#this reminded me that I can still continue to make Silver cry challenge

[aiden-png]

How about some uhhhhh 3, 4, 7, and 11 for Point of No Return? Gimme the juicy fic facts

OMG MIMIIIII! Okay hmmmm... (gonna put it under a cut because this got LONG oops!)

3: My favorite line of narration.. I’d have to say this:

Legend didn’t sleep that night. Part of him wanted to, he was exhausted after all, but the other part knew escaping from this nightmare wouldn’t solve his problems. All night his thoughts did the same loop. Four Sword. Corrupted. Splitting into four parts. Betrayal. Curse. Goddessdamn it, this was not happening. From the moment he met Four and saw the sword on his back he knew, but he didn’t want to believe it. He had been so determined to make sure that never happened, he thought that somehow he’d be able to prevent it. Look where that got all of them. Now it was too late.

(but also if I get to pick two, this is my fave because I channeled every ounce of Let’s Make Silver Cry energy into it (and failed lol, but I did make myself cry))

He turned back to Four, brushing the back of his hand across his cheek. He’d wanted to share a meal with his partner. He’d wanted to see Four’s small smile--just for him--as he tried Hylian food for the first, second, hundredth time. Long ago, they’d promised to travel the world together. Four wanted to share everything with him; wanted to show him the forge, wanted him to meet his Grandfather, wanted to take him to see the Minish. After the adventure, Four had promised. He’d be free to go and do whatever he wanted, right by Four’s side. Well, he was at his side now. And this was not what they’d promised each other.

4: Favorite line of dialogue. HOO BOY I have a FEW. Uhhh let me try to find just one line though, because the fight scene between Legend and Shadow and Four’s last moments are pretty long...

"I don't know what Four sees in you." Legend began, fists shaking at his sides. "But whatever it is, it's not worth his life. I don't care if you're reformed or some crap, I don't care how much he might care for you--this is your fault. You know that, right?"

7: Where did the title come from? Oh hell yes, okay so. When I wrote TPoNR my main playlist was my liked songs on Spotify. And I had just watched Phantom of the Opera for the first time, so my fave Phantom song was right at the top. Cue me listening to “Past the Point of No Return” on repeat while writing every Four/Shadow scene in this fic asdkjlksadfjl! Just... listen to the song and look at those lyrics. It’s a pretty clear inspiration haha! (Past the point of no return/No going back now/Our passion-play has now, at last, begun/Past all thought of right or wrong/One final question/How long should we two wait, before we're one?)

11: What do you like best about this fic? TPoNR was a challenge for me, literally and figuratively. I took on the fic with a few goals in mind, thought for a long time about which characters I wanted to send on the journey (Twilight and Hyrule fought for that 5th spot), and in the end I did succeed in writing a long, dramatic multichapter! Making readers (read: Silver) cry was a big motivator, as was exploring character relationships and lore. This was also my first real Four (and Shadow) fic, I wrote Throwing Shade as a characterization warm up for TPoNR honestly! So I think what I like best about this fic, besides how much readers have enjoyed it, is that I pushed myself with it and succeeded. I literally improved as a writer from doing this fic, I wrote it in about 3 days (I wrote 8k words of it in one sitting too 0-0), and even though I wasn’t super proud of it when I first posted it I’ve grown to appreciate it a lot through the interactions I’ve had with readers!

Alright I’ve rambled long enough lol! Thanks for asking about the fic, I love talking about my work but I never really get the chance asdjkdsjlf :)

[diamond-coral]

A Game

Summary: Tony suggests a game that you, the unfortunate intern, get dragged right into the center of: who can make a woman cum the fastest?

Pairings: all dark!: Steve x Reader, Bucky x Reader, Thor x Reader, Sam Wilson x Reader, Tony x Reader, implied natasha x reader

Warnings: DUB-CON/NON-CON (oral: f-receiving, fingering, tiny smidge of analplay) VOYEURISM/EXHIBITIONISM, BLACKMAILING, OVERSTIMULATION. The characters in this story are NOT good people. After reading the warnings, your media consumption is your own responsibility!

As Stark’s party mellowed down and all the guests left, you, the unfortunate intern, were called over to the small group of five Avengers seated in a section of couches.

“Y/n, come!” Thor’s voice boomed.

“Y/n, come!” Sam mimicked, deepening his voice to make fun of Thor’s.

You approached them as the men snickered at Sam’s joke. 

“What can I do for you?” you ask, a fake smile plastered on your face.

Stark cleared his throat and raised a brow at you; a silent command. 

“What can I do for you, sir?” 

“A round of drinks please, and add this to Sir Barnes, Sir Rogers, and I’s drinks.” Thor handed you the flask of his Asgardian liquor and you accepted it, hiding the slight nervous tremble of your hands.

“Of course, sir.”

“Someone’s been learning their manners,” Steve taunted, and it took all your restraint to not snarl at him.

“Easy there, Rogers,” Stark interjected, noticing how your fingers clenched Thor’s flask tighter. “Pretty sure Barnes fucked the brat outta her couple days ago when he came back from that shitshow of mission in Bosnia. Got a lot of pent up rage there, Buck?”

