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how-to-survive-a-factory-tour · 4 years

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How To Survive A Factory Tour - Chapter 15

A Sanders Sides / Charlie and the Chocolate Factory FanFiction

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By the time the elevator stops, I feel like I’m going to puke. I hardly paid attention to what Wonka was telling us about all the rooms we passed, too busy counting myself through breathing exercises. Travelling that fast without safety harnesses has to be illegal.

I stumble out the glass death trap, taking a deep breath. I jump a little as a hand is put on my shoulder, but relax as the person speaks.

“You okay?” Roman asks. I nod.

“Y-yeah, just a little shaken from the ride…” I stand up straight, fiddling with my hood strings. I finally get a good look at our surroundings when we do so. “Uh… where are we?”

There aren’t any windows, the only light sources being fire-lit torches on the walls. And speaking of the walls, they’re made of rocky uneven chocolate. In front of us, on the ground, are tracks leading off deep into the caverns.

“I said earlier, we’re in the Rock Candy Mines!” Wonka responds. “Here, hundreds of Oompa Loompas are mining through this chocolate in order to excavate clumps of rock candy, which are driven out in mine carts, and taken to other rooms in the factory. Say, how about we hitch a ride in the mine carts? They’ll help us get deeper in the mines much quicker than if we walk.”

He goes over to the rails and pulls a lever beside them. About two minutes of standing in awkward silence later, a chain of mine carts zooms into view. They stop as they reach the end of the track.

“Hop on in, everyone!” Wonka climbs into the back cart. Ethan hops in the one in front of him, then me, and Roman takes the one at the front. Once we’re all securely in, Wonka leans over and pulls the lever again. There’s a pause… before we shoot off.

I cling to the edges of the kart, praying I don’t fly out of it. This is just as bad as the lift, Jesus!

Roman lets out a whoop in front of me. What the hell, dude?! WHAT SINGLE PART ABOUT BEING HURLED IN A DEATH TRAP WITH NO SEATBELTS DESERVES A ‘WHOOP’?!

I’m gonna throw up, I am 100% going to throw up. I’ll try not to do so all over Roman, but given he’s right in front of me, and I’m too terrified of losing my head if I lean over the side, he’s right in the firing zone. So… good luck, Roman. It’s not my fault, it’s Wonka’s for almost definitely violating OSHA requirements.

Then finally, after god knows how long, the carts slow and pull to a stop. Roman, Ethan and Wonka hop out, while I more so crawl, knuckles white.

“When we leave here, can we walk? Please?” I ask.

Wonka shrugs, picking up one of the flaming torches from the wall to carry with him. “Sure, if you want to spend an hour walking.”

Roman shakes his head. “No way. We have walked enough.”

You know, there are some times when I really hate him and want to punch him in his perfect fucking face. This is one of those times. I’d take walking over those mine carts any day.

Wonka starts leading us even deeper into the caves, and begins explaining the process of how the rock candy is mined. I kinda stop listening after a bit. This is the most boring part of the tour so far, to be honest. It’s just a bunch of Oompa Loompas mining candy with pickaxes. Nothing particularly special or extraordinary like the rest of the factory.

My mind starts to wander. I wonder what Thomas’ doing right now…? Probably either editing his video at Remy’s place or at home. Remy’s either at home or at Starbucks. Mom’s probably still at work.

Aaaand now my mind’s wandering to Patton and Logan again. Right now, Patton could have been ripped to shreds by the whales, or drowned in lemonade… Logan could have exploded in a mess of juice, or ripened so that he’s stuck as a giant ball…

If he does get stuck, I wonder what will happen to him? Will he be kept in the factory? Or will he go home and just sit around there for the rest of his life, having to rely on his friends and family to take care of him? Either way, sounds horrible…

Ugh, I need to stop this! I need to stop thinking of the worst case scenarios for those two. Come on, Virgil, distract yourself, there’s gotta be something you can distract yourself wi-

… Where the hell is Roman?

Here I am, walking along with Wonka and Ethan, but Roman is nowhere to be found. Oh god, did something happen to him? Are Ethan and I gonna be left alone as the last tour members?! No way in hell! Roman is not fucking dying on me t-

“Psst! Virgil!”

I pause, turning around. Roman is still here and alive - thank god - and standing just around a corner down another route in the cave. He gestures for me to follow him down it, a wide grin on his face. I look back at Wonka and Ethan. They’re just wandering on down, not even noticing Roman and I lagging behind. Well, we probably shouldn’t stay behind and get lost. I don’t particularly want to end up like Patton and Loga-

Aaaand I have no choice in the matter as Roman is dragging me along with him anyway. Great.

“Dude, do you really think leaving Mr Wonka is a good idea?” I hiss at him, trying to pull my arm from his grip, but there’s no budging. Why does he have to be so strong?

“Sorry, Virge, but you have to see this! It’s awesome!” Roman squeals, practically breaking into a run. I do the same, not wanting him to rip off my arm by going too fast.

We continue through the tunnel for a minute or so longer, before Roman slows to a stop. We’ve reached the end of this cavern, and are stood in the mouth of a large cave.

And in this cave, fast asleep, is a fucking dragon .

It sounds insane, I know, but there it is, right in front of me. It seems to be made of a mix of boiled and rock candy, and is a reddish-pink colour, with a black stomach and horns. Instead of snoring, it lets out occasional small growls, showing off its long sharp teeth.

Welp, this is the most terrifying thing I’ve seen all day.

I turn to Roman, whispering, “Let’s get the fuck out of-”

“I’M GONNA FIGHT IT!”

“What?!” Wait, no, Virgil, don’t yell, no matter how stupid Roman is, you don’t want to wake the dragon.

“I’m gonna fight it! Just like the Philip in Sleeping Beauty…”

“Are you insane?” I hiss.

“Oh, come on, Virgil, I do fencing, I am skilled with a weapon. Speaking of…” He walks up to a pile of something in the corner and- HOLY SHIT IT’S A SKELETON. It is literally a pile of bones with a sword through the chest!

Roman pulls the sword out. “Here! I have a weapon! I’ll be fine.”

I look between him, the sword, the skeleton, and then back to him. “You are going to get yourself killed.”

Roman just chuckles, flashing me an a-million-dollar smile. “Just watch me.”

And with that, he sprints toward the dragon, sword raised.

