finding an intact body amongst the other dead was interesting. They had debated dragging her out or leaving her for dead, but their ringleader Nat had pointed out she may be worth something at the chop shops. 

“Is she heavy for her size?” Rag groans as he flops her leg down beside the bags. Wiping sweat off his dirty forehead leaving streaks across it. He is a small man with dirty grey hair, thin in the way most Wastelander were. Lack of food and good nutrients hadn’t helped any. He grabs a canteen from the pile and takes a swig making a face at the taste of the water.

Trucker chuckles, leering at the smaller man from under his hat. Same worn baseball cap he had found ages ago, it kept the sun off his steadily growing bald spot. He was taller and thicker than Rags by a good amount, but that was probably because his family was chicken farmers. “Nah you’re just weak, Rags.” He grabs his bottle, wincing at the stale water, but water was water after all. Though he longed for a cold harder drink.

Rag kicks at her leg, his boot two sizes too big, nearly falling off with the motion. Trucker laughing at the way he almost falls over. “Why she not all rotten like the rest of them?”

Nat strolls over, he is a tall lean man, with dirty blonde hair and several scars across his arms. The man was older than both but carried himself like a younger man. “Not sure, she got a bullet hole in the center of her head, but it’s like she is just asleep.”

Trucker grumbles, going over to some of the bags to dig around in the pile. “Some Enclave shit, I don’t like it. Should have just left her there.”

“Maybe they will want her back?” Rag asks, looking her up and down, a dark look passing across his face. "Think we could make a few caps off her." He turns his head sideways leaning towards her, “Or maybe we could-”

“Shut up.” Nat hisses and glaring daggers, he was not having any of that. There were still lines he wouldn't cross even out here. “Why I keep you sick fucks around I will never know.”

Rag shrugs, crouching down close to her, reaching out to touch the buttons on her jacket, tongue poking out to lick his lips. “If she’s dead, does it really matter?”

The back of Nat’s hand hits Rag’s face hard enough to knock him off his feet. A knife slid into Nate's hand as he walks over to the fallen man, Trucker getting up between them. “Come on you two dipshits, not worth killing each other over.”

Nat glares at Rag but puts his knife away, going back over to the body on the ground. He would have happily let that dirty piece of roach bleed where he lay. “You sick fuck stay over there like you’ve never seen someone of the opposite sex before.”

Rag puts his hands up pushing himself back onto his feet and going through bags. The three men digging out anything that could be traded, or sold, a small pile forming in the middle of the pathway. They weren’t worried about anyone coming upon them. Auto had burned to the ground a month or so ago, and almost no one came north this late in the summer. They only did it cause they were scavengers, going places most wouldn’t go to get the goods that many wanted. They were heading north while the rest headed south, they were quick and efficient. Anything valuable left behind they’d gather before high tailing it south before any cold weather came, it was a solid grift they’d be running for going on three winters now.  

“I think we should pull her teeth,” Nat muttered to himself, he wasn’t much for body desecration but teeth fetched a good bag of caps. He drew the line at molestation, but stealing teeth from someone dead wasn’t the worst thing he’d done. They were here for caps, that kept them alive, bellies fed, and somewhere warm to stay. Leaning above her he pushed her lips up to see what he was working with. 

Her eyes shot open, nearly black with glints of gold, mouth falling open with a groan causing Nat to fall backward onto his ass. The woman groans louder, all the men now stepping in the opposite direction of the dead body. Her mouth opening and closing at it gasps for air, her body convulsing and stirring, back arched up as she awakens. 

“What the fuck,” Rag shutters, all but hiding behind the other two men, as their eyes widen in horror. “She should be dead.”

She coughs and sputters, black goop coming out of her mouth as she manages to sit herself up. Her arms and hands look more like doll parts than a human as she tries to right herself. Blinking several times she takes in the three men in front of her, one eye sticking closed before she manages to rub it back open. Hands stiff and ridge as she tries to get herself moving.

“W-here?” She grunts, her mouth dry as she looks at them. Reaching over she grabbed a canteen of water, her hands too stiff to open the lid. Nat comes over uncapping it and helping ease the water into her mouth. Coughing more the gunk onto the ground, it was thick like old oil in some of the burnt-out cars you could find. 

“How are you alive,” Rag whimpers, only the top of his head seen above Trucker’s shoulders. Sometimes being a good head shorter was good, especially for hiding.

Nat digs around in the bags, finds some dried jerky, and hands it to her. “Umm, you’re about two hours outside Auto.”

She blinks several times, gently taking the meat out of his hand. Her other hand rubbing at her eyes, fingers going up to trace against the outline of where the bullet wound was. Her fingers go around it several times, brows scrunching as she chews. Nat could see the dexterity slowly coming back as she continues to move and look around. It was like watching a newborn learn how to walk for the first time. 

“Auto,” She says quietly, hand going down across her arms to rub at marks. Nat hadn’t noticed the scars before now. There were at least half a dozen on each arm, not including what looked like old track wounds. 

“What’s your name,” Trucker asks, scooting a little bit away from Rags to snatch a bag and start stuffing stuff into it. He was not going to let her take away all his spoils. 

Blinking again, her eyes didn’t seem as dark as she looks around some more. “I am not sure, I don’t remember-” Instinctively she reaches out and grabs a machete not far from her, she grips it, fingers slotting perfectly into the handle. “I think this was mine.” 

Rag is still standing back, muttering away to himself as he keeps his body as small as possible. “Nothin’ is really anyones, yah no.”

Nat glared at him, silencing him as much as he could, “Whatever you need, feel free to grab. We are just scavengers, finding things to trade or sell.” 

She turns to look at the stuff before her, Nat staring into the back of her head. There should be a good-sized hole there, but all that is there is crusted hair. It didn’t make sense, he had never seen anyone survive a bullet to the forehead.

“You shouldn’t be alive,” Rag says again, Nat is about ready to knock his teeth out, he was dumping him at the next outpost they found. The man was becoming too unhinged even for him.

The woman stares at him, her eyes blank, it was clear she didn’t understand what was happening. She picks up a knife and pistol, the two going into a pack along with the canteen she had grabbed earlier.

“I don’t think I should be alive,” She looks between them all, “But I am alive,” 

***

The group had debating giving her name but had decided on just calling her the girl. She had made the choice to go North back towards Auto, the town name sounded familiar but she wasn't sure why. Standing in the wreckage of the town didn’t give her many answers, it was familiar yet not familiar. Her head was pounding, the mark on her forehead was throbbing. The men kept asking her questions she could not answer, all she had were fragments of memories that would flash and disappear as fast. It was more like shards of glass that kept poking through, but it was hard to hold onto the pieces for longer than a second. 

Nat stuck near her, he seemed to want to keep her safe. Was safe the right word? She didn’t like the other two that much, Rags made her skin crawl, something about him was not right, the way his eyes never quite looked at hers. Trucker was mostly silent, he also made her edgy but not the same way Rags did. Regardless she was aware that their paths would divide sooner than later, as soon as she could figure out who she was. Something had to trigger things right? Maybe this town would, or what was left of it. Maybe it would make the pieces not so jagged. She kicks at some burnt metal wishing her mind worked, eyes whirling around the place. It was all the same blackened nothing, a black burnt metal on top of more metal.

She walks around, her legs were still stiff and aching like she hadn’t moved in days. Her fingers went back to her forehead, the mess that she had felt in her hair. How long had she been lying in the forest, what had happened in the forest? Why was she the only one alive? Who was traveling with her? 

“You’ll figure it out,” Nate says quietly, coming to stand close to her. She nearly jumps glaring at him, not wanting him any closer to her. 

“Do you know who shot me? Is that what this?” Shrub points at her forehead, the raised edges catching on to her finger. 

Nat’s eyes go wide and he raises his hands up palms out, “No, we found you like that. I don’t know what happened.”

Shrub groans and sitting down on a piece of burnt rubble, rubbing her face and then down her arms. Her fingers find the different marks on her arms, lifting up her shirt seeing more scars smattered on her stomach . Some look older than others, others fresh, what had happened to her. 

Bang

Jade!

She blinks a few times, the name Jade bouncing around inside her head. Who was Jade? Was it someone she was with, was it one of the dead bodies in the forest? Did she kill Jade? 

“Nothing makes sense.” She grumbles looking around the place. More flashes of memories, the town not burnt but whole. The streets where busy with people moving around. She could see herself walking across to the building directly from her, someone shadowing behind her. 

She is up and moving without thinking, heading towards what is left of the building, a building that is familiar. It had melted fencing surrounding the place, she carefully stepped over some of the debris. Going down along the blackened brick to the back, there are several burnout trailers. The memories hit again, the trailers not burnt, the lights low, a shower, the warmth of a fire. 

Bang!

Jade! 

“You’ve been here before?” Nat asks he had kept close to her, staying just a few feet behind her, but close enough he could see the wreckage past her.

“Jade,” She says the name out loud as if she were testing out how it fits on her tongue. It was her name and the more she said it the more it fit her.

Nat nods his head, a small smile on his face as if understanding what she is saying, “That’s got to be your name, right?” 

Jade nods her head, “I think so, I was here before this burnt. I can see what it looked like before everything went up in flames. I stayed in these trailers” She gestures at the burnt husks of metal. 

“Well, you got a name now. Maybe you’ll remember the rest,” Nat adds, looking almost hopeful as he watches her. Jade looked this way and that, explaining how things had looked before it had all gone up in flames.

Jade stands in the middle of the space, walking towards one of the trailers that she was sure was hers. She peers behind it seeing a large hole in the fence. “I went through here before it burnt to the ground.”

This is where she had escaped, something had chased her through the hole. Did someone try to kill her? Then left her in the woods? There were so many questions, without answers. They were trapped behind millions of fragments of memories.

The two turn at the crunch of gravel, coming out from behind to see that Trucker had shown up, a piece of paper in his hands. “Bounty. Wonder if this was the dude that burnt the place down?” 

Taking the paper Jade looks it over, a striking drawing of a gnarled face of a man looks up at her, his face scarred and hollowed in some area. He wears a crooked smile, missing a nose, yet she still would call him handsome. She knew him without reading the words written below, it was the Ghoul. She knew him, had met him before, maybe it was here in town.

“The Ghoul, he was here,” Jade stated, though it wasn’t anger she felt towards him. She felt remorse. As id she missed him, or something, what was it?

Nat grabs the paper looking it over, lips going into a thin line. “Bet he was the one that burnt the place down. Ghouls, nothing but zombies that think they are still human.”

Jade’s stomach clenches at his words, heat flooding her face. The urge to strike him, made her hands clench.“You sure? I don’t remember him doing anything bad.”

Trucker spat on the ground, “Yeah, I’ve heard of him. Some bounty hunter with a big ego, legend has it he was around when they first dropped the bombs. A killer for hirer type.”

“So you just assume he would burn the town down?” Jade pushes, flashes of a shadow in the shape of a cowboy making her question everything they were saying. She knew somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew they were wrong. 

Chuckling Trucker grabs the paper balls it up tossing it. “There have been outposts and towns burnt all up and down this area. He was probably looking for someone, trying to cover his tracks.”