“Mission just put me in a bad mood,” Bucky shrugged. “Either way, I don’t think I fucked all the brat outta her. Got anything left for me, doll?”

“I have nothing for you, you self-righteous, ignorant prick,” you spat venomously.

“There she is. I always love a challenge.” Bucky smirked at how your knuckles were turning white around the flask. “Now didn’t Thor ask you to go fetch us some drinks?”

You huffed, opting to bite your tongue rather than lashing out, and spun on your heel toward the minibar.

Three-months ago, you would never have imagined your internship interview at S.H.I.E.L.D to bring you here. Your interview had been conducted by Captain America himself, and just as things began to look promising, it was interrupted by a sharp knock from Tony Stark. Tony had brought Steve into the hall, leaving the door to the conference room open, and you could only sneak glances through the window of the room, hearing Steve whisper about how it was “a question of morality” while they both kept looking back at you.

You got the position, and the next day, Tony sat you down and gave you an offer.

The Avengers needed to be ‘taken care of’, as he put it, and you being a ‘stress-reliever’ would boost morale around the team. Most of the them never had time for the outside world (apparently saving the world was a big commitment?) and were rarely ever able to make lasting relationships. You could accept the position, be compensated monthy, and get to live in the compound, or you could decline, and walk away with your mouth sealed by the confidentiality contract you signed before the interview.  Something about S.H.I.E.L.D. work being linked to a lot of top secret information, meaning you weren’t allowed to speak any details of the job to outside parties unless you wanted to get sued for every penny you were worth.

You had been on the cusp of taking the second option before Tony mentioned your sister’s job as S.H.I.E.L.D. as an agent. She was half the reason you’d interviewed for an internship. A couple words from Tony about her possibly falling into a fatal accident on a mission, and you took the position offer in a heartbeat.

You almost overfilled the glass while getting lost in your train of thought. Setting down the bottle of expensive whiskey, you placed the last glass next to the others on the silver tray, and picked it up, gracefully yet begrudgingly making your way back to the small gathering.

“Y/n, finally. We were just talking about who here can make a woman cum the fastest.”

The complete utter bluntness of Tony’s words caught you entirely off guard, and you tripped over your own feet, stumbling in your high heels to keep the tray of drinks from falling before Sam reached an arm out to catch the tray and another arm to hold your hip and steady you.

You ripped yourself from Sam’s touch without acknowledging or thanking him, to disturbed by Tony’s previous words to do so. You began passing out the glasses of dark liquid. “And you’re telling me this why?” Your voice was flat in hopes of showing Tony you were completely disinterested in any plans he might have.

“Why, we need your aid, Lady Y/n,” Thor answered a little too cheerfully for your taste.

“I won’t be partaking in your little immature competition of toxic masculinity.” You crossed your arms and continued. “It makes it seem that women are nothing but prizes. Games to be played by boys as they fight over the highscore. Toys.”

“Aren’t they?” Steve cocked his head, eyes glimmering with amusement while a smirk painted his face. The rest of the men chuckled at his reply.

“I think HR would be shocked to hear that Captain America is being a sexist dick to a woman in the workplace,” you bit back, but your threat was weak and they all knew it.

“I think HR would be to busy writing a condolence letter to your sisters family if, let’s say, on her mission with Sam tomorrow in Russia, a stray bullet hit her,” Steve replied. A quick reminder at the stakes. 

Sam clicked his tongue and shook his head in mock sympathy. “Those darn Russians and their careless aim.”  

He abruptly pushed himself off the couch and clapped his hands together. “I wanna go first,” he declared.

“Just remember, you can’t use your dick,” Tony added. “Some of us don’t have super soldier serum enhanced fuckwands.”

“Please never, ever say fuckwand again,” Bucky said, scrunching up his nose. “Besides, the hydra serum didn’t do anything down there.” He waggled his eyebrows while elbowing his enhanced counterpart. “Don’t think I could say the same for this punk here though.”

Steve muttered a ‘shut up’ while the group snickered.

All while they compared sizes like a bunch of teenagers, Sam manhandled you onto the coffee table in the center of the couches. You let out a grunt as you were shoved onto your front, stomach pressed into the tabletop while your pelvis was slammed into the edge.

Sam kneeled behind you and brought up two fingers to your mouth.

“Get ‘em nice and wet for me, baby.”

The men around you went quiet, entranced as you reluctantly took Sam’s fingers into your mouth, sucking on them and swirling your tongue around them.

When Sam finally pulled them out, he looked back at Tony.

“You ready?” Sam asked.

Sam hiked the flowy skirt of your dress up your legs causing you to squirm and pathetically thrash; a desperate attempt at putting an abrupt stop to this stupid game.

“You’re on the clock.”

At Tony’s words, Sam immediately stopped your desperate attempt at worming away from him by catching you by the back of your neck and slamming you back down hard on the coffee table. Much to your disdain, the rough treatment made you wet, and that was the last thing you wanted them to see.

But when Sam pulled your lacy panties down, you could tell it was the first thing he noticed.

“Fuck babygirl, I didn’t need you lubing up my fingers, you’re already drenched,” he noted.