“ROMAN!”

My cry doesn’t wake the dragon, but Roman piercing the sword into its eye certainly does. It jolts awake with a howl, before thrashing around until the sword is flung from his eye, heading right at Roman, who… catches it with ease?

...Whoa.

Roman goes running at the dragon again, letting out a battle cry. Thanks to the dragon being blind in one eye now, Roman is able to land quite a few initial hits while it’s finding its feet. It’s honestly incredible.

Extremely anxiety inducing, sure, but incredible.

The dragon soon spies Roman out of its one working eye, pupil narrowing on its target. It raises its tail in the air, letting out a roar, before slamming it down. Luckily, Roman dives out of the way just in time, slickly going into a forward roll and jumping to his feet, before leaping back into action.

I know fully well I should be running off to find Wonka and beg him to save Roman from the biggest mistake of his life. But… Roman actually seems to be handling this pretty well. Like, I could actually see him as a Disney Prince. He just needs the outfit, then he’ll be fully the part of a dashing, handsome prince…

… Did… I just call him handsome? And dashing?

...What?

“Virgil! Watch this!”

OKAY, Virgil, ignore the weird thoughts and focus back on the situation- ROMAN, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING ON THE DRAGON’S BACK?!

He’s just stood there, gripping one of the dragon’s spikes to stay in place as it thrashes around, trying to throw him off. He’s just grinning smugly, raising his sword in victory, despite the fact that the dragon’s still alive is directly contradicting the idea he’s won. So, instead of being a celebration of success, it just comes across as a really fucking stupid move.

Suddenly, the dragon stops thrashing. It growls, opening its mouth, a bubbling sound coming from the back of its throat.

And that’s when I remember the biggest defining feature of dragons: fire breathing.

Oh dear god.

The dragon raises its head, mouth opening even wider. A jet fires out into the air…

Only its not fire. Whatever this dragon is breathing is a golden brown liquid, as it falls back down, splattering on the ground. A bit lands in front of me, and I bend down, tentatively poking it. It’s not burning or painful, and whatever it is, It’s starting to harden already. Kinda reminds me of caramel…

Oh wow. This dragon breathes caramel. That’s actually pretty cool. And thankfully less deadly.

“What on earth is going on?!”

Wonka’s come in, Ethan beside him. And apparently the one second I’m turned away from Roman to see them arrive is the only second needed for something to go wrong.

“What the- AAAAAAAH!”

I turn back around to see Roman falling to the floor, the sword slipping from his grip. As he lands on his stomach with an ‘oof’, the weapon clatters away from him.

Wonka pulls out a walkie-talkie, muttering into it. “Oompa Loompas to the Dragon’s Lair. Bring tranquiliser guns.”

Roman recovers and starts dragging himself over to the sword. However, as he does, the bubbling sound comes from the dragon’s throat as it starts to prepare another caramel blast. Roman reaches for the sword as the dragon opens its mouth, aiming at him.

“ROMAN, LOOK OUT!”

Right as I cry, the dragon fires, and caramel covers the fallen prince.

Oh god. Oh Jesus Christ.

There are footsteps as Oompa Loompas run into the room, all with guns. They aim them at the dragon and fire. In seconds, it’s fast asleep.

I tentatively walk over and kneel beside Roman’s caramel covered form. I poke it. It’s dried, he’s stuck in the solid casing.

“Roman….? Can you hear me?”

There’s a pause, before a muffled scream comes from inside the caramel casing.

Well… at least he’s still alive?

Wonka turns to one of the Oompa Loompas. “Break Mr Prince off the floor and take him to the Caramel Carving Room, please. Make sure you break him out before he runs out of oxygen in there.”

He could run out of oxygen?!

Oh fuck, oh god…

A group of Oompa Loompas run over and push me back from Roman. One has a hand cart, presumably what they’ll use to take Roman from the room. As they start to break him off the floor, music starts to pick up, until all the Oompa Loompas burst into song.

“Roman Prince, the arrogant pest He’s always proclaiming that he’s the best We hope he likes the smell of caramel As it will infect his final breath

Roman Prince, ego way up far His maddening mantra was “I’m the star!” But now say goodbye to the title role As he takes his final curtain call

Yes, now he’ll join the other two From the tour ejected Will he survive the tragedy? Or will corpses be collected?

One drowned whale food All eaten up One stuck as fruit Or has blown up Now Roman’s joined the two of them And he may surely meet his end

Roman Prince, the pompous bitch Will soon develop a nasty itch We’ll soon hear the twit screaming from in the food As his oxygen store runs out for good!”

And with that, the Oompa Loompas wheel Roman the caramel statue from the cave. They really saved the worst song for him…

“Hm. That’s odd. They usually don’t use such foul language,” Wonka says. “Anyway, shall we move along?” And with that, he skips from the cave.

I just kinda shuffle behind him and Ethan. I can’t take this. I cannot take this, not anymore. All three of my brand new friends could be dead. I feel like I’m going to be sick. And heading back to the door to the room on the mine carts doesn’t help. By the time we’re back in the corridors, I’m trembling from head to toe.

“Right! Where shall we go to next…?” Wonka wonders aloud. “I think the Television Room is just down the hall, as is the Coconut Ice Rink. What would you two prefer?”

Okay, Virgil, tell him your sick of this. Tell him you don’t want to spend any longer in this death-trap, you just want to see your friends be saved and make sure they’re okay, and then go, leave, get out of this torture chamber-

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

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Roman is no longer available for asks

Taglist:@clone-number-1, @pumpkinminette, @i-have-n0-idea-what-im-d0ing, @jessicakennedy957, @why-should-i-tell-youu2, @dont-lose-urhead

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whifferdills · 7 years

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As promised~ (1/3) A prompt that I think you'd do wonderfully at, if you're up for it: 12/delgado!master, some h/c in the form of talking things out + maybe cuddling, takes place before 12 meets Missy. The two accidentally bump into each other on neutral ground (like a bar, y'know, but it doesn't have to be a bar? A place where 12 isn't being righteous and the master isn't being evil, they've both just come to this place bc they want to and the other just happens to be there).