“Whose covering tracks?” Rag walks in looking at the burntout area. Jade immediately backing away from him. He keeps himself away from her too, at least the discomfort was mutual. 

“Nothing, we should grab what we can and then keep heading north,” Nat shrugs it off, walking out of the fenced area. “No point staying here any longer than we need.”

Jade stands there looking around the place, going over to the crumpled-up paper she grabs it and smooths it out. Holding the piece up she notices that one side is ripped like it had been torn in half. She folds it neatly, stuffing it into one of her pockets to keep it safe, something wasn’t adding up. Whatever it was she wasn’t going with them, she was going to head south, that was the direction she needed to go. Following the men back out to the main part of town with her mind made up. 

“I think I am going to go south,” Jade says firmly as she catches up with the three men. “I don’t think north is the way I am supposed to go.”

The three look at her as if she is asking to walk off a cliff. Nat’s brows are scrunched together, Trucker’s are lost somewhere under his hat, and Rags looks as indifferent as ever. It didn’t matter not really anyway, they owed her nothing.

“I don’t think you should be on your own, Jade,” Nat states, taking a step towards her hand outstretched. “You might not remember, but the Wastes aren’t safe.”

Jade squares her shoulders looking at him directly, “No, I don’t remember much of anything. But my gut is telling me not to go North, so I ain’t going.”

Trucker rolls his eyes, snatching up his pack. “Yeah, good luck to yah. If you need anything, don't come looking for us.” He turns to start walking out of the town, Rag does the same without a word. 

Nat stands there, hands now clenched around the straps of his bag. “I’ll come with you then. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Trucker and Rags groan in unison at the words, Rags flipping them off as he continues to walk. Trucker stops to look at them, hands on his hips, face scrunched together. He grabs Rags and drags him back towards Nat and Jade. Rags moans the entire way back as he comes to a stop beside Nat.

“No, no, no way, dude.” Trucker grumbles, stopping a few feet from Nat. “We’ve been travelling together for -” He throws his hands up in the air. “Now you're just gonna dump us to play white knight.”

“I don't need anyone’s help,” Jade states, not liking Trucker’s tone and the way Rag is just standing there glaring. “Go North, I am going South.”

Nat grabs her arm, Jade grabs him, and immediately throws him over her shoulder. He hits the ground with a thud, his eyes wide in shock as he stares up at Jade. 

“What the fuck are you doing,” Truker pushes Jade back, going to help Nat up off the ground. 

Jade stood there wide-eyed and confused how she knew how to do that, it had felt like a well-practiced instinct. 

“I am sorry,” Jade replies, chewing against one of her bottom lip as bile touches the back of her throat. “I shouldn’t have done that.

“No shit,” Rags growls at her, grabbing up Nat’s bag as he scowls at her. “Lot of thanks we get offering you help.”

Nat sighs, dusting himself off, and taking the bag from Rags. “It’s fine, you don’t need us anymore.”

Jade stands there, at a loss for words as the three men turn away from her. She watches as they walk away, her heart heavy. Part of her wanting to go after them, they had helped her after all, but part of her knew better. She was not meant to go with them, her journey lay south. 

***

-> Chapter 17 <-

@pixelatedprofilepic @hiddlebatchedlokii @toogaytofunctiondangit @dionneroyal49 @dichromaniac

@whatsorceressisthis

[ninsficrecs]

not of a cold nature by bruinss

Fandom: Hockey RPF Relationship: Jonathan Drouin/Nathan MacKinnon Rating: Explicit Published: 7/30/2024 Completed: 9/12/2024 Chapters: 12 Words: 49,944 Summary: An omega who isn’t wanted is an omega who isn’t happy.

Nin's Notes: If you like NateJo, and you like omegaverse, then you've probably read this fic already, but it's worth sharing again.

mind the tags: a/b/o, werewolves

[incandescentflower]

Chapters: 6/8 Fandom: เธม-โป้ Heart That Skips a Beat | Thame-Po: Heart That Skips a Beat (TV) Relationships: Thame Thima Kanjanakitkul/Po Pawat Nuenganan Characters: Thame Thima Kanjanakitkul, Po Pawat Nuenganan Summary:

The various steps Thame and Po take in their relationship as they get closer to each other.

[b3tsuushin]

Stories for the Sea: Masterlist

Six months after the end of a war, you have not reached the end of the war. Post-TYBW.

ft. Rukia, Renji, Matsumoto, Hitsugaya, Kensei, Rose, Hisagi; Hinamori, Kira, (Kaien)

Part I

⟢ Chapter 1: Rukia receives her first summons from Captain Commander Kyouraku since Ukitake’s death.

⟢ Chapter 2: There’s nothing brisk exercise, some Pocky, and a few weird bugs can’t solve. Renji tallies the damage and devises a game plan, sort of.

⟢ Chapter 3: Kensei’s been trying to learn how to have bygones, but it’s not like that’s the Gotei’s style. Just saying.

⟢ Chapter 4: Hinamori, Hitsugaya, and water cooler talk—minus the water cooler. And Hitsugaya.

⟢ Chapter 5: Matsumoto thought she knew how it felt to be swallowed. She is re-learning the feeling, from the inside out.

⟢ Chapter 6: Akon can tell a hell of a campfire story.

⟢ Chapter 7: Rukia’s long night of tending the dead.

[alive-gh0st]

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: you wake up in an unfamiliar place—threadless, wingless, and wildly out of place in a world that forgot how to feel. the man who caught you (or spared you, or maybe neither) offers no comfort. only silence. and rules you don’t understand. but you’re built for love—even stripped of your status, even with your wings torn away—and despite everything, you hum. he watches. you talk. something shifts. and for once, the silence isn’t empty.

❤︎ contains: sfw. soft sci-fi. celestial grief. morally questionable men with capes. lonely mythologies. divine exile. cupid!reader. omni!mark. omni!invincible. slow-burn dynamics. sharp dialogue. soft power plays. emotional tension. thread metaphors. awkward domesticity. a glittery, homesick cupid in a strange house. and one emotionally repressed war criminal trying not to care.

❤︎ warnings: post-exile trauma. references to canonical war/genocide (vague). injury care. survivor’s guilt. isolation. identity confusion. mild body horror (wing loss). emotional withholding. unspoken grief. and the bone-deep ache of trying to be wanted when you were made only to serve.

‪❤︎ wc: 4868

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i’m honestly so beyond touched by the response to this fic about a wingless cupid and a cosmic war criminal. the love it’s gotten?? unreal. my whole thread-glued heart is just… full. you’ve made this story feel less like a fall and more like a landing. thank you for every comment, like, and reblog—i’m storing them in a pink sparkly jar labeled “emotional fuel.” let’s keep tugging the string—chapter one starts now.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You wake up face-down in luxury.

Specifically: half-smushed into a couch that feels engineered for spine alignment, interstellar meditation, or a villain’s downtime—not comfort.

Definitely not comfort.

The texture is weirdly sleek—velvet-synthetic.

Expensive.

The kind of couch that exists just to say “I’m expensive”—not to be sat on. Which, of course, you are.

…Badly.

You’re tangled in a heavy blanket that definitely wasn’t there before, limbs twisted like a limp marionette. Every joint aches. Your back screams.

You blink, eyes crusty. Then blink again.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

No ambient hum of threads. No divine frequency. No lace-sky breathing stories into the tips of your wings—

Oh.

Right.

No wings.

Just… nothing.

You inhale shakily, trying not to flinch at the echo of absence where they used to be.

That phantom pull still flickers beneath your skin, like your whole body expects to move differently and can’t understand why it doesn’t.

You sit up slowly, the blanket tangled around your knees slipping off with a whisper-soft sigh.

It’s heavy and warm and smells like something between ozone, steel, and—

Oh.

Him.

“Okay,” you murmur, voice raspy. “Either I survived, or I’m in a very bougie version of limbo.”

Your limbs ache. Everything aches. You’re bruised in places that aren’t even supposed to bruise. Your wings? Still gone. Still phantom. Still wrong.

And the worst part?

The air feels… hollow.

No threads.

No connections.

No one’s longing.

You’re utterly alone—again.

You shuffle upright and glance around, trying not to wobble.

The room is sleek, high-tech in a sterile, vaguely militaristic way. Walls smooth and silver-dark, faintly glowing interface panels here and there.

It’s clean. Cold. Lit with soft panels that glow a sterile blue.

A strange crystalline screen suspended midair flickers with symbols you don’t recognize.

There’s a table that sits low in the center of the room—glass, probably. It looks solid, but you eye it like it might judge you.

You’re not in a prison—not quite.

But you’re not safe either.

Still—your voice comes out bright. Croaky, but bright.

“Well, at least it’s not hell.”

You wobble to your feet and immediately trip over the corner of the blanket.

Stumble, flail, barely catch yourself on what might be a countertop… or a weapons locker. Hard to say.

You don’t recognize a single object in the space.

That doesn’t stop you from touching everything.

A metallic orb hums when you poke it.

Another panel flashes red. You press it again. It turns off.

“Definitely not a prison,” you say, chewing your lip. “Probably. Hopefully. …Possibly a villain’s lair. But like… a tasteful one?”

Your legs push you toward a shelf and there’s an object shaped like a tall, elegant hourglass—except filled with something that glows faintly purple.

Naturally, you poke it.

It purrs.

You yelp.

“H-hello?! Sorry! I didn’t mean—!”

Your voice slowly fades into silence.

You pick up something else. It’s smooth. Cylindrical. Heavy for its size.

“Hmm. Mug? Weapon? Mug and weapon? A murder mug? It feels like a murder mug,” you mumble, turning it over.

“Do they drink blood tea here?”

Then—something beeps. Very softly.

Your whole body tenses.

And then you feel it.

The weight of presence.

Not a string. Not love.

Gravity.

And danger.

You turn—and there he is.

The red-caped man from the field—towering in the doorway like a bad decision carved out of stone and anger.

He’s standing there.

Silent. Immense.

In red and white and black, all sharp lines and steady breath. His cape falls behind him like a curtain of blood. The goggles don’t show his eyes—but you feel the glare through them.

His jaw is set. His arms are crossed. His black goggles glint even in the low light. He doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t have to.

You go solid, still holding the probable mug-weapon.

Ah right—you can’t forget.

It’s still the guy who caught you. Or… confronted you. Or nearly vaporized you last night in a field of daisies.

You give a sheepish smile.

“Hi. Morning. Or, uh, whatever time it is on this��� aggressively minimalist version of Earth!”

He tilts his head once. His voice is flat.

Unreadable.

“Don’t touch that.”

You freeze. “This? Oh, no, I wasn’t—I mean, I did. Technically. But only spiritually.”

He doesn’t respond.

You blink. Look at the object. Look back at him. Grin. “Okay. Cool. I won’t. Totally understand boundaries. Big believer in consent.”

He doesn’t react.

You clear your throat. Set the item down. Slowly.

“Although, in my defense, your whole interior design aesthetic is kinda yelling ‘please investigate me.’ So really, it’s—”

“Don’t touch anything,” he cuts in, firmer.