You let out a soft moan as Sam worked two calloused fingers into your pussy. Although they’re thick and long, they were nowhere near the size of his dick and you silently thanked whatever was out there that he wasn’t splitting you in half with it at the moment. Sam released the grip on your neck, moving to settle the hand on your ass before giving it a light squeeze and a slap that elicited another moan from you. While Sam slowly began moving his fingers- twisting, curling, and pumping them- he leaned over you, caging your body under his broad chest, to speak dirty words into your ear.

“Baby, you’re so wet right now, I think you like having them watch you.” Your cheeks burned in shame while he picked up the pace. “You want them to see how well-behaved you are for me? Want them to see how you come on my hand like a good little slut?” he cooed.

Slow pumps now turned to quick thrusts from his skilled fingers and Sam groaned as you fluttered around him.

“That’s it. You’re taking me perfectly.”

Twisting his wrist so his thumb could also strum your clit, Sam was moving so fast you’d easily mistake him for a superhuman.

“Yes, Sam, please,” you cried out, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

“Uh-uh, babygirl. Wrong word,” he scolded, although his pace never slowed as his fingers brutally fucked into you.

“Daddy!” you screamed. “I’m cumming!”

You chanted those words, cunt clamping down on his merciless fingers. He gave you no reprieve, mercilessly thrusting into you, until you squirted, your release coating his hand and dripping down his forearm. Only when you were almost crying, did he finally remove his hand from your abused cunt.

“Now that-,” Sam stated, grinning while he stood. “-is how you make a girl come.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever Birdbrain.” You don’t have any strength to look at Tony as he speaks. “Give her a couple minutes before whoever’s next.”

Whatever the conversation was between them (you couldn’t hear it over the buzzing in your brain), it was much too short to your liking. The few minutes Tony gave you only felt like a few seconds before Bucky was getting up.

“Guess I’ll take a crack at it,” he announced, rolling his head from side to side.

“No one says “take a crack at it” anymore, old man.”

“Keep talking when your in last place, Sam,” Bucky quipped, however, his tone was still light.

You felt a metal hand on your hip before you were rolled over onto your back, now facing Bucky while your eyes pleaded with him.

“Please dont,” you croaked.

Bucky just scoffed, kneeling down between your legs and wrapping both arms around your thighs as he pulled you closer.

“Tony?” His hot breath fanned your pussy as he spoke and you inhaled sharply at the feeling.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Stark said.

Bucky wasted no time the moment the words left Tony’s mouth. He started by licking up from your hole to clit over and over, the lazy stripes already driving you wild. Letting go of one of your thighs to bring his flesh hand to your pussy, he pulled the hood of your clit back, pausing his licking to blow on your engorged bud.

“Such a pretty pussy, doll,” he murmured before turning his head around and speaking louder. “You guys seeing this?” 

He moved his head out of the way to showcase your glistening folds. A couple groans from the men on the couches had you trying to close your legs, but Bucky’s grip was like steel (especially considering his hand was metal).

“Wasting time Buck,” Steve commented and Bucky just rolled his eyes.

“I’m pretty sure I can still beat Sam and have time left over,” he scoffed.

Bucky directed his attention back to your folds, this time, diving in right away. He still had the hood of your clit pulled back as he encased the bud with his lips causing you to writhe at the intense sensation. And yet, you were held down with practically no effort as he methodically played with you. Each time he groaned against you, you let out an embarrassingly loud moan, and by the time he started sucking on your clit, you were wrecked. Your hand found home in his brown locks of hair while he quickly moved his tongue back and forward on your sensitive nub that was trapped in the vacuum of his mouth. The coil inside you wound tighter and tighter, and suddenly, while Bucky began shaking his head from side to side, it snapped. Your clit pulsed rapidly while encased in his hot mouth, and you screamed, legs locking around his head while your hand held his head in place. He worked you while you rode out your orgasm on his face until you could barely move.

Bucky got up from his knees, grinning down at you, so weak, you couldn’t muster it in you to glare back.

“Now I think I really fucked the brat out of you,” he said. “What was that?” He cupped his ear. “Did I hear a thank you sir?”

“Thank you, sir,” you whimpered weakly.

You were so fucked out, all the next events were but a blur.

Thor had feasted between your thighs the same as Bucky but was more sloppy, although, your body seemed to love ‘sloppy’. His tongue was constantly lashing and worming around your clit, the wet muscle accompanied by lewd slurping sounds, and in record time, Thor’s suckling and licking had you tensing and building up so much that your orgasm felt like a waterfall crashing over your body.

Steve was just as methodical and precise as Bucky, also pumping his fingers slowly in and out of your pussy. He was sweetly slow, dragging out your pleasure to the point where you were begging him to come. His warm tongue dragged across your sensitive cunt, while another hand reached up to grab a breast and pinch a nipple. You felt like your body was on fire. It wasn’t until Steve had inserted a thumb into your ass that he finally allowed your body sweet sweet release.

Your head span as finally collapsing on Tony’s floor, listening to the muffled voices above you.

You didn’t even register Stark’s words as he announced Thor had won and Steve had come in last. You barely even heard Steve’s defense that he was just enjoying himself too much in the moment.

Although ten-minutes later you had a somewhat sense of clarity, after hearing their conversation, you wished you were just unconscious. Even better, dead.