(2/3) 12 is like oh shit the timelines, the master can tell this doctor is far older than him. As he has not met missy yet, 12’s most recent memories of the master are of simm, who is far more unstable and violent. 12 is jumpy around this version of the master even though it hasn’t happened for him yet. Delgado can tell something is off, asks him about it- even though they’ve had their spats, the doctor has never been this nervous around him. Aforementioned talking things out and h/c ensues-

(3/3) -perhaps somewhere quieter (TARDIS?). Basically I just need delgado being steady and sure and relatively gentle (compared to the violence of simm) with a skittish and nervous 12 who honestly just wants to hide- but delgado won’t let him until they’ve talked things out since this is so uncharacteristic for the doctor. (12 tries to make timeline excuses but delgado just points out that he’ll forget). Bonus points for cuddling, the master being a rock that keeps anxious!12 grounded?

i feel like i can do a better job of this but this is what i wrote so

“To Here Knows When”Delgado!Master/12Gennish with some implications, ~2.5k words

Oh, look: there he is again. He’s absolutely everywhere, a sloppy mess strewn across the universe. Leaving a trail of shit and/or smarmy egotistical do-gooder nonsense in his wake. The Doctor.

The Master realizes he’s said that last bit out loud when the barkeep looks at him strangely. “Move along, nothing to see here,” he says, putting some oomph into it. The barkeep moves on.

Not any face he’s met yet, or at least he thinks so - timelines, paradoxes, it’s all a bit of a jumble on the best of days. But he is fairly certain that this one is new. To him, to the world at large. All raw post-regeneration energy, lived with a bit but not fully dissipated. The uncertainty with how he operates his own skin and bones. And a face as striking as that, the Master would like to think he’d remember seeing it before.

His glass is empty but the barkeep is doing a thorough job of following his suggestion. He picks it up, savors the last few drops, staring through to this new Doctor. Alone, apparently. Nursing a half-full glass of something brown. The timeline is creaking around them. This is wrong, the two of them here. It’d be wronger still for them to actually meet.

Thankfully, neither of them have ever had much time for rules. The Master takes advantage of the barkeep’s resolute, studied avoidance to duck behind the counter and grab a bottle of something very old and very expensive, and makes his way over to the Doctor.

The music and the crowd growing louder, too loud, and it doesn’t matter. Might as well be silent, here, now, between the two of them. The world dropping out, just as it always has, despite his best efforts.

You, the Doctor says. Mentally but clear enough it could have been spoken aloud.

And you. The Master is slightly disappointed: the Doctor’s traditional obliviousness to the Master’s presence when under the thinnest of disguises has always been a great source of joy. No disguise now, though. However: a great deal of time.

Far, far too much time. The wrong kinds of time. There’s a Gordian knot of tragedy, atrocity, violence, and so, so much time sitting at the center of the Doctor. The Master feels unusually young and untarnished, comparatively speaking - he does not, of course, let on.

He fills up his glass and tops off the Doctor’s. “I haven’t seen you in centuries. Still insufferable, I trust?”

“Last time I saw you, you were committing suicide by Chancellery Guard.” The Doctor’s tone is flat, brusque. He’s staring straight ahead, at the wall of bottles glinting bright in the spot lighting.

“I imagine I had a plan,” the Master says.

Think you just wanted to die, which was better than you deserved, the Doctor bleeds out, seemingly unwillingly. “Always do,” he says out loud. “So what brings you to town? Genocide? Apocalypse? Another cunning plan?”

“There’s an interesting paleontology exhibit involving what are probably vortisaurs at the local otherwise-worthless backwater-town museum; I had some spare time. I’m specifically here in this bar because I wanted a drink and it had good Yelp reviews. Yourself?”

The Doctor curls in on himself, simultaneously ready to withstand a fight and itching for flight. Knuckles gone white wrapped around the glass. “Avoiding responsibilities. Hiding. Trying to get drunk.” He takes a deep drink of the scotch - such a waste, such things are to be savored - and slams the glass back down on the counter. “S'not working.”

He’s got the expression, the body language, the mental presence like he’s in the company of a ghost, and like he’s not even bothering to process that completely, and like he’s daring and/or begging the Master to do something, anything. Jittery, cocky, half-flung into whatever void. It’s half-familiar and half completely and unsettlingly foreign.

The Master swirls his glass, watching the light play off the liquid. “Something happened,” he assumes. The timeline, again. Some questions should not be asked.

“You could say that.” For all he declared his sobriety, the words are slurred, and when the Master glances over his eyes are unfocused, watery.

Pushing his half-full glass towards the barkeep (still dutifully ignoring him) and screwing the cap back onto the bottle (and then squirreling it away into his deceptively voluminous coat pocket), he stands up, claps the Doctor firmly on the back. “Good to see you again, my dear, but I must be off. Til next time?”

Come with me, he thinks. Putting some English on it, turning it up loud enough for even the weakest telepath to hear.

“Yeah. Til the next time.” The Doctor’s still staring directly at whatever imagined middle-distance. Maybe his eyes flicker over, just for a split-second. Maybe.

The Master leaves, carving a path straight through the crowd. He waits for a while, outside the door, the fresh air hitting him harder than he would have expected or liked; waits just long enough to be sure the Doctor is following him.

He could kill the Doctor. Loose and elsewhere as he is, it wouldn’t take much. It never does happen, though. The Master makes a mistake, the Doctor has a stroke of good luck. Or vice versa. One way or another, neither of them ever wins. Or loses. Neither of them ever dies.

The Doctor stumbles along behind him. Does he know he’s this much? This violent spill-out, harsh and brash, all live-wire energy? Probably not, self-awareness was never his strong suit.

“Let me guess. You’ve infiltrated the local…fish people, and you’re using them as leverage to stage a coup on the palace, which will enable you to be Queen of Hell for all eternity.”

“Like I said. The natural history museum here has a fantastic exhibit of vortisaur skeletons.”

They reach the front door of the house the Master may or may not have killed one or more people to acquire, and may or may not be now technically squatting in. He pulls out his keys, the metal jingling. The Doctor stares at him, unfathomable, endless and slightly pathetic and brutally focused.

“Didn’t know you were capable of existing in anything other than a castle or a crypt,” the Doctor says, looking at the Master like he can see completely through him, and like he’s managing to not see anything at all.

“Needs must,” the Master says, opening the door to the modest terraced home, sliding the keys back into his pocket, alongside the stolen scotch, and closing the door behind them.

Once inside, the Doctor seems entirely more sober. Nervous, wary, nosy. Opening drawers and pawing through bookcases. Leaving things knocked off on the ground, like an especially petulant cat.