You offer him a sheepish thumbs-up. “Got it. Loud and scary clear.”

And then—because your instincts are garbage and you were literally created to poke things—you touch something else. A little blinking panel near the door.

His eyes narrow.

You drop your hand like it burned you. “Sorry!! Reflex! Very bad reflex!”

He stares.

You stare back, then give a very small, very awkward wave.

Another long pause.

He sighs—just barely. Turns away without a word and disappears down the hall.

You watch him go, blinking.

“…He seems nice.”

You sit back down with a wince, then mutter, “I should definitely touch more stuff.”

You do.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It starts with silence.

Again.

But this time it’s not lonely silence—it’s awkward. Heavy. The kind that settles between two people who don’t know if they’re enemies, housemates, or a cosmic glitch in each other’s timelines.

You linger in the hallway.

Still sore. Still threadless. Still dressed like someone who got kicked out of Heaven and landed in a tech-noir villain’s den.

And still—despite every instinct screaming don’t—you follow him.

Of course you do.

Like a sparkly little space unwanted houseguest with opinions that has zero survival instincts and a tragic affection for ominous men in capes.

He doesn’t say you can’t follow him.

He just walks briskly through his own home—long hallways, seamless doors, touch-panel everything—while you trail behind, barefoot and blinking like a freshly-kicked cherub.

He ignores you.

You ignore his ignoring.

“That’s a cool cape,” you say conversationally, trying to keep up with his strides. “Is it, like, sentimental? Symbolic? Villain-chic? Oh—wait, are you emotionally attached to it?”

No answer.

You lean forward slightly, squinting. “Do you… wear it to bed?”

Still nothing.

You hum thoughtfully. “Is it fused to your soul? Is it detachable? Do you have different ones for different moods—like, casual cape, angry cape, emotional repression cape?”

He doesn’t respond.

You try again. “Can I touch it?”

He stops.

Just like that—halts mid-stride.

You freeze behind him, nearly bumping into his back. And blink up at him.

He turns his head slightly, the cape flaring just enough to ripple past your fingertips.

“Don’t.”

One word. No bite, no growl—just a warning. Like a storm saying this isn’t rain yet, but it could be.

You raise your hands slowly. “Right. Sorry. Cape off-limits. Got it. You’re very committed to the brand.”

He walks again.

You sigh—more dramatic than necessary—but keep following.

“What about the goggles?” you ask. “Do you sleep in those too? Are they like… mood-activated? They’re very intimidating. Very Darth-Vader-meets-heartbreak. No offense.”

He says nothing.

“Okay, so you’re clearly not a big talker,” you mutter. “That’s fine. I talk enough for two. Or ten.”

So you keep going, babbling just to fill the space.

Another hallway. Another panel. Another stretch of angular, too-clean walls and whisper-quiet footsteps.

It’s like walking through a museum designed by someone who’s never smiled—even once.

And somehow—somehow—you still manage to fill the silence.

“You know, in some dimensions, silence is considered a mating ritual,” you offer cheerfully.

He pauses.

You blink. “Wait, not that I’m saying this is that. I mean—it’s not, right? Unless it is—which, um, please clarify. Because if it is, I should probably brush my hair.”

He keeps walking.

You huff, trailing further behind now. Not because you’re tired—well, okay, maybe a little—but mostly because his energy is doing that don’t-get-close thing again.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

He doesn’t respond. Again.

You glance at one of the panels you pass. It blinks red as you near it.

Curious, you step closer.

He doesn’t stop you this time—but you hear it in his voice. That shift. That thread of something darker.

“You’re not allowed outside.”

You freeze. “What?”

“That panel’s locked. Security override in place.”

You blink, confused. “So I can’t leave?”

A beat.

“No.”

Your stomach twists.

You laugh. Light. Thin. “Oh. So I am in a prison.”

“It’s not a prison,” he says flatly.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just said I can’t leave.”

“It’s for your safety.”

“Isn’t that what all supervillains say?”

He turns around then—just slightly—and for the first time, you think maybe he’s trying not to say something. His jaw tightens. Not with anger. Not exactly.

With thought.

You don’t press. Not this time.

Instead, you look out the nearest window—tinted, probably bulletproof, overlooking a skyline that feels wrong. Choked. Smoky and sharp at the edges.

It’s beautiful in the way a burnt cathedral might be. And it feels lonely.

You press your hand to the glass.

Whisper-soft.

“I don’t belong here,” you murmur. Not to him. Not really to yourself, either.

Just… to the glass.

To the world beyond it.

He doesn’t answer.

But he watches you.

And that’s enough to make your heart thud somewhere in the hollowness of your chest.

You exhale. Curl your fingers into a mock-heart on the window.

“You should really consider getting some plants,” you say softly. “This place is screaming ‘emotionally constipated bachelor pad.’”

His reflection doesn’t flinch.

You sigh and turn away.

“I’m gonna go talk to the weird murder mug again.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Later—hours, maybe—you find yourself planted at the far end of what might be the dining area.

Or the command center. It’s hard to tell.

The table looks like it could initiate a planetary strike if you breathe on it wrong.

He sits across from you.

Still.

Still suited. Still silent.

He hasn’t taken the mask off. You haven’t seen his eyes.

But he gave you a name.

Not a real one, probably. But something.

“Invincible,” he said flatly when you asked, finally cracking under the sheer power of your pestering and your best please I’m charming let me know what to call you face.

You didn’t believe him at first.

“Seriously? That’s what you go by?”

He didn’t answer.

Just turned away and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like you’re worse than the other one.

Still—you took it. Grinned. Clutched it like it meant something.

“Okay, Invincible. Cool name. Bit dramatic. But I can work with that.”

He hasn’t asked for your name in return.

You gave it anyway.

Not your designation. Not the code the Realm used.

Just what you used to call yourself, back when you believed in tenderness.

He didn’t comment on it.

He just sat like he is now—spine too straight, hands steepled on the table, as if pretending not to regret every life choice that led to you invading his vaguely dystopian bachelor pad.

You kick your feet under the table.

He says nothing.

So you talk.

Because of course you do.

“Okay, so—fun story,” you begin brightly, draping your arms across the back of your seat. “Once, I accidentally matched a soulweaver with a carnivorous star-being. Didn’t realize their threads were laced with paradox elements. Their honeymoon destroyed a moon.”

You pause.

Grin.

“But they’re still together! Super toxic. Super cute. Kind of horrifying… I’m rooting for them.”

Nothing.

You glance at him.

He’s not looking at you—but his fingers tap once. Barely audible. A twitch in the rhythm.

You keep going.

“I once worked a case where the connection was so knotted it took seven cycles, two reincarnations, and one cosmic dog to unravel it. Not a metaphor. There was literally a dog. He was a thread guide. Very fluffy.”

Still nothing.

But you notice the shift.

The way his chin angles, almost imperceptibly.

Like he’s listening without wanting to. Like he’s filing away every word and pretending he’s not.

You lean forward. Prop your chin on your hand.

“Have you ever loved anyone?” you ask, soft. Just curious.

Invincible freezes.

Just for a second.

Then moves again—barely. Shrugs one shoulder. “Not relevant.”

“Oh, it’s totally relevant,” you say with a mock gasp. “It’s my entire job.”

“You don’t have a job,” he mutters.

“Excuse you,” you sniff. “I am temporarily unemployed. There’s a difference.”

He sighs—again, just barely. But it’s the kind that says if I fly into the sun right now, will she keep talking?

You smile, a little too brightly.

“It’s just—you’re fascinating,” you say, earnest now.

“You move like someone who’s always preparing for war. But there’s something in your hands. Like… you used to hold gentler things.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.

But his knuckles tighten—just slightly.

You catch it.

You don’t comment on it.

Instead, you hum softly, off-tune and aimless. Just enough to fill the space between your sentences.

“I used to hum like this when I was scared,” you say, staring at the ceiling. “Back when I thought being good meant being useful.”

A long beat.

Then—

“You’re not scared now?” he asks, voice flat.

You glance at him.

Smile.

“Terrified.”

And you mean it.

But it’s soft.

Like a confession wrapped in pink thread and handed over with shaking fingers.

Invincible doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t leave.

And that’s something.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You’re sitting on the edge of the couch—the weird one that thinks it’s better than you—biting the inside of your cheek.

“I can do it myself,” you say.

Immediately lie.

“I’m very good at medical stuff. Definitely qualified. Certified in three realms, actually.”

Invincible doesn’t look convinced.

You don’t blame him.

Your last attempt at bandaging involved decorative knotting and something that suspiciously resembled a shoelace.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he says flatly.

You huff. “You say that like it’s a certainty.”

“It is.”

He crosses the room without waiting for permission, gloved hands already unsnapping some hidden compartment in the wall.

A panel folds out.

Inside: a compact but precise set of medical supplies.

Of course he has medical supplies.

Of course they’re alphabetized.

Of course the antiseptic glows ominously.

You fidget.

“I don’t like that bottle,” you murmur. “It’s judging me.”

He doesn’t respond. Just sets it down on the nearby table with quiet precision.

You swallow.

The silence stretches.

It’s heavier now. Less awkward. More… inevitable.

You wrap your arms around your knees, voice quieter.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

And still—he gestures.

“Turn around.”

Your pulse stumbles. You hesitate.

But then—you do.

Slowly.

You turn your back to him.

Pull the too-big shirt they gave you (his? something spare from the war room? it smells faintly of leather and ozone) off one shoulder. Then the other. Then lift the hem just enough for him to see.

It hurts.

Not just the movement—but the exposure.

It’s not romantic.

Because there’s nothing romantic about torn skin or lost wings.

Invincible doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

But you hear the pause.

The smallest catch in his breath.

Then—his gloved fingers at the edge of the old wrapping. Careful. Methodical.

The first touch makes you flinch.

He stops immediately.

Waits.

Doesn’t apologize—he never apologizes—but he doesn’t push either.

You exhale.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “Keep going.”

The bandages peel away slowly.

You wince.

Not because of the pain—but because you know what it must look like.

The bruising.

The way the skin puckers where the feathers once grew.

The scars trying to form over something that should have never been taken.

Invincible works in silence.

You hum.

It’s soft. Tuneless. The kind of sound you make when you don’t know what else to fill the quiet with.

“I used to help patch people up,” you say absently, voice thin. “Mostly broken hearts, but once I had to reattach a wing to a grief-angel. That was messy. Lots of glitter and wailing.”

Still, he says nothing.

But his hands move gently.

Like he’s trying not to break what’s already broken.

The antiseptic stings. You hiss.

He pauses.

You press your forehead to your knees.

“I’m okay,” you lie again.

A beat passes.

Then another.

Then—

“You’re not.”

You go still.

The words aren’t cruel. Not biting. Just… factual. Like a truth dropped onto the floor and left there.

You don’t reply.

But the humming dies in your throat.

His fingers return. Smoother now. Gliding over the worst of it. Wrapping clean gauze like it means something. Like there’s care in the motion, even if he doesn’t name it.

You close your eyes.

For a moment—you pretend it doesn’t hurt.

You pretend you’re not threadless and wrecked.