“I’m tellin’ you man, I made her squirt. She definitely came the hardest with me.” Sam’s voice rang.

“Dude- she was literally grinding against my face and holding me in a headlock with her legs,” Bucky argued.

“I literally made the brat beg to cum,” Steve inserted.

“I’d say that by bringing her to release the fastest, it was most intense with me,” Thor declared, victoriously.

You were on the brink of tears as they talked about you. Until another voice cut into the room. A female voice.

“What do you boys think you’re doing?”

It was Natasha. Your head jolted up as you felt a glimmer of hope surge through you.

That glimmer of hope was quickly extinguished at her next words.

“Not inviting me to the boy’s party?” she scolded. “You think a girl might beat you by a landslide?”

Nat squatted down next to you, running a soft hand on your cheek.

“Well you’re right. I’ll beat Thor’s record and cut it in half.”

She began unbuttoning her pants.

“And I’ll do it while riding her face.”

[saiki-k-innie]

MAEMAE!

An AU where Todoroki gets hit with a quirk which divides him into two people. The red hair Shoto is the flirty sassy half and the white one is the cold (ukwim) Todoroki (see what I did there? 'Shoto' and 'Todoroki',,,,,,,sorry). You don't know how it happened; you were literally besides him when it happened but ???

So now you gotta deal with it and watch out for the Todoroki's so Endeavor doesn't notice and skins everyone alive.

Ruth ur gonna kill me- IN A GOOD WAY i've just never written Todoroki before and this is going to be a challenge. I'm eager to do it though, I have seen so much fanart where Todoroki has been split into two people--- [also yes i see what you did there-- very clever ;) ] anyway, lets see how this goes!

I’m going to do a full on fic without headcanons because that feels more natural for this request. 

Part of a Whole

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Anime: My Hero Academia Character(s): Shoto Todoroki, Eijiro Kirishima, and Katsuki Bakugou Legend (y/n = your name): gender neutral reader, quirk not mentioned, Pro Hero AU Word Count: 1.4k Warnings: none, slight cursing, flirty Todoroki  Notes: OUT OF CHARACTER TODOROKI!!! Yeah i’ve never written him before and now writing him split in half? DAMN ITS HARD!  I’m wracking my brain trying to remember his mannerisms and behavior, then polarize it. 

I will also maybe redo Todoroki’s banner because OH MY GOD i hate it so much and its off center im going to cry but i don’t have time to fix it rn

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Endeavor is going to kill me.

You stand speechless. The battle was continuing around you, but it fell on deaf ears. Mouth hanging slightly open, you look at Todoroki. Well, Todorokis now. You blink. Nope, still two of them. 

Fuck.

Todoroki had split in two. One sported a full head of fiery red hair and looked like he was ready to take on the world. The other had beautiful white locks hiding downcast eyes. Your gaze lingered on the second Todoroki. He slowly raised his snowy head and his soft grey eyes pierced your skull. The amount of hatred that came from his eyes- you knew it wasn’t because of you, but it was enough to snap you out of your daze. 

You whip your head around and check the surroundings. Nobody had noticed, but you couldn’t spot what had caused the split. Your partners look like they have the situation handled relatively well.  They rounded up the villains, but of the ones that were caught, you didn’t think any of them did it. 

"OI, RED RIOT” you call out to your former classmate, now pro hero. When you have his attention, you continue; “SHOTO AND I NEED TO GO, LIKE RIGHT NOW. I WILL EXPLAIN LATER, CAN YOU HANDLE THIS?”

He smiles and hits his fists together, “Of course, y/n!!!! You did great, go do what you need to do!”

“Don’t think that you will get out of paperwork you extra!!!!!” you hear Dynamight yell over to you. 

Shoving the ‘rokis out of sight, you laugh and assure Bakugou that you will be doing your fair share. You take off the top layer of your costume and use it to cover the firey Todoroki’s hair and shoulders. 

“We need to get out of here,” you tell the twins quickly, but they were still getting a grip on their new forms. 

“Oh, y/n~~ so eager to leave the fight? That’s not very heroic... </3″ the redhead teases while you fix the cloak around his head. He leans closer to you, just centimeters away from your face. “So desperate to be alone with me... I guess I can make an exception...” 

You do a double-take. What. The. Hell. Was Todoroki... flirting with you??? You give the garment a rough tug to make sure it was secure and push him away. “We don’t have time for this. Let’s go.” You look past the now-pouting Todoroki over to the silver one. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.”

Brushing off his coldness, you start walking into a nearby alleyway. They both follow you, but the ice king keeps his distance. The other, you couldn’t shake if you tried. Lucky you.

“Y/n~~” the redhead savored your name like honey right off the comb. “You have such a beautiful name, I could get used to saying it more often ;)” 

You hear a scoff from behind you. Biting back laughter, you navigate the alleyways and side streets, heading for your nearby apartment. As you walk, you adjust your hero costume and tend to your wounds. The twins were miraculously unscathed. 

You feel a pair of silver eyes on you as you struggle to dress your injuries. Without a word, you feel his cold hands on you and you stop in your tracks. He doesn’t look at you once while he’s helping you with the medical supplies he carries in his hero costume. As soon as he’s finished, he started walking away. It reminded you of how he was when you first met him. Smiling, you continued on. 