The Master goes to put the kettle on for tea. It’s only polite, after all. He leaves the scotch in his pocket for a rainy day. They’re both drunk enough, wouldn’t do to go overboard here.

“I’m more for coffee, these days,” the Doctor calls out. There’s a muffled thump, and then a muffled curse, and a brief burst of activity. “Extra-sweet.”

“I don’t have any coffee, I’m afraid.” He considers pulling out his best biscuits - this Doctor is whipcord-lean but he’s always had a sweet tooth, they would undoubtedly be appreciated - but it seems a bit too much. Too homey. A normal thing for normal people. And besides, he’s run low, and what’s left he’d rather keep for himself. He closes the cupboard door, saving the Hobnobs for the future.

There’s another round of crash-noises and invectives and the Doctor appears in the doorway to the kitchen, hair on end, breathless. “You gonna kill me?” he asks. The question seems to be genuine.

He considers. Maybe. Possibly. Right now? No. “Potentially,” he says, pouring the boiling water into two mismatched mugs. The Doctor nods, distracted, watching the steam rise.

They’re drinking tea, normal as you like. The Master with a pleasingly angular, modernist sort of contraption, black with lemon; the Doctor with a Sports Direct mug filled alarmingly close to the brim with milk and sugar. It’s an absurd situation. The timeline is straining around them; if he does want to or plans on killing the Doctor, it won’t work out. It never does.

And besides, the Doctor feels as much like luck and ashes as he ever has. More so, too much so. Clinging to life out of spite and a clumsy, unacknowledged self-assurance; unkillable, unknowable. The bastard’s been hanging on by the skin of his teeth and the confidence of an old-blood Time Lord for as long as the Master can remember. That contradiction of a Lungbarrow orphan, both privileged and left for dead. And now: like that’s happened over and over and over again.

Plus, apparently, a whole entire war (or two) and then some other hinted-at things; the Master does not ask for, as the Doctor would call them, ‘spoilers’. The Doctor is babbling, as is expected; insults, braggadocio, stream-of-consciousness asides. It’s almost charming. The Master is, despite himself, nearly charmed.

In a moment which may be described as weakness, the Master reaches out, puts his hand on the Doctor’s wrist, when he’s looking especially broken and like he doesn’t realize that oh, and the last time I died is not anything meant to be said in a normal, casual tone of voice - he puts his hand on the skin exposed when the Doctor’s cuffs ride up on a dramatic gesture at the tail-end of an especially excited sentence.

Mistake. A misjudgment. The Master internally rolls his eyes as the Doctor slaps his hand away.

“Don’t,” he snaps. Voice hoarse, more high-pitched than it’s been these past few hours. Stands up, takes two steps back, vibrating like he’s trying to shake right out of his skin. A look in his eyes like part of him is somewhere else entirely.

The Master holds his hands by his shoulders, palms open, placating. No threat here, see? “That’s changed as well, then?” He does not betray the mix of insult, disappointment, a certain undefinable sense of loss-to-come.

“I beg your pardon?” The anxiety and distance drift closer to a more familiar absent-mindedness. Familiar in a slightly wrong way, though, as if he’s flipping through a list of all the people he’s been and trying to decide which one he’s meant to be now.

“You used to like it when I touched you.”

The Doctor huffs a breath roughly through his nose: a laugh, nearly. “Yeah. That. Ah, d'you remember, when we were kids?”

Most of it, yes. The Master waits patiently, mentally sorting through and cataloguing how the familiarity has slipped into something more particular. Cadence, accent, the way the Doctor is holding himself now.

“They said I had a natural aptitude, for the.” He gestures at his head. “Psychic stuff. And then they said I had no discipline, couldn’t control it, and they were right. Think I made it to one of the workshops. Out of fifteen. Passed on the second go, though, got there eventually. But it’s like that, now. Again. Touch a damn rock, I can feel it, all of it. Touch anything sentient - well. And you…”

Poor thing, that’s an unprecedented amount of sharing in general and it appears to be especially overmuch for this one. Must’ve taken it out of him, the dear. The Master tries to not overtly, pruriently enjoy the raw, raspy, cracked desperation in the Doctor’s voice.

(And there’s more there, more than just that admission. The way the Doctor is looking at him, scared, judgmental; something will happen there. He chooses not to push. What will come, will come. No sense getting tangled up in the will-be’s.)

“I could put my gloves on,” the Master says. And maybe he can enjoy it, just a bit. “You used to like it when I wore gloves.”

The Doctor laughs again, a touch more genuine this time. “I did, yeah.”

“We had fun, didn’t we,” the Master says, chuckling with only the barest, most delicate amount of Evil Charm. He stretches out, hands settling down by his sides: on the edge of his perception, the softest of mental brushes, he can feel the Doctor blaring out indiscriminately on all channels. The confused dread, the self-loathing, the bit-down-on panic; a snapshot of the Master’s gloved hand closing around his throat, around the cock he’d apparently bumbled into giving himself, pale and reedy as the rest of him (the Doctor had never been any good at the very basic task of choosing a goal during regeneration, but he’d previously chanced once or thrice on a version of the far superior interior genitalia; not this time, apparently).

In this moment of tender vulnerability, the Master politely only spends approximately 15% of his attention on what’s between the Doctor’s legs. He isn’t an animal. And he can sense that the blatant eroticism is, if not exactly forced, then something born more out of nostalgia - out of familiarity - than anything the Doctor truly wants.

So.

The Master withdraws as he moves his physical body closer. The Doctor flinches, but stands his ground, a predictable ‘go on I dare you’ expression on his face. The Master retrieves his gloves from his coat pocket - the Doctor flinches again, and speaking of nostalgia: that skittish fuck-off/fuck you/fuck me/fuck this wildness is erasing the outlines of this Doctor and leaving a small, defiant Thete in their wake.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” the Master says.

The Doctor exhales. Disappointed? Relieved? Something else entirely? “Didn’t say you would.”

“But I would like - ” The Master breathes in carefully, leaning only just against the spiky edge of what the Doctor is. “Forgive me. I’ve become sentimental in my relative old age. And I’ve missed you.” He says it like he means it, and potentially he does mean it, but there’s enough camp and irony there for it to not mean anything at all. “May I hold your hand?”