You pretend someone is holding you in a way that won’t leave more marks.

And he—this man with no real name, with a face hidden behind silence and sharpness—keeps wrapping your wounds like someone who doesn’t know why he hasn’t stopped yet.

When Invincible finishes, you don’t move right away.

Neither does he.

The air holds the shape of something unsaid.

And for the first time since you fell—

You don’t feel entirely alone.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It starts with guilt.

Not big, thunderous guilt—the kind that screams or scars.

No, this is softer. Quieter.

The kind that curls under your ribs and pokes at you when it gets too silent.

The kind that sounds like: Invincible hasn’t killed me yet. I should… do something?

You’ve been here for… two sunrises now? Three?

Time is slippery here. Threadless days always are.

But one thing’s clear: for all his sharp edges and scowls, your new… roommate? captor? interdimensional roommate with possible emotional constipation?—he’s been letting you stay.

In his space. On his furniture. Breathing his air.

Rent-free.

The least you could do is say thank you.

So you decide to clean.

Which is dumb. Because you have no idea how any of this tech works.

But that doesn’t stop you.

You start small—folding the blanket you’ve been cocooning in. You even add a little flair.

Tug the corners into soft heart-shaped knots. Totally impractical. Definitely aesthetic.

You set it in the middle of the couch like a peace offering. Or a warning.

You hum to yourself as you tidy.

Not that there’s much to tidy—everything here is spotless, sterile, like a military catalog page come to life.

Still, you try.

Straighten a few panels. Dust off some gleaming surface with the edge of your sleeve.

Eventually, you find what might be a kitchen. Or a weapons bay disguised as a kitchen. Hard to say.

It has counters. It has drawers. One of them contains what you think are utensils. One of them contains a small orb that buzzes and tries to eat your finger.

You close that one. Quickly.

Cooking it is.

You find something vaguely bread-adjacent in a sealed container.

Something that might be butter. Something that definitely isn’t sugar but looks suspiciously like cosmic sand.

You try anyway.

You find heat. A panel that flares red when you touch it.

“Perfect,” you whisper. “Totally safe. I am definitely qualified for this.”

You burn the first attempt. Instantly. Black smoke hisses upward like a judgment.

You try again.

You nearly set the panel on fire.

You keep going.

Eventually, you manage to create… something!

Not good. Not edible. But warm and round-ish and not on fire.

You plate it. Add a flower from the weird glowing vase thing on the counter for presentation. Step back. Admire it.

It’s hideous.

But you made it.

So you carry it out carefully—just as the door hisses open.

And there he is.

Cape flowing. Expression unreadable.

Invincible freezes in the doorway, black goggles flicking from your smoke-streaked face to the kitchen behind you—now full of suspicious smells and one still-smoking dish.

You hold out the plate.

“I made a thank-you loaf,” you say brightly. “It’s mostly… not poison!”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stares.

Then—

“Did you override my weapons lock?”

You blink. “What?”

He steps past you, into the kitchen. Taps a barely-visible panel near the wall. A soft click echoes.

Then a compartment slides open to reveal: missiles.

Actual missiles.

“Oh,” you say. “That explains the ticking.”

Invincible turns around slowly.

You grin, sheepish. “In my defense, your cabinet labeling system is deeply confusing.”

He doesn’t yell.

Which is somehow worse.

He just gives you the look.

That disappointed, stone-jawed, exhausted-by-your-whole-existence look.

Your grin falters.

“…I’ll go sit down.”

You do.

And you sulk.

You curl up in the corner of the couch and re-fold the blanket. Then re-fold it again.

You mutter something about interdimensional roommates being impossible to please.

You don’t even notice when he walks back in.

Not at first.

You only notice the pause.

The soft shift of air.

You glance up.

He’s standing at the edge of the room, holding something.

The blanket.

You must’ve left it in the kitchen, half-heartedly abandoned on a counter.

Invincible doesn’t say anything.

But he doesn’t throw it away either.

He folds it once. Carefully.

Sets it back on the couch.

Exactly where it was.

Knots and all.

You don’t say anything.

But your chest feels warmer.

He leaves again.

You smile to yourself.

Next time, you’ll try the cosmic rice.

(Probably a bad idea. But you’re nothing if not persistent.)

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Mark tells himself you’re just a problem he hasn’t solved yet.

That’s all.

Another anomaly dropped into his territory—another celestial error.

Something to monitor. To contain. Not to engage with.

Definitely not to understand.

He repeats this in his head more than once.

But he still notices things.

You hum when it’s too quiet.

Not on purpose.

Not like you’re trying to fill the space with meaning.

It’s unconscious—barely there. Just a low, tuneless sound you loop under your breath like you’re afraid silence might swallow you if you let it linger too long.

He hears it through the walls sometimes.

Not enough to be irritating. Just enough to be… present.

You clutch your weapon in your sleep.

Not always.

But most nights, when the lights dim and you think he’s stopped watching.

The bow—the one you won’t explain—is usually curled tight against your chest, one hand resting lightly on the grip.

Protective. Familiar.

Like it’s the only thing left that still feels like home.

You move in your sleep too. Restless. Whimpers low, barely audible.

Once, he found you curled into the narrowest corner of the couch like you were trying to disappear inside yourself.

The blanket had fallen. You hadn’t bothered to pick it up.

He hadn’t either.

But he covered you with a new one before leaving.

You never mentioned it.

You walk wrong.

It’s not… bad. Just different.

Like someone still getting used to gravity.

You don’t always trust your footing—sometimes you skip a step, sometimes you hesitate before a turn, like you expect the ground to shift under your feet.

You never ask for help.

But when something startles you—when you nearly drop something, or a panel glitches too loud, or the power flickers just a little too long—your hand twitches toward him before you even realize it.

Like a reflex. Like an instinct you haven’t unlearned.

Like you think he might catch you.

You talk too much.

About nothing. About everything.

Stories that make no sense—about thread-realms and starlight weddings and love gods who punch each other for fun.

Mark doesn’t believe half of it.

But he listens.

Every word.

Worse, he remembers them.

You describe things with your hands—like you can’t just say what you mean, you have to shape it.

Fingers dancing through the air, painting emotion he doesn’t know how to name.

When you laugh, your shoulders always rise first.

When you lie, you bite the inside of your cheek.

You sing off-key. Barely know it.

And you always pause—just for a second—before you smile.

That’s the one that gets him.

The hesitation.

Like you’re weighing whether it’s worth it.

Whether this moment deserves it.

Whether he does.

Mark doesn’t understand you.

And that should be easy.

It’s always been easy, not understanding people. Easier to flatten them. File them into categories: threat, resource, dead.

But you don’t stay in the box.

Don’t follow the rules.

You should be scared of him—he knows you are—but you don’t flinch when he walks past. You make eye contact. You wave. You hum.

You grin.

And he…

He notices.

Even when he doesn’t want to.

Especially then.

So he tells himself it’s strategy.

Just observation.

Just a glitch with glitter in your hair and too many stories in your throat.

That’s all.

That’s all.

But when he walks past the living room, and sees you curled asleep with your bow across your chest and your hands still half-reached toward something that isn’t there—

Mark slows.

Doesn’t stop.

But he slows.

And tells himself again—you’re just a problem.

Not a person.

Not someone.

Not his.

Not yet, not never.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The apartment is unusually quiet.

Ever since you got here—there’s always something humming softly in the air. Mark doesn’t notice the silence at first.

He’s used to that. Prefers it.

But this is different.

It’s a small sound that finally breaks him out of his thoughts.

Soft. Barely there.

At first, Mark thinks the sound is static.

Just another nighttime glitch—a flicker in the power grid, maybe. A disturbance in the perimeter sensors.

Something small. Something easy.

But then he hears it again.

Soft. Fragile. Not mechanical.

Human.

He moves before thinking.

Quiet steps down the hallway. Past the control room. Around the corner where the lights are still dimmed to sleep-mode. His hand hovers over the doorframe.

You’re still asleep.

Sort of.

Your body’s curled inward on the couch—smaller than usual, shoulders tight, hands clenched in the blanket. Not the bow this time. Just the blanket.

But your face—

Your face is wet.

Tears carve tracks down your cheeks in silence.

Your lips move, but there’s no sound. Your breath catches on each inhale like it doesn’t know how to settle in your chest.

You don’t sob. Don’t cry out.

You just tremble.

Mark doesn’t move.

He should. He knows he should. Turn away. Walk off. Let you have your grief like you always have—alone, unspeaking, full of bright little lies and off-key humming.

But you’re not humming now.

You’re breaking.

And he—

He watches.

Not with judgment.

Not even with curiosity.

Just… quietly.

Like something in him knows this is sacred. Or familiar. Or both.

He takes a breath. Slow. Controlled.

Then turns away long enough to return with a glass of water.

He sets it down on the table near you. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch you.

Doesn’t ask.

When he glances back—

You’re still asleep.

But your hand moves. Barely.

Reaches toward the glass.

Or maybe toward something else.

Mark doesn’t stay to see if you find it.

But as he walks away, the sound of your breath steadying follows him.

Not whole.

Not healed.

But enough.

And for reasons he doesn’t name—

That’s worse than a scream.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room.

Surrounded by scraps of thread you found in one of the deep storage drawers Invincible didn’t think you’d find.

(He was wrong.)

One’s gold.

One’s red.

One’s a tangled mess of fraying blue that might actually be a shoelace.

You’re holding them all up like evidence.

Invincible’s standing over you. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Entire posture radiating why are you like this.

You grin up at him.

“Okay,” you begin, voice bright, “so this one represents soul-tied destinies—deep, ancient, violently passionate.” You wiggle the red one.

“This one is light-thread—super soft, fluttery, usually forms during meet-cutes or emotionally charged hand-touching.” The gold.

You hold up the blue.

“This one is chaos. I don’t know where it came from. Possibly cursed. Could be your vibe.”

He squints. “Are you seriously playing with string right now?”

“It’s not playing,” you gasp. “It’s education. I’m trying to teach you how threads work.”

“I don’t care how threads work.”

“You should! Not that you have one—rude—but if you did, yours would definitely be fire-forged, probably double-knotted, tangled six times over, emotionally scorched and fraying at the edges—oh, and extremely defensive.”

He blinks.

Then—“What does that even mean.”

You pause. Smile softly.

“It means you’re very repressed, babe.”

A beat.

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at you like you’ve grown another head. (Honestly, that would explain a lot, probably.)

You shrug. Flick the red string toward him. It hits his chest.

Invincible doesn’t catch it.

“Here. Pretend that’s your thread.”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“God, you’re no fun.”

He turns to leave.

You call after him, “You’d definitely be a reluctant soulmate.”

He freezes in the doorway.

Very quietly, without turning around, he says.

“There’s no such thing.”

You smile to yourself. Pick up the gold thread again. Loop it gently around your fingers.

“Not yet,” you murmur. “But they don’t always start that way.”

He doesn’t respond.