What could have caused this? you think to yourself. You retrace the events of the battle in your head. There were five villains, all very powerful. Kirishima and you were dealing with two of them, but trying to keep the civilians safe at the same time. Todoroki and Bakugou had taken three of them head-on. It was so hectic, that you just had to trust your teammates that they would be okay, you had so much to do. It was when Todoroki had been split from the group that it happened. 

//

“It was a mistake to try to take down the top heroes,” you chided the villain you had subdued. “What a shame, what a shame...” When you had finished tying the villain up, you signaled Red Riot that you had finished up. You were running to help the others since you had taken your opponent down relatively easily when a flash of light caught your eye. You switched directions, remembering that Todoroki was fighting in that area last you checked. 

Avoiding the debris that was falling around you thanks to Dynamight, you quickly found the source of the light. There, behind an overturned bus shelter, were the Todorokis.  They both looked dazed but were slowly regaining consciousness. You were so taken by the situation that you forgot that you were fighting villains. Your objective immediately turned to helping them instead of the fight around you. All you could think about is what will happen to you if Endeavor finds out. 

//

Looking back, you should have assessed the situation quicker and identified the quirk user before tending to the twins. Todoroki is tough. It will take more than a strange quirk to really hurt him, but you had always been protective of him. Something in the way his eyes gleamed when he used his fire and the tone he would talk in when he was serious. Well, more serious than he was normally. He had always been there for you and you were there for him, whether he wanted you or not. 

You deduced that this was the effect of a quirk, and it should wear off soon. You estimated that the longest it could stay like this was a week. It would probably wear off in his sleep, but you were curious to see what it looked like wearing off. 

Looking back at the twins, who were now chatting with each other. Well, it was more like the redhead was doing all the talking. He had draped himself over the silver-eyed boy and was talking about a new topic every sentence. The icy boy felt your gaze on him and looked up at you. His expression may have seemed indifferent to anyone looking, but you could read his body language like a book. He was practically screaming at you to get the other off of him. You smile and laugh at the situation. He rolls his eyes and slides his foot forward and sends ice in your direction. You jump out of the way and stick out your tongue playfully. If it wasn’t for your training with him, you would have gotten hit. It was just like old times. That sure was Todoroki, albeit a lot more guarded. and, well, cold. 

The other noticed your interaction and perked up. “Hey, y/n, me and myself were talking” he nudges the other, hoping he would recognize his joke, but the pale boy just kept walking. Rolling his teal eyes, he continued, “You can call me Shoto like you usually do when we are alone, but call him Todoroki so you can address us specifically!!!” He runs up to you and gets uncomfortably close and whispers “~~ I’ve always liked how my name sounds coming out of your pretty little mouth.”

You swing your fist at him but he catches your wrist and uses your momentum to pull you closer into a hug. He lifts your chin up and says in a sultry voice, “we can’t have that, can we darling?” he tuts and was about to say something else when Todoroki separated you two and flipped his other self onto the concrete. Shoto surprisingly didn’t fight back but just hopped up onto his feet and continued talking to his twin like nothing happened. 

Eventually, you find the back entrance to your apartment building. You remove the firey boy from your arm, blocking out all of his advances as you get closer to the door. He huffs as you punch in the passcode to the door. Todoroki had been over to your apartment a million times, you paired up pretty frequently, not to mention you two were really close. You had been since high school. 

You hold the door open for the silvery twin, and as he walks past you could feel the temperature go down, but not from his quirk. This was going to be fun. 

And by fun, you meant torturous. 

[minniepetals]

Rose & Thorns: 01

— summary: a lone rose, a little broken, until Jungkook came along and the two of you saved each other. and in doing so, Jungkook showed you a world where he shared with his six other mates.

— pairing: dragon!jungkook x reader / future!bts x reader

— genre: angst, slight fluff / poly!au / fantasy!au / dragon!au

— word count: 3.4k

— warnings: orphan reader, bits of insecurities kicked in here and there

╰ part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10

"Hi there."

In the dark and deep dungeon where Jungkook laid, his head perked up at the sound of a lady's voice and his brows furrowed. A girl? What was a girl doing in a part of the village where the villagers have deemed to be the most dangerous zone? Surely guards must have surrounded the area with tough security, right? So how did you manage to go past it?

"I'm Y/N," he heard the voice again and a soft scoff left him.

You were probably just there curious to see the dragon those infamous soldiers have managed to catch.

"I am..." you trailed off and he found himself waiting for what you had to say, "I am the keeper of the dragon."

Keeper.

He never imagined a girl to be a keeper.

"Damn, that sounds weird," he heard you mumble to yourself, a light chuckle leaving your lips. "But anyways," you went on, "it'll be just you and me for a while because no one else wanted to take up the role of the keeper except I. Which is fine, I've always wanted to take up a task as big as this. Oh, and you must be hungry so I brought you food. Trust me though, no one has poisoned it so don't be shy and starve yourself, alright?"

Shy, Jungkook scoffed to himself. What would a dragon ever be shy about? He could rip you to pieces if he wanted.

Too bad the chains around him kept him from escaping and doing anything rash.