The Doctor stares at him, eyes wide, brows furrowed. The tea’s going cold, the Master is losing his patience.

“When you knew me,” the Doctor starts. Very carefully, enunciating clearly in that accent he has now. “Was I a good man?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” the Master says. Fantastic, more ego-stroking.

“Because I’m not entirely sure, now. Of either of those.” The Doctor is still staring, and he’s so open and vulnerable and, in the cheap lighting of this cheap house, impossibly beautiful, and he’s, what, looking for the Master’s approval?

He tries not to appreciate that too much. Closes a firm mental fist around whatever it is that’s building up inside him. In the both of them. “You are eternally, obnoxiously ‘good’.”

This is maybe the right answer. The Doctor doesn’t quite relax, but when the Master extends their hand in the human fashion, the Doctor takes it, and then lets himself be pulled forward. The Master’s arm around him, the Doctor leans against his chest, head tucked under his chin, nuzzling against the fabric of his coat.

It should be embarrassing. It is embarrassing, a bit, but it’s also…nice? Ammunition, for sure, the next time he comes up against the Doctor. Remember that time you wanted to cuddle?

He should say something, now. Make a move. He has his plans. But they can wait, surely. He can bide his time. And, Rassilon help him, he can’t quite bring himself to hurt Thete. Not now, not like this, not when he’s clinging to him like an angry limpet. So he leads him to the bedroom, pulls the covers back, glares just hard enough for Thete to get his boots off at least, and then tucks the two of them in. At a safe distance, his hands nearby but not touching, his face close but not too close. The Doctor looks like he’s torn between fear and a long-lost sense of peace.

“We’ll forget this,” the Master reminds him. “So why not just enjoy it?”

“This, yeah. Whatever it is,” he mutters. “Probably a scheme. Bet you’d like me forgetting it, so you can go do your dastardly deeds without me trying to stop you.” But he breathes out, and the edges of him soften, and they are almost, almost holding hands.

(Either of those, he’d said. He’d been a girl, once. The Master rolled the pronouns around in his head, trying to come up with the right word for this arsehole currently curled up and sighing, squirming incrementally towards him. The Doctor shifts around, and nudges their back against the Master’s chest, and then they both briefly black out; the idiot never did know how to regulate their telepathy.)

#craftysquidz #best enemies #dw fanfic #is #12/delgado!master #even a thing #it should be #promptapalooza

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persuadedproject-blog · 7 years

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Chapter 4

On the morning that Shep showed the Crofts the Kellynch House, Anne was naturally out. She was also naturally sorry she had missed an opportunity to see them (sorry in a it-would-have-been-awful-but-she-was-still-curious sort of way). The very next day, the admiral and his lawyer sat down in the senator’s wood panelled office to settle terms. The senator had walked out front to greet them, which spared Anne from having to interact with the admiral - as it was, all she could muster was a quick glance up from her secretary’s desk as they passed. Their voices rumbled from inside the office as Shep worked out the legal terms, rising and falling in a peaceable way. The landlord and the prospective tenant got along very well; Admiral Croft was inclined towards an amicable relationship because of the open and friendly sort of person he was, the Senator because he had been flattered into his best behavior by Shep’s assurances that he was viewed on a pedestal by the Navy man.

At dinner that evening, Senator Walter announced that without reservation the Admiral was the best looking sailor he had ever met. He even went so far as to add that (if he could see the senator’s barber) he would not be embarrassed to be seen with him anywhere in Washington. The admiral had had similarly generous impressions of Senator Walter, commenting to his wife on the drive back to their hotel that although the senator was not likely to set the world on fire, he seemed harmless on the large scale of things.

Knowing that Anne’s input on a new house would either be ignored or scorned, Mrs. Russell took up most of the house-hunting duties while Anne prepared the business to be mobile. Since it had been decided that the Crofts would move in at the end of the month, that gave them all three weeks to pack up and say their goodbyes. A cottage had been found on the outskirts of Hyannis, close enough for an easy walk to town - far enough to give privacy and enviable access to the water. Mrs. Russell had hoped to spare Anne from too much unwanted change at one time by a slower transition from Washington to Hyannis and, by sheer coincidence, Anne got it. Three days before they were all going to drive up (the small moving truck had already gone ahead), Liz got a text from Mary. Mary was frequently under the weather. She always put great stock in her own complaints, and had no quibbles in claiming Anne as her solution. This time, Mary was sure she was in for another long bout with her body (probably brought on by the oil in all of the french fries that she had been forced to eat the night before), and told Liz that ‘I have 2 have A 2 help’. Liz was not the sort to reply promptly to a text, unless it suited her purpose exactly, or if she was making arrangements for someone else. Since both of these were true, she replied immediately. ‘I’m sure she can come stay with you - no one will want her around in the Vineyard.’

Certainly not eager to troupe up to Martha’s Vineyard, Anne agreed to stay back in Virginia to help Mary. Her father was putting the company on hold for several weeks to let Shep and other logistics minions work out the transition, and so she was sure she could manage her own tasks remotely. Anne was used to sweltering Virginia summers, and liked the seafaring atmosphere around Uppercross (the small town where Mary lived, about two and a half hours away from D.C.). The only downside of the arrangement was that it gave Liz the excuse to invite Penny up with them, to keep her company while Senator Walter set up his business. Anne did not see any immediate danger - Penny had freckles a gap between her front teeth, and hair that was almost red. Although to some these qualities would be endearing, to the senator they were flaws - ones that he criticized frequently when she wasn’t around. But she was young, and overall a good looking woman, and (even more dangerously) she had learned how to feed her host’s ego. Anne tried to warn Liz before they left, but was met by dismissal with a side of indignation.

“I can’t believe you would even imagine something like that up! Penny knows her place, and we’ve talked about marrying older men before - she wouldn’t want the inequality of being with someone so much more established. And how could you think that our dad - who has remained single for all these years for our sake - would even be tempted by her? For all her good parts, Penny isn’t really pretty.” The reason that the senator had remained unmarried was that the social punishments for enjoying the benefits of marriage without cost or commitment had vaporized. Knowing this, Anne tried to persist,

“I just think -”

“Honestly, Anne! You would think you’d never heard him talk about her defects before. Think about all of his complaints, does he sound like a man on the brink of love?”

“There is no physical trait that cannot be overlooked after getting to know someone, if you really like them.”