But he doesn’t walk away either.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

taglist sign up: 𓊆ྀིhere𓊇ྀི

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[endursent]

- God Shattering Star

【 content; morax | rex lapis x reader , slow burn , mutual pining , multi-chapter , archon war period , afab!reader 】

【 note; this wasn't supposed to take so long… but since act 1 ended, i decided to go back and touch up my act 2 plot-plan, change some things that were added/changed as i wrote act 1 and such. also studies took me by the scruff of my clothes and tossed me out back lol.

anyway, quicker updates ahead! won't be almost two months again, half the time went into the act 2 plot revisit and half went into the chapter itself. what is a slow-burn if not the main pair just not being in the same place half the time… the burn will pickup soon… soon… eheh… | read on ao3 】

【 word count; 6.634 | previous chapter - next chapter | masterlist 】

- Chapter 12 - Calcination

Your feet touch the cold snow once more and your mind reels slightly after being suspended in the air for so long. Morax holds your waist for a second even after you both stand on solid ground—unsure whether you will keep your balance or not. The warm press of his body against yours separates and cold hair flows between you, immediately the shivers that have plagued you for days return, you hadn’t even noticed they had ceased during your proximity with him.

  The winds had settled, and snow fell gently to the ground—high rising peaks begin to show themselves in the distance, and though you had just barely seen enough to watch the massive serpent slither away between the mountains… you had no idea that the south of the Guili Assembly had such a massive reach of mountains, a range stretching as far as you could squint. 

  “W-what do we…” your words have barely left your chapped lips when Morax strides past you, you stutter a bit more as you see his back and quickly move your legs. The snow was shaken significantly and doesn’t reach up to your knees anymore—but you can hardly feel your feet anyway, the cold hums inside your bones and with every step that crunches the snow, a reverberating note of pain surges up your legs. 

  It’s awfully cold, even in the absence of wind. you can feel your nose hairs move with every breath and try to breathe with your mouth instead to stop the feeling. 

  Morax strides ahead, several thoughts swirl around in his head—he assumes you will keep up with him, he must investigate the site of the seal… rather, he should be making pursuit of the serpent and ensuring it will not cause harm. 

  Wracking his mind as he increases his pace, Morax doesn’t notice you lagging behind, breaths heaved as you try to trudge through the cold with aching limbs. There are countless tales of ancient gods and spirits beneath the land—of sealed gods and demons, being a serpent doesn’t narrow it down either, just as if it would have been many other type of spirit. 

  He makes it to the edge of the highest part of the flat mountain, where it sinks into the area where the seal had been placed atop a glassy ice… which has now broken away and given way for an all-encompassing abyss, a hole into the earth so dark one might there is no bottom. 

  Straightening slightly, as if perking up… Morax realises he doesn’t hear the crunch of snow behind him, not as closely as he expected at least. He turns to see that you’re a good distance away still, and a small tug pulls on his brows. He says your name and turns to walk back to you, momentarily putting his thoughts aside. 

  “Sorry… i-it’s just so cold,” you stutter slightly, though your clothes are okay for snow… they’re not exactly made for snowy mountain climbing. Your shoes are wet and practically freezing over again, and your nose feels like it’s about to crumble off your face at any moment. 

  Morax takes your hand, feeling the cold that practically emanates from it. He forgets the fragility of humanity often, even if he should be more accustomed to it by now. He must get you to warmth soon before you get sick—if he isn’t too late already. 

  You blink as you feel warm palms on your cheeks, the texture of Morax’s gloves are uncomfortable against your ice cold, sensitive skin… but as the warmth of his hands seep in and gently soothe your cold skin, you exhale in mild relief. If only he would pinch your nose and warm that too before it falls off. 

  He can assess the situation later… although Morax should do it now, he shifts his priorities—besides, he should ensure Moon Carver managed to protect the rest of the encampment with all the tremors that shook the mountains. “Come, I will take you back to the others. There will be fires and warmth there,” he assures, Morax’s hand finds your shoulder—but he stops before he can scoop you up as he intended. 

  You look over his shoulder and see a form crawling up from the now massive hole in the mountain, the slope has snow tossed everywhere and patches of grass poking out from underneath. 

  Mei Lan’s arms tremble as she manages to drag herself over the slope leading down into the maw of darkness behind her, she lowers and her torso finally touches the ground—splotches of red leaking from beneath her robes and into the white beneath her.

  A silence passes, you don’t dare move—you saw how fast she crossed the mountaintops—and Morax is still beside you, hand still resting on your shoulder. 

  The fallen god coughs slightly and hoists herself up to sit on the crunchy snow. “Y-you… this is your fault… I was focused—I held it well, it held for three hundred years,” Mei Lan didn’t raise her face to look towards you and Morax. The deep wound inflicted on her body bled freely, staining her clothes all the way down to her knees in a curtain of blood. “Four hundred years… gone, he’s free…” 

  Your eyes glance to Morax, his own gaze fixed on Mei Lan with a gaze sharp as steel. “You said nothing of a sealed calamity below the mountain,” his voice is even, a heavy tone that you haven’t heard expressed from his lips before. One guarded and distant. 

  “Why would I have to say anything?! These mountains have been mine for long!” she pounds her fist against the covered earth, with every exertion of her muscles, fresh blood pours from her torso. “Foolish humans climb the peaks in search of blessings and stir his conscious! They build and aggravate the earth above his tomb!”

  Your lips part and you want to say something, but nothing but the sound of your clattering teeth leaves you—if Morax weren’t practically holding you on your feet by your arm you would have fallen into the snow. 

  Morax’s head turns only slightly, but he doesn’t fully look at you. “Whose tomb have you been protecting?” 

  How would it be a tomb, if that massive thing slithered out of it? You nearly shudder (more) at the thought of it not only being a malevolent being, but also a ghost! 

  “He Shan,” she says the name with such vitriol you almost feel the burning heat of her hatred in your skin—it’s almost a relieving warmth, if you had fully felt it. “A bitter, violent creature that has had centuries to churn it deep in his soul.” You’re amazed she still seems so… full of energy considering how much blood coats her and the ground. Perhaps blood to gods is just decoration…? You wonder. 

  A low hum leaves Morax’s throat. He doesn’t recall the name—there are many gods that have risen and fallen within a handful of a hundred years that have names the winds of time have forgotten. Mei Lan has been atop this mountain range for a long time now, but the Guili Assembly is still relatively young, all things considered. Its borders have changed much in merely the last two centuries. 

  Steps approach from behind, boots crunching snow that diverts your attention from Mei Lan’s form and towards an approaching Moon Carver. “Lord Rex Lapis, what happened? This one did not anticipate such terrible shaking of the mountains below our feet!” 

  “Moon Carver, excellent timing,” Morax’s hand on your shoulder shifts to your back and he practically turns you around towards the adeptus. “Please take our friend to safety, I assume the others are well. I will finish asserting the situation here.”

  “Of course,” Moon Carver is quick to agree, despite his question going unanswered. He could practically feel your freezing skin beneath your winter robes as he approached the two of you and took your arm. 

  You would’ve loved to not be passed along like a child, but your feet feel frozen solid, you can’t promise yourself you won’t tumble and faceplant in the snow were you to attempt to walk all the way. “Ah, I’m sorry for the trouble—”

  He only shakes his head and you stop talking immediately… you feel like you’ve caused trouble, again, and lower your head slightly. First taking off and getting your feet swept from under you in Quiche, now rushing outside into the storm and letting a massive serpent loose…

  “Hey,” a finger flicks your ice cold cheek and you jump, head snapping up as an; “ow!??” leaves your lips. Moon Carver's expression is unimpressed. “Stop sulking, let’s go.”

  Morax watches the two of you silently as the adeptus practically drags you with him, not being as gracious as the man you’re leaving behind by offering to carry you—as Moon Carver responds to your complaining, you shouldn’t have rushed out into the cold if you weren’t prepared to trek back on your own two feet. Maybe it’ll teach you a lesson (unlikely).

  A small sigh leaves Morax as he turns his attention back to Mei Lan, whatever hint of emotion or gentleness directed at your presence is now gone in its absence. “Tell me everything.”

–

Thankfully, no one below the sheltered cliffside was injured badly, a few people toppled over each other and someone fell against one of the braziers and burned their leg quite harshly—but all things considered… they were safe. 

  Discussions of new locations were already rumbling along the half-crowd, but you didn’t pay much attention to the chatter—Moon Carver had tossed his own robe over you after you sat down by a reignited brazier, you were shaking like a leaf. You hadn’t even realised how cold you were until the warmth of the fire blossomed over your ice-cold skin, the last of the adrenalin faded and you were left like a pile of shivering bones, you wondered if your nose was still attached. 

 “A large serpent?” Moon Carver touched his chin in thought, despite being stripped of his robe, he doesn’t seem very cold nor bothered. He doesn’t recall tales of massive serpents in this region… but he hasn’t spent much time here either. 

  The more you think back on it, the more you shiver—even as the flames from the brazier start to warm your wet, frozen clothes. Your eyes hurt as you rub them, exhaustion settling in as the adrenalin from the day wanes away. “It could encircle mountains, I’ve never heard of a serpent so large,” you say as you tuck your hand back into your robe.

  “Hm,” there seemed to be a lot of thoughts wrangling in his head, and you really want to close your eyes—thus as Moon Carver falls into a silent thought, you allow them to droop. There’s not much to lean against, but you can probably get a shut-eye like this, sitting on the ground with your knees tucked up to your chest.

  You didn’t get very far into your rest—or that’s what it felt like, as a hand touched your head. 

  Jolting up and almost knocking your forehead into his jaw, Morax leans back in surprise when you suddenly start at his touch. His eyes are slightly wide and eyebrows raised. “Ah, my apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you—I merely meant to make sure you had warmed up enough.”

  A bit embarrassed by your own reaction—you’re not sure why you keep jerking so harshly when surprised, every instance of being caught off guard seems to make your entire body tense up and lock for a brief second. “N-no, it’s alright. I’m sorry,” you lower your legs to sit cross-legged before him, where Morax has kneeled by you. “What happened?”

  Moon Carver stands in front of you by the brazier, arms folded as he watches the exchange silently. 

  Morax stands gracefully. “She gave me valuable information before departing, we will need to reestablish an outpost along the mountains—but as we will not be pushed back further, we can settle with more practicality.” It’s strange how pristine his robes are, considering the events of the day—there’s hardly more than a few dots of blood on him. 

  “Departed?” Moon Carver asks. 

  “Into the mountains, she has not left for the Dark Sea,” he clarifies. “It seems she used a rather flimsy seal that requires the user to uphold the prison mentally at all times—it makes the seal powerful, so long as the user’s will to contain is strong enough… the wound she sustained tore her attention and broke the seal.”

  They don’t seem very concerned that Mei Lan has simply retreated and not departed entirely, perhaps they came to some sort of agreement before they separated… you hope—in any case, if Moon Carver and Morax seem relaxed about it, you shouldn’t worry either. 

  “Where did it go?” your voice sounds, turning the attention of both adepti to you—momentarily you feel a bit embarrassed for distracting them from the conversation.

  But Morax doesn’t hesitate to answer your question, though it wasn’t much of an answer. “I lost track of the serpent’s energy after he disappeared beyond the mountains. I must search the land and assure that he has not begun wreaking havoc.”