He sighed, ignoring your ongoing ramblings and thought back on how in the world he managed to get caught in the first place.

His hyungs have always warned him about going hunting around the areas where humans settled but there was more prey there so he decided to take up the challenge. He should have told someone yet his rebellious side allowed him to go off on his own without a word to his own clan.

That was how the humans got to him, dragon hunters, they'd call themselves.

Stabbed on his arm as he was flying about the sky and near the ground. That didn't entirely weaken him but because of the fact that he was caught off guard and they held spears and ropes, Jungkook struggled to get away so, in the end, he woke up after being unconscious, locked up in some sort of dungeon with his neck chained up that extended to the wall to keep him from escaping.

The chain around his neck was hurting him far more than he expected but what could he do?

Maybe his clan would come looking for him. But with the fact that he had told no one where he was heading off to, Jungkook doubted they'd be able to track him down that easily.

"Are you alright?" You asked him the next day but he gave you no words. Still, despite his silence, you went on and on about all sorts of stories probably out of boredom.

He didn't know what you were doing, why you decided to take up the role of a keeper when everyone else in your village was in fear of him. Were you brave or just a fool? He had no idea what to conclude.

But for some reason, as the days passed and he was forced to listen to all of your endless stories, Jungkook was glad for your presence. Maybe it was the fact that he would have gone crazy if he wasn't around anyone for a while. Maybe because you actually sounded like someone who wasn't scared of him, someone who was a little different from those villagers, and someone who was treating him as a normal being.

Whatever it was, he was glad for your presence that replaced the warmth of his hyung's arms.

"You ate!" You rejoiced the second you came back early one morning.

It was funny how excited and happy you were about the fact that he actually ate something. He didn't know what you looked like because he never cared to head into the light, where you were, but your voice alone was sweet, something that told him you were a pure sweet being who enjoyed the little things in life.

You reminded him of Hoseok and Taehyung in that sense, and the feeling of nostalgia came rushing over him.

He missed home.

"Do you have a family?" You asked suddenly, sitting down at the exact same spot you would always sit at. "I had a family but they've gone and now my families are the villagers. But lately, they think I've gone crazy because I still haven't run away from this place and still visit it each and every day. But I'm not crazy, trust me!" He wanted to laugh at how defensive you were despite his silence. You were cute. "It's just that whatever job I am given, I never give up even if it gives me a hard time — not that this job is giving me a hard time, I actually enjoy this believe it or not."

Why is that? Jungkook wanted to ask.

And as if reading his mind, you answered "It's lonely back in the village. You don't talk much but that's alright, it's better to have a silent presence than abandonment and someone who rambles about how stupid and crazy I am."

Had something happened? Your voice was growing somber.

"I'm so sorry." It came out into a breathless whisper, as if you were recalling a lost memory, as if you were on the verge of crying. "I'm so sorry they've kept you locked up in here," you said. "Trust me, if I was the chief villager and had the power to have others nodding at my commands, I'd tell them to set you free."

What?

"I've already done it once but was cast away and told to just continue doing my job. They're so cruel," you mumbled through a pout. "You must have a family that misses you but I can't even do anything to help you except ramble on and on about useless things which aren't helpful at all. I'm so sorry."

Why were you apologizing when none of it had been your fault? Why were you blaming yourself for the villager's actions?

"Would you rather I kept silent instead of rambling? I'm so sorry, you must be annoyed with me, right? I can-"

"Don't."

You froze, head quick to shoot up upon hearing his voice for the first time. Jungkook was surprised too. He never thought he'd ever say a word, but the deeds were done so he convinced himself whatever, he had already spoken so he might as well do some more.

"Don't stop talking," he said again, "I like your voice...Y/N."

A small smile spreads across your face, creating a beaming glow and with just hearing his voice and pretty words, and a drop of tear fell from your eyes.

"R-really?" You asked, standing up from where you sat as you held the silver bars in front of you, trying to look for him. But it was too dark to see.

A long silence passed and then, light footsteps. Footsteps of a human walking and you held your breath.

Bit by bit, little by little, you watched with a piercing gaze, waiting until he finally walked into the light. Your breath hitched at the sight of a man around your age, shirtless with scars all over him from the events of when he had gotten caught and old scars from elsewhere.

He was handsome. So incredibly handsome. With a sharp gaze and jawlines that could cut straight through the silver bars.

When Jungkook saw you, he had to blink for a moment. He wasn't too surprised by your beauty. Your voice was incredibly sweet and pretty, matching your beautiful face. But he frowned at the trail of tears that had left your eyes and his heart ached.

"Why are you crying?" He asked you by the time he got closer and stood just in front of you with the bars being the only thing that kept you apart.

Jungkook wanted to reach out but he held back, knowing that that would have been incredibly rude towards a lady.

"I'm not crying," you quickly lied and went on to wipe away the tears that had been waiting to fall away.

"You're a horrible liar."

You cringed. "Am I?" Jungkook hummed, nodding. "It's just...it's the first time someone has told me they liked my voice."

He frowned. "No one else likes your voice?"

"It kind of gets annoying," you said, a small bitter smile appearing.

His heart ached at the once bubbly voice now gone due to the insecurities those villagers have drilled into you.