“I disagree,” Liz said shortly. “Being nice or engaging really sets off a beautiful person - but it could never make a plain girl beautiful.”

“Is that what you tell the people you coach?” Anne inquired quietly. Ignoring her question, Liz burst out,

“I don’t know why you’re trying to advise me - she’s my friend, and it’s my reputation!” before huffing out of the room. Anne sat back in her chair, relieved that the confrontation she had been dreading was over. She had tried her best, done what she had thought was right. There was hope that the conversation was not entirely lost on Liz; maybe it would at least get her suspicions raised to the point where she might start watching her friend more closely for ulterior motives.

Liz, Penny, and Senator Walter set off for Hyannis in a caravan of two cars, sporting flowered shorts, sunglasses, high spirits, and enough hairspray to start a wildfire. It was almost as if they were really going to vacation in the Vineyard, and would be back the next week. Mrs. Russell, who had come by to see them off, was saddened by the whole thing. Knowing how the family had once been, remembering the happiness and respect that had once permeated the house, made seeing the family depart in a cloud of debt and unsure circumstances a source of heartache. She gave Anne a misty hug, and then left her to close up the house with some time by herself. Depending on a person’s mood, an empty house can either be a tranquil safe haven, or an echo chamber for every doubt you have ever had. Despite her original wish to be alone for a long while, once everyone was gone Anne found that it was hard to be alone with herself in Kellynch. She checked each room for traces of the Elliots, gathering up the hodge podge of left behind belongings as quickly as she could, closing up the finished rooms and finally fastening the lock on the storage closet. Anne wished that she could have a sentimental moment in the house, wished she could sit and have a glass of tea while reminiscing on the good times that had happened there - because for all the bad times, there had been happiness, too. But there were too many regrets, and the pain of leaving was all too present to permit much warmth. She was afraid that if she opened herself up to sentiment, all of the other emotions she had been carefully bottling up for weeks would insist on making themselves heard too. With only one glance back at the old brick and column structure, she got in her car and headed south, to Mary’s house.

Uppercross was a moderately sleepy inlet town, with most of its occupants commuting for work either to the coast, or half an hour inland. It only had a handful of what Senator Walter would consider ‘nice’ homes (historic, well-groomed places), but two of that handful were owned by Mary and Charles, and Charles’ family, the Musgroves. Because of Mary’s recurring needs, Anne had spent countless weekends at Uppercross, and was as adept at managing life there as in Washington. The senior and junior Musgroves were always at each other’s houses, and so she was surprised to find Mary all by herself. Being alone, Mary was feeling even worse, and her spirits were decidedly damped. Although she was more classically beautiful than Anne, she did not have her sister’s even-keeled intelligence. When times were good - when she was well, happy, and paid enough attention - Mary possessed the charisma and sparkling attitude of a southern belle, however any inconvenience or contradiction of her will deflated her immediately. She had inherited a heaping dose of the Elliot self-importance, which enabled her to assume that in any given situation she was not being paid her due. When Anne let herself into the house (how was it that she had a key to almost everywhere on her ring? actually, she knew how, everyone needed someone to run errands, and she was trustworthy), Mary was lying on a loveseat in the front room. The room was nice; cozy, with plenty of light, and furniture which had at one time been high class - but five years and two children had rendered it rather worn. Spotting Anne, Mary greeted her.

“You are finally here! I was starting to think you had decided not to come, and you just went off to the shore with the rest of them. I am so sick I can barely talk, and I haven't seen a anyone all morning, what took you so long?”

“I’m sorry you’re not doing well,” Anne soothed. “When we texted yesterday it seemed like you felt fine.” With the sigh of a skilled and practiced martyr Mary said, “I made the best of it, I always do - I was nowhere near well yesterday, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt as badly as I do today. I can’t believe Charles left me alone - what if I had passed out, or my reaction had gotten bad and affected my cognitive capabilities?” Mary had never fainted in her life, but that did not stop her from feeling light headed and that she was on the verge of losing consciousness every other day. These episodes were not blamed on the fact that she rarely strained herself with exercise, or her lack of sunshiney Vitamin D - usually blame was cast on some sort of food; today gluten, tomorrow dairy; her diet was always somehow in question. In this case, Anne thought it best to be properly sympathetic. When she had commiserated enough, she asked about Charles.

“Oh, he’s out golfing. I haven’t seen him since seven this morning, when he took the boys to stay with Mom.” Anne was still a little startled to hear Mary refer to anyone as Mom, even though she knew it was right. Mary used the term more out of rightness than closeness to Mrs. Musgrove, but Anne knew it was a step in a good direction for Mary. “He said he wouldn’t be long, but it’s almost two, and he hasn’t come back yet.”

“It’s only eleven,” Anne reminded her. “You might see him before lunch.”

“And I would like to have the boys back, but they make so much noise, I’m afraid my head would burst. CJ won’t listen to a thing I say, and Walter is not much better.”

“Well, I’m here now, and you know I always cure you when I come.” Shifting the subject, Anne asked, “How are the Musgroves?”

“I don’t know, none of them have stopped by except for Mr. Musgrove, and he just came by to get the clubs from the garage, he never came in. And neither of the girls have been bothered to come over to visit.”

“They may swing by, it’s still early - especially for college students on a Saturday.”

“Oh, I don’t care if they come by or not! They talk and laugh and move around too much. And I feel so bad. Why didn’t you come when we were talking the other day?”

“You sounded so well, even I couldn’t tell you were under the weather. Remember, you told me there was no rush? I have been so busy, I couldn’t have left Kellynch half an hour earlier than I did.”

“What could have possibly kept you busy?”

“Lots of things! More than I can think of at the moment, I’m so tired. Let’s see.” Anne had to work hard to remember more than her jobs for that day. “I had to document the exact condition we left the house in, I had to catalogue all of our belongings in the house (including the books), and I had to pack household necessities into the truck before it left. And I had to close up the business with all of the clients, explain what was going on and how we would be moving forward with them, which” she added, “was really hard to do.”

“Oh. Well.” Thinking about another’s troubles, Mary was momentarily unsettled. “You haven’t asked me about the Board Dinner last night at the Poole’s.”

“Did you go? I assumed if you weren’t feeling well, you stayed home.”