  “This one doubts someone that has been sealed for so long has the strength to unleash terror so soon,” Moon Carver adds. 

  “You are likely right,” Morax agrees. “Yet I must ensure the Assembly’s safety. Allow us to find shelter for our people before I depart…” he pauses before turning, eyes moving between you and Moon Carver. “At sunrise, you must return to the capital and inform Guizhong of what has occurred. Both of you.”

  Moon Carver nods without resistance, and thought you feel you should resist… what is there for you to do here? You suppose you could help rebuild, but you’re hardly a skilled enough carpenter. You nod your head as well.

–

It was amazing to see—with a simple raise of his hand, Morax created a shelter of stone. It wasn’t the long winded labyrinth that you had stayed in before, the rooms were a bit uneven and not split properly to allow for barracks… but simply being able to raise a shelter for the amount of people that had come unscathed was impressive. 

  Quickly braziers were lit inside and large cloths used to seal off the entrances. It was rather dark, but it brought shelter from the cool breeze. You finally managed to lie down and get a shut-eye for a while, but hunger eventually woke you… taking away the little peace your slumber brought. 

  As you’re handed a bun that had been prepared some days ago in the routine emergency, your cool fingers warm on the soft dough, heated above the fires raised in one section of the shelter. As you find a place to sit down, you hear two Millelith behind you chattering between themselves as they eat their own buns. “He made it look so effortless, I wonder if lord Rex Lapis could build a castle in a day.”

  “Perhaps… his interior skills might do with some improvement,” he other grumbles, mouth half-full of food.

  “... well, it must be hard to design something on the inside while you’re outside?” the first hums after a brief pause. 

  Though the conversation occurring behind you is amusing, you start to tune them out once they begin to argue the “right way” to design a home, and the first Millelith pulls out at every stop to remind the other that he built his own house as therefor knows exactly how it should be done, despite the other Millelith reminding him that his wife took take of the decorating and he just built the tables and chairs. 

  You wipe your hands on your pant legs after finishing the last bite of your meal and stand up, you’ve already explored the shelter and there’s no crook you haven’t stuck your nose into in curiosity. The hall has been properly warmed and your fingers and nose don’t feel like they’re about to fall off either, which is a relief—you were definitely starting to suspect you might have frostbite. 

  After some searching, you find Moon Carver again. “Will we depart in the morning?”

  The sun has long sunken down below the mountaintops, dawn should be making its way any time now… though it has been quite the long day, perhaps Moon Carver is too tired to leave right now.

  “We leave at noon, rest as much as you can,” he replies without turning to face you. Curious, you try to peek at what he’s doing… only to see him trying to scrub soot out of his robe.

  … the robe he tossed on you earlier this evening. You were leaning so close to the brazier you dirtied it—that robe looked older than you! And crafted so carefully it must be worth heaps of mora for the care alone!

  Immediately, you step next to him. “Gods—I’m sorry, I dirtied your robe after your kindness, allow me to clean it…”

  “It is no matter, one has nothing else to do with his hands,” Moon Carver tells you off easily, so easily that you feel like he just picked you up by the back of your robe and set you aside. 

  “Well… shouldn’t you rest as well? It can’t be good to travel without sleep,” you inquire hesitantly. The thought of Moon Carver dozing off while you’re a kilometre in the hair makes you shiver slightly.

  His movements halt for a moment before he continues. “Adepti do not require sleep.”

  … sure, you’ve heard that before. “But… it’s better, surely? It must give some energy.”

  You’re not entirely sure why you’re debating him on his own energy, but you want him to rest—have you ever seen an adeptus sleep? Or just close their eyes and lay out on the grass for a while? 

  You suppose you’ve been hallucinating a mini-Rex Lapis for a few months now, dozing around like a limp noodle. Maybe you’re going crazy. 

  … though, Moon Carver had been with you. “Moon Carver…”

  Hearing the uncertainty in your voice, he turns his head, but doesn’t fully look at you. “What?”

  “Can… lord Rex Lapis… turn into a small dragon? About the size of a forest snake?” you feel like you’re a toddler asking your grandmother if vishaps are real… again. 

  Moon Carver blinks at you for a moment, his expression rather confused both towards the contents of the question, as well as the rudeness of it. “One supposes he could, adepti choose their forms… why do you not ask him yourself?” The expression you made must have been amusing, because the corners of his lips quirk up. “This one is certain he would find it entertaining, at the least.”

  Entertaining… you had felt like a real weirdo in your first meetings, and then just as you feel that you’ve somewhat started to build up your reputation to at least seem like a relatively normal person—Moon Carver wants you to ask Rex Lapis himself if he indulges in naps as a pocket-sized dragon?

  Absolutely not. 

  “I’ll pass, thank you for the suggestion,” you say, and turn on your heels. What a dumb question, if Moon Carver mentions this to him, you’ll put peppers in his tea—you regret asking immediately.

–

  Soaring into the ice-cold air atop the Fengyuan Peaks, you clutch the Moon Carver’s mane as if it was the only thing between you and certain death… you’re sure he could catch you if you did slip and tumble off his back—but you’re not every excited to test that theory.

  Your eyes quickly dry as cool wind brushes against your face, you turn your head to the side to avoid facing forward and hopefully spare your eyeballs when your eyelids fly open. “Moon Carver! Look—do you see it?”

  The earth between rising mountains, usually filled with deep snow and dark ravines… have flattened, rounded under the weight of a god so large and heavy he broke the sides of cliffs and left behind markings of his movements. 

  “This one has observed our surroundings,” he confirms, but doesn’t move his head to look down.

  It makes your skin tingle, Morax had taken the two of you back far enough that you hadn’t been crushed when He Shan broke free—but seeing the marks he left behind somehow made him seem far larger than you had thought, even in the same vicinity. 

  The earth beneath is darker than you would have thought the land should be, even though the rocks and stone of the mountains even under the sun of day is dark… it feels as if the night sky is below you, streaks of white dragging into the black, creating an unnatural formation between the rising peaks of the mountain range.

  You turn your head into the adeptus’ fur as the scenery fades to high rising trees in place of stone… you don’t wish to see Quiche from above right now. 

  Though you felt a bit bad leaving the peaks of the mountain behind considering the recent events, it was very comforting to arrive back in the capital… the air was still warm, despite the colours of autumn, and the city was lively as always.

  As soon as you set foot inside the courtyard, both Ground Mender—features covered as always—and Ming Hui were waiting. You felt like you were about to be scolded like a child… 

  “You!” Ming Hui quickly approached you, poking you in the stomach repeatedly—it’s about as much ‘poking someone in the chest threateningly’ as she can get with such a short height. “I had to do every single one of your chores while you were gone! Without warning!”

  Ah… you hadn’t really thought of that. Though, you also hadn’t really been re-assigned chores by the time you left…? “I’m sorry,” you blurt out. “I’ll take your workload for a while.”

  “Uh-huh, and you’re going to stand in queue for that limited seasonal rice cake that’s been super popular—which I haven’t been able to get all week because of your chores,” she pokes you three more times before then jabbing her finger towards your nose. “Idiot!”

  You blink down at her for a few seconds, you haven’t seen her so expressive before—Ming Hui has been rather quiet and focused on her work since you met her… it’s a little amusing to see such a contrast to her (though she had been very patient and kind by your sickbed), but your guilty conscience of making her work twice as hard outweighs your amusement. “Of course, I’ll buy four—”

  “—five!”

  “Five,” you agree. “What is it anyway? Are people really queuing for it?”

  Ming Hui, finally lowering her hand—for a moment you thought she might just curl her fist and give you a nice knock on the belly. And she’s so strong that it might actually take you down. “Chestnut-paste filled youtiao,” she says and tugs on her clothes to straighten them.

  You’ve never tried that particular combination before… but since so many people are excited about it, it must be at least decent. “Okay, I’ll bring them to you for lunch tomorrow.”

  Ming Hui, who had been about to turn away and let Ground Mender’s turn begin to scold you in some form—you hope it’s not more poking—turns and squints at you. “Tomorrow? The queue is too long for you to make it back before lunchtime.”

  “Then I’ll start waiting before the stall opens,” you say with a little bit more conviction than you probably should for such a little thing… but it’s not so little, you feel. When she gives you a look of doubt, you feel a deep need to right it. That she shouldn’t doubt your ability to do such a simple thing. 

  She sets her hands on her hips. “So long as you don’t hurt yourself, I guess. Remember that you were in an infirmary bed not long ago.”

  She probably doesn’t realise it, but the reminder does make your chest—and arm—pinch a little at the thought. You’d rather not think about it more than you have to. “I’ll be fine.”

  It kind of feels like you’re the twelve year old between the two of you with this scolding and then voice of concern of your well-being and ability to so… such a simple thing and walk to the city and purchase some fried dough sticks. 

  “Hm, I believe you,” she finally gives in and sets her hands down again, the robe she’s wearing today seems far too large on her than it should be, the sleeves are tied back but they still droop below her elbows.

  As she finally takes her leave, you realise you’re left standing alone in the courtyard—not counting guards passing between buildings and attendants leaving out the gates behind you. Moon Carver and Ground Mender have gone as well, hadn’t you just been looking at Ground Mender a moment ago? 

  Perhaps adepti have better stealth than you give them credit for.     -

  Your room feels even more bare than before, as you shut the door behind you and walk inside, allowing yourself to sink down on your bed—it’s far more comfortable than you’ve given it credit for in the past—before you kick off your shoes and toss your thick travel robe on the chair by your desk.

  Falling backward and feeling the mattress against your back, you stare at the ceiling for a good long time.

  The memory of the terrible, strangely fleshy sound of the massive serpent slithering between the mountains makes your muscles tense up briefly before relaxing… the thought of that terrible demon slithering on the outskirts of the Assembly makes you anxious—even more so when you know there’s little you can do. What could a small human like you do against a demon?

  You try your best to not think about Quiche, the more your brain tries to claw into your thoughts and drag them out of the little hole you put them in during the last few days, the more you resist and try to think of something else. 

  But the only other thing that comes to mind… is your empty hands. 

  Returning to your room without the weight of your cleansing tools in your hand feels as if you’ve left parts of yourself behind, the old and crooked shape of that old bell was so familiar against your palm that it had felt as if you were holding your own hand.

  You feel as if you’ve been stuck inside your head for weeks, perhaps even a few months—yet you don’t feel as if you’ve been thinking of very much at all. 

  Raising your left arm to the air, the bandages around your skin are loose and you can see peeks of skin between them. Your palm and fingers look healthy and fine, and there are no eyes watching from beneath the white cloth—but you don’t dare unravel the rest. It has been days, enough to see improvements, or the opposite. And you’d rather not know, so long as you can’t see the state of your skin and tissue, it can’t trap your mind. 

  Letting it fall back down and land on your stomach, you let out a small huff of discomfort as the impact reverberates through your arm and up your shoulder. Ow…

  Sitting up with a groan, you decide to leave your room—you’re tired, and should probably sleep… but now that you’re in a calmer place with enough space for your thoughts to gather, you’re a bit afraid of what that could lead to.