"Speak as much as you'd like," he told you. "Your voice calms me down, lets me know that I'm not alone."

"Well you're not alone," you declared, suddenly acting all heroic. He smiled at the energy. "As long as I'm here, you'll never be lonely. But let's hope it isn't for long because I want you to have your freedom soon."

He knew that he'd definitely miss you if he ever got that freedom again.

"Does it hurt?" You asked him the next day and Jungkook looked up from smacking on a mango. You gestured at his neck, where the chain stood and Jungkook gave you an awkward lopsided smile.

"Yeah," he admitted. "It weighs a lot, it's a burden but I'm a tough dragon so I'll be alright."

"Oh please," you scoffed, pouting a little, "even the biggest and strongest dragons get hurt."

That next day, you came back with some ointment and treatments in a basket along with his meals.

"You told me it wouldn't hurt!" Jungkook hissed the moment you applied the ointment on him, stinging his wounds.

"I told you it'd sting just a little!" You argued. "Now stop moving around, it's hard enough treating your wounds with bars in our way, don't make it harder."

"But it hurts," the young dragon whined and you laughed aloud, making him pout.

"I thought you were a big and strong dragon."

"Even the biggest and strongest dragons get hurt."

The two of you smiled at his words, a reminder of the day before.

You came back a few minutes later with a pair of clothes you managed to steal from one of the village boys. They wouldn't notice, they had plenty of clothes to spare and you needed Jungkook to have clothes so that he could at least keep warm for the chilly nights.

"What happened to your shirt?" You asked him as he placed the shirt on top of him. He was masculine, so bulk with abs that could make you full for days. But you looked away before he could notice your stare, lightly slapping yourself in the face for such imaginations.

"I guess they must've stripped it off me when I was unconscious."

Them, as in the village soldiers. You didn't like the soldiers, they were too cocky especially after capturing Jungkook. One was even consistent on trying to steal your heart, deeming himself worthy because he was part of the party that struck upon the dragon.

"Oh, I forgot!" You suddenly recalled and was quick to jump onto your feet. "I'll bring you one of my warmest blankets so that you don't have to-"

"You're leaving?"

You blinked at the disappointed sound of his voice and kept yourself from leaving just yet.

"The night can get really chilly. I'm worried about you," you told him.

But Jungkook shook his head. "I can go on another day without a warm blanket, Dragons have thick skin. But can you stay here?" He asked, eyes a little shy with a small blush painted on his cheeks. "I don't like being lonely."

"Oh."

You smiled. No one had really appreciated or even acknowledge your presence until Jungkook came along. So you stayed, sat down again and nodded.

The days went on and on like that, some bickering and little fights here and there but for the most part, the two of you got along and a friendship was growing.

But because of that, you became the center of attention when you weren't in the dungeon visiting Jungkook. The villagers would stare and talk to and about you about all sorts of things. Some deemed that Jungkook used his "powers" to keep you in there for so long every time you'd visit. There were all sorts of rumors going around and you tried to pay no mind, continuing on your task as the keeper of the dragon.

"One day, I'll free you," you told the man.

"Don't hurt yourself just for me. The villagers will turn on you."

"Why does it matter?" You shrugged. "They don't care about me except for my role of keeping an eye on a dragon. I am your keeper, Jungkook, and as your keeper, I vow to free you one day soon."

"You're a rose, Y/N," Jungkook said, eyes filled with concern for you, "and roses shouldn't try to be a thorn."

"But roses carry thorns," you argued, eyes filled with determination. "I can be brave, trust me."

"I know you can, dear one." He sighed a sad sigh. "But I'm telling you, don't hurt yourself for me."

Jungkook knew that bit by bit, he was falling for you and for a moment, he had almost forgotten about the six dragons back at home. Almost.

But he knew that in the end, it wasn't right. He was given his own mates already, ones he knew he would betray the world for without a split second of hesitation. Yet as he stared at your sad face that became more and more apparent as the days went on, Jungkook had this desiring urge to protect you from your own insecurities and the things the villagers have said about you. He knew they must have said or done something to you for you to walk into the dungeon with a face that darkened of a cloudy sky.

The longer he sat there in the dungeon waiting every night for you to return every morning, the easier it was to pick up on your fake smiles and real laughter, the easier it was for him to fall.

Yet it was forbidden to yearn for you. Not only did he have his own mates waiting for him back at home but he knew that it would be best for you to be with a man that was your own kind. A human. And the bars that separated him from ever reaching towards you reminded him each and every day.

A few nights later, Jungkook woke up at the sound of keys rattling and his head shot up with alarm, afraid it had been some soldier.

"Jungkook!"

At the sound of your harsh whisper, his brows furrowed. "Y/N what the heck are you doing?" He asked, running over towards the bar and holding onto them tightly as he stared at you with fright.

"I told you I'd set you free one day," you simply stated and then, the door opened.

He stood there frozen for the longest time, contemplating on what to do while you rushed over to his side to unlock the chains that kept him locked in. He didn't know whether to pounce onto you with a hug or scream at you to leave. He didn't know what to do. And had the doors truly opened for him to escape out of?

The second you dragged the chain off his neck, Jungkook felt free for the first time in forever, a weight taken off of him after such a long while. Literally.