“I went, I was having a good day yesterday; nothing was the matter with me til this morning. It would have been strange if I had not gone, all of the other board members brought their spouses.”

“Well, I’m glad you were well enough to go. Was it a nice time?” Mary rolled her eyes.

“It was the usual thing - cocktails, dinner, the board, the academic talk, trying to figure out how to raise more money. We rode there with the Musgroves in their Suburban, so I had to sit in the back seat between Hazel and Louise. I think it was Louise’s perfume that made me feel so awful. She knows how strong scents bother me, but we were all smushed together.”

Patience, encouragement, and forced cheerfulness by Anne already started working a cure on Mary. She could soon find the strength to sit upright, and even hope that she might be able to move to the kitchen while Anne made dinner. Forgetting her woes long enough to make a quinoa smoothie, she was fortified enough to propose walking over to the Musgrove’s, which was half a mile away, with one steep hill starting at their property line. Mary’s one quibble with walking there was that they should have invited Anne right away.

“At least as my sister, they should have at least sent a quick message, to welcome you back.”

“I would never have thought about it, especially with friends that go as far back with us as the Musgroves.”

“Well, they should have. But we may as well visit, and then we can enjoy our time afterwards.” Although Anne found the constant back-and-forth of being offended unhealthy, she had given up trying to put a stop to it a long time ago. In a strange way, both families needed to be a little displeased every now and again. So to Uppercross’ Great House they went, to “sit and stay a while” in the comfortable living room. The great room in the Great House was under revision by the collegiate Musgroves, who had added chevron, end tables, copper light fixtures, gold embossed paintings, and pastel throw pillows. All of the trends they had seen come to life on Pinterest were embodied in one room, and it made for a cheerful mess.

The Musgroves (not unlike their house) were in a continual state of evolution. The father and mother were some of the last Virginia gentry, the two girls at the start of the new lines of royalty. Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove were good, hospitable, comfortable sort of people - not high brow, but full of life. Hazel and Louise (home from college for the summer) were very ordinary girls; they had the advantage of being pretty and fashionable, but not snobby. Fortunately they had inherited their parent’s friendliness and easy going spirits. They were important when they were home, and in favor wherever they went. Anne usually thought about the Musgroves as some of the happiest people she knew - but she still would not have switched places with them. As nice as their lives were, all of Anne’s experiences had given her an understanding of the world and a love for some of the better things that the girls could not compare to. The only thing she truly envied was the rapport the sisters had; the understanding, care, and easiness with one another that she had not been able to share with her own sisters. After being welcomed into the Musgrove home with the family’s usual zest, they caught up for half an hour, and then started their walk home accompanied by Mary’s two boys, and (at Mary’s request) Hazel and Louisa.

Thank you to all four of my readers for your patience! More of Mary’s deliciously silly selfishness next week.

Chapter 5: http://bit.ly/2vSXZ0B

#jane austen #persuadedproject #persuasion #adaptation

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thetickingmonolith · 4 years

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A Journey To The Shoreline

I sat there for some time, pondering to myself, my usual glass of whisky resting to my side and cigarette balanced between my lips. The hustle and bustle of my minds thoughts rushing around me, Jack arguing with Magnus, Grey tapping away at the massive console behind me, Atlas and Belladonna discussing the various factors of gossip that flooded the world around me, none of it intriguing me to any great degree. Azel sat atop his perch, within the moon looking down on us all, the titanic figure of Balmorhea resting just beneath the waves, nothing more than a shadow.

I stood and left them all to bicker and discuss, raising from my chair and wandering through the halls, glass haphazardly swinging in one hand, cigarette in the other. “What is this feeling we have?” I wandered up and down staircases, climbing through cogs and across walkways, not really knowing where I was going or where exact I was, merely wanting to walk and think to myself out loud. “What is the madness that we feel, this worry of anger, of not being able to control ourself. There comes this feeling of worry, of loss? No none of these.” I wandered further and further into the bowels of my creation, about half way down the tower now I stopped to look out of one of the holes in the damaged wall, peering out across the ocean, witnessing the tiny blip on the horizon that I once called home.

I looked down to see the jagged rocks at the base of the tower and the waves crashing up against them. The faint distant sound of the crash inviting me further down the tower, further into the recesses of my own mind. I wandered, stopping periodically to take a sip of my drink or a drag of my smoke, the groan of the gears around me and creak of the floorboards beneath me. “I can walk and convey it to myself, the fear of reacting badly knowing that I am merely making myself paranoid as I usually do, only this time it is more manifest, why?” I walked and walked, pondering this why…why is this anxiety more manifest, why does it only last a short while yet inflict such tangible pain.

I came to an old rusted area, where a massive hole in the wall has allowed the spray of the sea to seep in and bring this whole region to a halt. “What were you once? A part of me that thought himself something? An idea that would be proven false? Some part of my mind left to rust out of disuse…uncertainty…” The idea of not knowing the coming events, the concept of being blind in a fog, the fear of what ifs and the anxiety of mere continued existence. The simple act of existence and an odd feeling of being unwelcome…of it being implied I am unwanted part of something…

I took a sip and sat on the floor, staring up at the cogs of various shapes and sizes…trying to put together the word I was looking for, for it was not unwanted or unwelcome but a similar feeling, but more prolonged…I leaned against the remains of that section of the wall, finishing the last of my whisky, wishing I had brought the bottle with me. “Well where am I to put this then?” staring at the glass as the mental haze began to set in. I heard the faint creak of floorboards in the distance, someone had followed me down here, who? I had little idea, but they would take some time to catch up with me.

A spray of sea water came in through the hole in the wall and put out my cigarette. I sighed, putting down the glass and reached into my breast pocket, retrieving the packet of cigarettes and the lighter, standing and taking a drag. I nudged the glass with my foot and knocked it over the edge, sending it hurtling onto the jagged rocks below. “Well I’m going to need another one of those before I get back.” I turned to face the staircase where the creaking had come from before to find The Young God walk down them. Needless to say I was quite shocked, he had not made such an appearance in quite some time. “Whyte?” “Yes my dear?” “What are you doing down here? You rarely leave the higher portions of the tower” “Something has been bothering me and I’ve kind of just wandered down here as I was lost in thought” He looked me up and down, I looked a little rough all things considered. “What’s bothering you?” and so began the rambling.