  The air has definitely gotten cooler as the sun sits down, it was comfortably warm when the sun was up… but it was definitely warmer than on the mountain despite the chill. You took a long good walk around the courtyard, it seems the last days of moving so much has really helped your muscles—though you’re sure any doctor or healer would have suggested you re-train your muscles normally, with slow and progressing exercises. 

  Looking to the skies once you’re between thick trees and bushes with yellowing leaves, you squint up at the moon… it’s brighter than usual today.

  Your nose stings, and you rub at it—but it doesn’t stop the filling of tears in your eyes. Damn it… you had come outside so that you wouldn't cry, and now look at you. The tears bubble in your eyes and blur your vision, you quickly wipe them away but as you lower your head—they seem to flow out. 

  That damned bell… why would you leave it in your room? You should’ve had it on you the entire time, even when there wasn’t really a reason to, you weren’t at home, you shouldn't just leave things lying around—who knows what could happen? Perhaps you should even have predicted the attack to happen. 

  “Take good care of it, jiao jiao,” the old, worn hands of your grandmother present the bell to you, even back then, it was old and rusted at the bottom. Her larger hand supports your open palms as the other lowers the bell into them. “Your great-grandmother was very talented, and she will be delighted to see you grow to be like her.”

  “It’s old…” you had said, small fingers rubbing the bottom of the bell and feeling the uneven metal scrape against your skin. “If I drop it, will it break?”

  Your grandmother smiles, and she sets her finger on the ornament atop the bell, where one would hold it to ring. “It’s a resilient thing, your great-grandmother was given it by her father, who received it from his mother. I’m sure someone has dropped it into a bowl of oil before.”

  “Who was cleansing bowls of oil?” your face pinches in confusion. Could spirits and demons even inhabit food? In all the books you’ve read, they go for people or weapons, sometimes even trees or rocks. 

  “Well, the family kitchen doesn’t have much storage space… perhaps you will find a better place to keep it,” her large, wrinkled hand pats your head, the warmth from it clear against your head as you give her a big smile. 

  You shake your head, as if the memory was a snowflake on your hair you’d like to toss off. Don’t think about it, the more you think about it, the more your mind recognises what used to be real and no longer is. 

  Running a hand down your face, and dragging any tears or snot that formed in the meantime into your palm, you blink a few times to gather yourself. You can probably have your tools replaced, perhaps you could even chip the bottom of a new bell to make it look like the old one. 

  Then, maybe then you’ll keep pretending it’s the same, that it’s fine and you didn’t lose them. 

  You don’t want to go back to your room… perhaps the youtiao stall is still open so late into the evening, or perhaps you’ll find something else to distract you on the way. You take a long breath, willing away the tightness in your chest and the ache of your clenched jaw, before turning and leaving the serene gardens.   

  The last thing you expected once you stepped past the gates to the palaces after avoiding conversation with either guard there, was the sound of bare feet tapping on the stone steps behind you—you don’t know of many people who walk around barefoot, so only one guess comes to mind. 

  Stopping and turning to look behind you, you see Guizhong hopping down the steps towards you at… concerning speeds. Her dress is longer than usual, going below her ankles so that you can’t see her feet, but her sleeves always sway far below her hands as usual. “My lady—” you extend a hand to steady her in case she stumbles on her dress, she’s taking more than two steps at a time.

  But thankfully, she stops easily as soon as she reaches you, and takes your extended hand. “There you are! I was preoccupied when you came back, I haven’t had a chance to speak with you properly… for so long! Too long, come!” 

  She seemed very energetic, did she get more energised under the moon? 

  She gave you little choice as she began tugging you down the steps behind her, and you quickly brought your mind back on pace to control your legs before YOU started tumbling down. Falling down this monstrous amount of steps would surely finally be the end of you. “O-okay, please slow down,” you pleaded as she began to hop down the steps two at a time once more. 

  “Slow? We’ll miss our window, no time to hang around!” she simply laughed at your concern. 

  Your mind felt like it was spinning, the emotions of the day being churned around in your head like laundry being washed in a basin. Just moments ago you had been fighting the tightness of your chest and hoping to find a distraction that could occupy your attention until you were too tired to think comprehensive thoughts. 

  “Window…?” you weren’t aware you had anything planned with her today… or ever, Guizhong is lovely—but she’s far too busy to be making friends with someone like you. 

  She doesn’t let go of your hand, grip surprisingly strong even if it’s holding you through her sleeve. “Once the moon sits at its highest, it creates a lovely sight along the river, I always visit it when it’s at its brightest—and since you’re here anyway, you’re coming with me!” 

  You suppose you have no choice, then. 

  Your legs complain as Guizhong picks up her running pace as soon as you leave the long steps behind, but you’ve been pushing through for so many days now that feeling that ache in your thighs is familiar enough to not stop you. 

  Despite it being before midnight, the streets of the city have quieted—they’re never completely silent, with cats meowing loudly at the back of a meat-shop as they clean up after the day until the owner finally comes out with some leftovers to let them nibble on. Some streets are lined with taverns and bars that stay open well into the night for rowdy patrons, with bright lanterns lighting the entrance. Standing on such a street can even feel as if it were daytime with how bright and lively it is. 

  Other streets are dark and still, where people have retired to bed and closed their windows. Signs sit outside closed doors with opening times, and a crafts shop has a sheet laying over the clay pots left outside for the night. 

  Guizhong only slows once you finally pass a large building that looks like a rice-wine making business, at least if the smell is to be believed. “Here, through the little path,” she lets go of your hand and motions for you to follow her. 

  Her body is smaller than yours, so you have to lean a bit down where she doesn’t. It reminds you of the path you took upon visiting the city proper at first, except your face and head is thankfully safe from any cobwebs or insects upon exiting. 

  “We came very far for…” you start, a little annoyed that Guizhong just had you tun halfway across the capital in a few minutes, lungs burning and thighs twitching in discomfort. 

  But your words halt halfway once your eyes adjust to the clearing, it was rather dark at first sight, but now reveals itself to be a small garden of sorts. Vines climb up the back of buildings that face away from each other, the river that flows through the city widens significantly before narrowing again a few houses down from where you entered. 

  A few large trees stretch from three different gardens, and the orange and red leaves create a strangely warm hue from the cold light that illuminates the clearing from the moon. The leaves from the trees litter the ground, making it appear like a warm cushion instead of the hard ground that is surely beneath them. 

  Guizhong walks towards the riverside, where the ground rises above it. She tugs her dress up and lets her feet touch the cool water before looking back to you. “Come, sit with me.”

  Attention taken away from your pretty surroundings, you approach Guizhong and sit down cross legged beside her, not wanting to wet your shoes. “Did you bring me here spontaneously?”

  “Oh, yes. I just happened to spot you on my way out,” she kicks her feet against the flowing stream, small splashes sounding below. Across the river, two children and a dog come out from another little path between homes, they don’t pay either of you any mind as they run up along the river until you don’t see them anymore. 

  It’s… nice. Peaceful. “I see… I suppose I wasn’t on my way to do anything important,” you say, and truthfully, it was very optimistic of you to assume the youtiao stall was still open so late.   

  Guizhong leans back, sleeves resting on the leaf-covered ground. “I thought you’d be resting early, you’ve had quite the trip.”

  … you’d rather not talk about it, if you were to be honest. “As did I,” you simply say. You feel a tingle in your bones, you hadn’t considered the “returning home” of your plan. So desperate to figure out what happened in Quiche, you didn’t think of any consequences to yourself or others. “I will rest soon.”

  “Hm,” a small hum simply leaves the girl. Despite being a god, so many unimaginably long and difficult years older than any mortal in this city, including yourself. She looks so youthful, not a single mar on her porcelain skin. 

  She doesn’t say any more, not for a while. As the moon stretches to the top of the heavens, settling for what feel like mere moments as the light of it illuminates the small garden. The light reflects off the water in the river and creates a projection of waves on the underside of the leaves above your head. As if you were in the ocean itself, swimming along the stream. 

  The scene is undoubtedly beautiful, but you find your mind distracted, occupied with less beautiful things. You wish you could close it off, silence the workings of your mind and simply exist as the moments come and go in front of your eyes. 

  To act as a human living on limited time, and experience time as it exists in your body. Not the ever-slowing clocks of time in your mind, clinging onto past memories—

  You’re torn from your strange thoughts as something dark above you moves, and as you stare at the trees, seems to grow bigger—

   THUNK

  Your forehead throbs as you let out a sound of surprise, a dry, heavy-looking branch bounces off your head and onto the ground with a dull thud. 

  Guizhong looks at you with large eyes as she shuffles closer, sleeve raising to touch your head. “Are you okay? What a misfortune, we should make an offering to the river to ward it away,” she says with a half smile, rubbing her sleeve on your forehead as you squint your eyes. 

  “How is a small branch so heavy… I feel like I just got hit on the head with a staff,” you grumble, your head throbs with a headache that spreads down to your neck. Taking a nicely shaped brown leaf from next to you, you blow on it before uttering a phrase of offering and sending it off on top of the river.

  After it flowed a few metres away… it sank under the stream. 

  Guizhong gave you a sympathetic look. “Perhaps you should wear a red string for a few days…”

[timesleatherjacket]

Chapters: 17/24 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Ninth Doctor & Rose Tyler Characters: Rose Tyler, Ninth Doctor (Doctor Who), The Doctor's TARDIS,  Jackie Tyler, Jack Harkness Additional Tags: Introspection, Character Study, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Love, Trust Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Healing, The TARDIS rooms aren't shown enough so I'm taking that into my own hands, TARDIS Repairs (Doctor Who), Exploring the TARDIS, Life in the TARDIS, Missing Scene, Slice of Life, Processing Trauma, Ninth Doctor Era, Complicated Relationships, Melancholy, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Unquiet Dead (Doctor Who), Nightmares, Original Alien Planet, Injury Recovery, Angst, Classic Doctor Who References, Bad Wolf, Episode: s01e08 Father's Day (Doctor Who) ---- Landing in a rather undignified heap with an ‘oof’, he rights himself, brushing down his jumper. “Must be getting close to the disturbance. Terraforming like this doesn’t go haywire on its own.” “So you think, what, someone’s messing around with an entire forest?” she asks as she hands over the sonic.

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Yours To Tame--Ch. 9

Chapter 9: One Week Later

            I sat on the edge of the hospital bed and looked at Anna. My clothes were packed in a little overnight bag. There was still an edge of fatigue around me. A fuzziness to my thoughts that made it hard to focus. I’d been cleared of any major damage but told that it would be several weeks before I’d be allowed to wrestle again.

            Sammy was going to be ferociously angry. I was so afraid of what was going to happen when we saw each other for the first time after everything that had happened in the hospital. As if she could read my thoughts, Anna looked up and wrapped her fingers around mine. I was surprised to find that mine were icy cold.

            “Hey,” she said, squeezing my hand firmly. “You aren’t going this alone. Not for one second.”

            I sighed and blinked away the terrified tears that welled up in my eyes. “You can’t be with me all the time, Anna. Besides, I have to go home eventually.”