“Your name comes from a few different sources, however the main item I think about when I look back on your first appearance is the song Young God, in the intro the words Forever cursed in love are the observant, forever a slave to detail.” “I don’t understand” “When we first got to know each other, when we fell asleep on that couch while everyone else had disappeared to sleep elsewhere, we innocently were asleep on a couch. I was struggling with this idea, you were there to help me and talk me through things, despite being so young you had so much knowledge and maturity you saw things people twice my age didn’t…your name is also derived from The Death Of God And The Meaning Of Life by Julian Young, Young’s portal of god fit mine, your outlook on life reflected her idea of the meaning of life, thusly Young’s God, or The Young God.” “Does this have anything to do with me?” “Not really no, however it does have something to do with what someone said to me…the opening part of Young God by Halsey talks about the Honeymoon phase of a relationship…not after an actual honeymoon but rather the opening of a relationship where it is passionate and fiery but deteriorating in a fashion, like a flame dying out.” “Whyte what are you talking about?” I took a moment to compose myself and placed my hand on his shoulder, “come with me, I was walking to the base of the tower to the shoreline.” He nodded and walked beside me as we set off wandering the halls.

There was silence between us as we walked for a few minutes, it was of course him that had appeared at this moment all things considered, who else would appear when it came to such feelings. “Your name came to me nearly two years ago and only now do I realise its importance, all this time later…my subconscious has an interesting way of foreshadowing…anyway now that I’ve gathered my thoughts” We stepped onto a staircase, the bottom obscured by a void of shadow, a distant glint marking the bottom. He stopped at the third step. “Don’t worry it will only take a minute and we will be back in the light.” I had stopped and extended a hand to him as we delved deeper into the darkness beckoning him forward. When we reached the bottom he looked much more relieved, if still a little uneasy. “See wasn’t so bad” “Why does the darkness cling to you like a membrane?” I was a little shocked at this for a moment, “It’s complicated, some people walk through the darker parts of themselves, people like me it stays with us a little longer than it should, the world reflects this…like everything in this world it is equally uncertain and meaningful, the details we do not know and we fill in the blanks for reflect ourselves, for example, did you take my hand? Or did I merely beacon you to follow?” “Well I…oh…I can’t remember” “Depending on how you filled in the gap shows a little something about you. The statement in a way contradicted itself so depending on my mood, this memory will be filled in one way or another, come now we must keep pace.”

“Should the fires fade, should the cinders dim…should the fires fade, silent sigh final hymn” “What?” “They are lyrics from Fires Fade by Miracle of Sound, it’s a song about Dark Souls 3…Dark Souls taught me about overcoming adversity, stepping back and looking at a situation and finding a more effective strategy to tackle it, despite all of the failures I have faced and the obstacles I face naturally as a person I have found myself here pondering this exact question…should the fires fade and the cinders dim…what should I do…” “Whyte is this about Jae?” “No not really, It is no my place to have a hand in that, that friendship survived the worst break up of each of our lives and either he is miserable with me or happy without me, there isn’t much of a choice in that, if that defaults to the usual bullshittery then that took me all of 5 minutes to put to bed…no this is about that feeling I have…mostly should I attend this weekend? He made it quite clear that he did not want me there, that my presence was an issue, and I would understand if it were not for the fact that before there was no mention of it…that and the reference he made to Young God being about abuse, when it is in reality about the fading flame of a relationship, the song he would have wanted was Trouble…which in many respects would confuse me even more than anything else…is that how he views me? Was it a hint? I’m aware that this is that passing feeling of paranoia and anxiety but its only left to come back harder this time…might as well talk about it with someome…”

“Whyte where is all of this coming from so quickly?” “That moment…just that one…it made me look back on everything and question if I was missing something…was him telling me to find someone else who would reciprocate those romantic feelings a hint? When in and of itself was in part a lie when he would become jealous of others by his own confession…all of this suddenly comes flooding back in a moment and makes me question so much, just the mere mention of such an implication and the ironic mistaken nature of a song…the feeling that he doesn’t want me to merely enjoy the weekend…all of this in less than 24 hours of course it is bound it send me into a self-circling spiral” He stopped and caught me by the shoulder shaking me “Whyte stop this WHYTE LISTEN TO ME…the two of you have survived hell and earth together…you have stood by his side and screwed up beyond imagining and remained his friend above all else, played ignorant to what was happening using you spicy autism burrito idiocy to make him feel less awkward, playing unaware to what you were doing when you knew full well so he felt more comfortable…don’t you get it you are spiralling into this madness now because you are worried your friendship will not survive this when you simply lack the words to talk to him about it, when in reality even if he never knows what turmoil is going on in your head your friendship will survive you idiot…” I didn’t respond and he shoved me to grab my attention, upon contact my mind flashed with a flurry of emotions and we were both consumed with a flash of blinding white fire.

We stood before a door, light flooding in through the edges, everything else was consumed by darkness, I burst into laughter. “You magnificent son of a bitch you” I slammed my right hand against the door and threw it wide, grabbing him with my left and dragging him out onto the shoreline of the tower. “The Young God lives up to his name” I let go of his hand and stepped forward, walking out along the jagged rocks, “As you once said, everything will be okay in the end, if it’s not okay its not the end.” I climbed farther out onto the rocks, with the sea spray raining down on top of me. “A SONG IS IN ORDER MY FRIEND” The crash of the waves before me spraying across me in my totality, my suit soaked in salt water.

A snap of my fingers and a flash of fire later, “Tell me, If I give a call,” a massive wave crashed behind me, a G major note beginning the song as I slowly pull the bow across the neck. I slipped slightly against the damp rocks, taking a moment to regain my composure “We’ve been caught up in such trivial things”. Tapping my heels together I step over a rock, getting closer to the water’s edge. “Will we be lovers?” Skipping closer to the shower line and feeling the waters spray wash over me again closer and more intense this time. “Guess it always depends” stepping backwards again the edged of the waves washing over my dress shoes as another crashes down just behind me. “on my on again” slipping on the damp rocks and falling backwards into the water as another wave crashed over me, my bow ripped out of my hands but my violin remaining in my hands, I quickly reached the surface with no fear with my fingers plucking away at the strings, “off again friend”…yes royal’s song is best for the now…

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thegooddoctorsthoughts · 7 years

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A Journey To The Shoreline

#storytime #essay #righting wrongs #writing prompt #autism

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