            “You could come stay with me until we figure out what to do.”

            “That’ll just make Sammy even angrier. It’s already going to be bad enough…” My stomach dropped into my toes. As if I could feel the blows, I curled in on myself, wrapping my arms around my chest. Fear burned like bile up my throat. The venom of terror roiled through my veins. “Best if I just get it over with.”

            Anna scowled and reached up to push some of my hair back from my forehead. Her fingertips hesitated over the raised scar hidden just at my hairline. There was half a dozen more, all carefully camouflaged. I didn’t want to think about how they got there.

            She scowled. “Restraining order, Morgan. Why didn’t you keep the restraining order?”

            “Lawyers are expensive. And he never lived by it anyway.”

            “That’s what the cops are for,” she replied. “His ass should have been in jail years ago.”

            Before I could reply, there was a gentle knock on the door. We both looked up, and I couldn’t help the acute fear that cut through me. It swung open slowly.

            “Everybody decent in there?” Moxley’s voice called out.

            The fear receded so quickly it left me dizzy. “Yeah,” Anna replied. “How about out there?”

            Moxley appeared in the doorway with his arms loaded down with a huge bouquet of flowers and a get well soon balloon tied to the wrist of a huge stuffed teddy bear. There was a faint smile on his face as he practically sauntered across the room.

            “What in the name of—”

            “I told you it was ridiculous,” Bryan said, appearing from around Moxley’s broad shoulder. “One or the other or the other, not all three!”

            Bryan sounded exasperated, and I couldn’t help but grin when he made a face in my direction. “How’re you feeling, Morgan?”

            “Bitch of a headache. Anyone ever tell you two that you’re louder than a frat party on free beer weekend?” I sucked in a breath and held out my free hand toward Anna. “Can I have those glasses?”

            The doctor insisted that I wear a pair of dark, anti-glare sunglasses for the next few weeks. I knew it would help. That going without them would just make the recovery process from the concussion longer. But I knew they’d go missing within an hour of being back home.

            “Those are really pretty, Mox,” Anna said, gesturing to the flowers. “And that little guy is adorable.”

            “Ain’t he?” he laughed. “Name’s Jon.”

            Anna giggled, and I could have sworn that she was blushing. “Isn’t that a coincidence.”

            Bryan rolled his eyes and sank down on the end of the bed. There was a foot or two between us, and he kept his hands in his lap. But I could see the worry in his sky-blue eyes. “Seriously,” he asked softly, “how are you?”

            I shrugged, not quite knowing how to answer. Half a dozen responses existed to that question. “I—”

            “Morgan is out of commission for a couple weeks. And she can’t travel for a few more days, so we’re stuck here for a bit longer.”

            “Where are you staying?” Bryan asked.

            “Hotel,” I replied quietly. “Just until I’m given the okay to go home.”

***

            Bryan felt the moment that Moxley’s eyes turned to him. The two men looked at one another, almost as if they could understand each other without speaking. It didn’t take a genius to realize that home for Morgan meant with Sammy Guevara. And after what he’d heard in that hallway—what he’d learned in the last few days—there was no way he was going to let that happen.

            “You know,” Moxley said as he handed the teddy bear to Anna. “I’ve got a few days off, too. Want some company?”

            Anna smiled at them with something deep and grateful in her eyes. She looked between the two of them and to Morgan and back again before giving a firm nod. “Wouldn’t be so bad, would it, Morgan?”

            He watched Moxley gently tap Morgan’s foot with the tip of his boot. She jumped and drew her knees up to her chest. Her eyes went deer in the headlights wide before going flat and distant. If he looked close enough, he could see the tremble in her limbs that she was trying so desperately to hide.

            A new rush of hate splashed into Bryan as he found himself wondering about why she felt she had to fight to hold it back. If he ever got his hands on Sammy Guevara, he was going to rip him apart one muscle fiber at a time. They’d been by the hospital a few times since their first visit, and it wasn’t lost on them that Sammy was often outside in the parking lot staring at the building. Anna had filled them in that he’d been banned from entering the hospital. Sammy hadn’t been subtle about hiding his distain for them at work this past week, either.

            There wasn’t a doubt in Bryan’s mind that the moment Morgan left this building, Sammy would get his hands on her. And God knew what would happen to her after that. He didn’t want to entertain the thought.

***

            He’s got to get that rage under control, Moxley thought as he held the flowers out to Morgan in the hope of drawing her back out of her shell. He understood the feeling, but he knew that all it would do was scare her right back off. And they couldn’t protect her if she wouldn’t even be around them.

            When Morgan wouldn’t look up, Moxley crouched down so that he could look into her eyes. The pupils were wide, irises so dark they looked black barely visible around them. The terror in them made his guts clench.

            “Hey, it’s all good,” he said quietly. He kept his voice low and his hands in sight as he spoke to her. “It’s just an idea. At least let us make sure that you get to the hotel and get settled in okay.”

            She blinked and then squeezed her glassy eyes shut. He couldn’t tell if it was from the concussion, the meds, or something else entirely. After a few deep breaths, Morgan Knox nodded. Her brow furrowed as if the movement hurt. He supposed it did.

            “Think you guys could give us a lift?” Anna asked, drawing his attention.

            Jon Moxley had never really thought of himself as an intuitive person, but somehow he got the gist of what Anna Jay was really asking. Is he here? He felt his mouth curl into a sneer as he gave her a brief, barely there nod of his head.

            “You grab the gifts and I’ll get the bags,” he said as he straightened himself out. His joints popped and cracked, making him grunt. He thought he saw the ghost of a smile on Morgan’s face. “We’ll bring the car around for princess here. Bryan can handle getting her outside.”

            The two met looked at one another, communicating in a quiet way that wrestlers had. They had both seen Sammy sitting in the driver’s seat of his car in the parking lot. It wasn’t hard to imagine the horrible things that were stuck deep in his mind. Moxley hadn’t exactly seen everything that Bryan had, but he knew for sure that he didn’t like the idea of Morgan going anywhere near the asshole who’d put her in the hospital.

            “We’ll take it slow,” Bryan said as he stood up. He held out his hand to her, palm turned upward. “If you get dizzy, we can stop or get a chair.”

***

            I stared at Bryan’s hand, confusion slipping through my thoughts. “What?” I mumbled.

            His eyes crinkled as he reached his hand closer. “Mox and Anna are going to get the car. I’ll walk out with you to make sure that you don’t get dizzy or anything.”

            My eyes darted toward the door, but Anna had already disappeared out of sight. “I… okay,” I replied, clutching the dark glasses in one hand. For a moment, I didn’t quite know what to do with Bryan’s outstretched hand.

            “It’s okay,” he soothed. “You don’t have to. I’ll just walk close enough that I can catch you if you start to stumble. Is that alright?”

            I swallowed hard, surprised by the rush of feeling that settled deep into my chest. My breath rushed out of me as I reached out and placed my fingers against his palm. I pulled myself to my feet, swaying as the world started to spin.

            Bryan’s hand tightened on mine as he stepped forward to slip his other arm around my waist. “I’ve got you.”

            Squeezing my eyes shut, I leaned into him. “I’m tired,” I whined. “My head hurts.”

            “I know. Hold onto me, and we’ll take it slow,” he soothed. “As soon as we get you to the hotel, you can rest.”

            I let Bryan lead the way, shuffling along beside him with shaking steps. He made me stop and put on the glasses when I whined at the light shining through the windows.

            “You’re going to stay with me, right?”

            Bryan’s fingers tightened on mine. He tensed for just a moment before replying. “If it’ll make you feel safe, of course I will.”

            My head leaned against his shoulder in relief as we took the last few steps toward the door.

____________________________

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@librathepheonix13

[takemetoterrasenpls]

Chapters: 4/? Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Narcissa Black Malfoy, Luna Lovegood, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Lucius Malfoy, Original House-Elf Character(s), Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Ginny Weasley, George Weasley, Minerva McGonagall Additional Tags: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Fluff, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, Nightmares, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, How Do I Tag, Deaf Harry Potter, Sign Language Summary:

During the final Battle of Hogwarts, an errant spell hit Harry Potter in the head, and has since been slowly losing more and more of his hearing. Draco Malfoy, who had been taught sign language by Severus when he was young, cannot decide whether to torment or help the Savior.

 AKA Harry is deaf and Draco flirts with him in Sign Language.

Chapter 4 is posted!! I may or may not have written the last 10k words during a manic episode but I'm not complaining. This is my first ever multi chapter fic and it's the first thing I've ever written that I actually want to share with people. 

[jomiddlemarch]

And whilst our souls negotiate there  

Chapter 4

It is cold, but she cannot shiver and it is not the cold of darkness or winter. Not the cold of wind across the highlands, not the chill of fog that rolls off the North Sea.

It is dim, without being dark. She can see, but not very far. There is sound, but no voice calls to her. She remembers a voice that called. She remembers the Veil and knows she has not crossed. No voice beckons her from beyond its fold.

She is, above all things, bored. Her mother had said it was impossible for her to be bored, her mind too busy and too venturesome, but in the absence of everything, she found an infinite dullness. She would scream, except that she couldn’t and if she could, she wouldn’t find that interesting. 

She is impatient and she has to wait. For how long? she mutters to herself until it is the refrain of a song, an incantation that brings forth no vision and no relief.

It smells of cleaners and burnt biscuits. She settles herself down, wraps her arms around her bent knees, lays her face down and lets her hair fall around her like a cloak.

Once, she had known how to fly. But she’d never been very good at it.

[loopstagirl]

Slippery Slope, Ch 1

Given I'm on a roll at the moment, thought it was time to start posting a new story.

Scott shivered, zipping his coat further up as he stepped out of the car. The frigid temperatures slammed into him, but he tried to control his reaction.

"Friggin' hell!" Gordon didn't have the same restraint.

"What do you expect?" John joined them. "You've been in a heated car for an hour."

Gordon grumbled something under his breath, zipping his own coat, hands in his pockets, as he jumped on the spot.

John rolled his eyes, although it was barely visible with his hat tugged down and scarf pulled up. He seemed to take the cold weather in his stride. Scott wished he'd followed suit: he couldn't feel his ears.

"John?"

John looked over, and Scott nodded towards the driver. John headed over, speaking rapid French as he leant in at the window. Hiding a smirk, Scott turned to the trunk. John wanted to practice his languages, but it also meant Scott didn't have to stumble his way through the conversation.

Virgil fell into step with him. Scott offered a grateful smile, glad someone was giving him a hand. Gordon was still cursing and jumping.

He popped the lid, stepping back as Virgil dived in first.

But his brother didn't go for the top bag. Instead, he grabbed the handle of his own – from the bottom of the pile – and proceeded to try to drag it out, huffing and swearing as he did so. Scott was glad only the cab driver was around to hear them, given both Virgil and Gordon's language since arriving.

Virgil finally pulled his bag free, dropping it to the ground and looking at Scott.

"Could've helped," he panted.

Scott laughed. "Or you could've waited five seconds and helped me shift the ones on top."

Virgil stared at him. His hat was almost as low as John's, but Scott still saw the flush spreading across his cheeks.

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