"Don't cry," you told him, wiping away the tears he hadn't realized were there. Your hands were so soft, the way you cupped his face in such a gentle way. He always imagined your touches would be as gentle and soft as your heart.

Jungkook cried because your hands reminded him of the gentle touches he's once been used to from his mates, the hyungs that have always loved and taken care of him, the hyungs who were probably worried in fear each passing day, wondering whether their maknae was still alive or not. But he didn't cry just for him, he cried for you. A pure soul, a human he never knew would care so much to the point where she was saving him by risking her own life.

"We have to go, Kook, before they find out I've stolen the keys."

You took his hand into his, rough and larger, and the two of you ran into the deepest part of the forest until you finally stopped after deeming that it was finally a safe distance from your village.

"Go home, Kook," you smiled at him but he could see the glistening tears in your eyes under the moonlight.

"What about you?" He asked, holding your face in his large hands as he wiped the tears away. He'd always wanted to do that, to hold you close to him and finally he was given that chance. No bars in between to keep you apart. "They'll know that it was you who freed me, you're the only crazy one who'd free a dragon."

"I know," you chuckled through the tears, trying to make light of things. "I'll be fine."

"No, you won't." A tear slipped from his eyes. "They'll kill you, Y/N, they'll have you executed for losing a prized possession of theirs."

"I..I know." Your voice shook and you both cried a little more. "Transform now, Kook, before they find the both of us here."

He didn't want to but he knew that you were right. So lingering his fingers on you for a moment longer, not wanting to let go, he smiled at you before stepping back and then, you watched as the man in front of you transformed into the creature the villagers have come to fear and deemed the most dangerous creature in all of the lands.

When he looked back at you, eyes of a golden sun, you reached out with your hands to hold the beautiful dark scales on him, something none of the villagers would ever dare to do. But you weren't any of the villagers, you were Y/N, and Jungkook knew that Y/N was far braver and sweeter than any of those villagers.

Those eyes were still the same ones Jungkook always held despite his true dragon form and you smiled at the beautiful sight in front of you.

A loud uproar was quick to having you flinching and Jungkook looked towards the sound.

"They've found us," you gasped, turning your head back at him with alarm. "You have to leave now."

He hesitated but you were so insistent on him leaving. "Go, Jungkook. Don't let my freeing you go to waste or we'll both get executed."

"I won't let them hurt you," he vowed, "I won't let them lay a hand on you."

"Kook-"

"You saved my life, Y/N," he cut you off, "it's my turn to save yours."

You looked at him in confusion, wondering what that meant.

"Climb on my back, Y/N, ride the wind with me."

"What? Jungk-"

"Come to my village with me," he said, voice a little more desperate. "Come to my clan."

"Your clan?"

The shouting was nearing louder and louder.

"Come with me."

He lent you his back, large wings flared out and silently asking you to climb onto it so that you could reach his back.

You took a moment to look back at the loud voices that came closer and closer and then back at the eyes that had been home to you more than the village had ever been. And then, without another moment of hesitation, you climbed onto Jungkook's back and his wings flapped a few times to get themselves ready to take flight.

Yet at that moment, a bow came flying by and you were hit right near the chest, near your heart, making your body fall back and off Jungkook's back, onto the hard ground with a harsh thud.

Freedom so close yet so far away.

Jungkook growled at the soldiers that stood a few yards away, his eyes growing red at the sight of you weak and vulnerable.

His voice raged into the night sky, a cry so loud and booming that it could be heard from far, far away. He flung his tail at them, causing the soldiers to fly a few yards back.

He turned to you, whimpers leaving your lips and held you under his claws safely and securely, and then, Jungkook flew off into the night sky, riding the wind with you in hand.

[problematicfavesareproblematic]

Boys Who Speak With Silver Luck

Joe Liebgott x Reader

Ok, so THIS is more what I was intending to write for you, @itswormtrain​​! Hope you can learn to forgive me!!

This one is a soul sister/unofficial sequel to ‘You’ve Been Sad (Because I’ve Been Lonely)’ bc I’m bad at doing one shots 

Warnings: SMUT, domesticity, fluff, healthy dynamics, poetry being an aphrodisiac, feels(?)

All poetry mentioned is from the anthology No Thanks by ee cummings, and the title is from the song (inspired by 44 by ee cummings) comes from The Boys Are Too Refined by The Hush Sound

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“I still don’t see how you can read those things.”

 You smirk to yourself, nudging his thigh with your foot as he sits at the foot of the bed. 

In retaliation,  Joe lightly traces the tip of his finger up the arch of your right foot and chuckles when you flinch at the tickle of it, the chuckle becoming a laugh when you lower your book and frown at his mirth.

“And here I thought you were actually wanting to do something nice for me,” you tease, letting him pull your foot back into his lap and watching him smirk as he returns to massaging the sore muscles there. “Should’ve known you were gonna betray me eventually….”

 He scoffs at your theatrics, mumbling a soft apology when you hiss in discomfort as his thumb works on a particularly tight knot just above your heel.

 “Why do you wear those things if they hurt your feet so badly?”

 You furrow your brows at him, resting the book on your stomach as you let a smile play on your lips.

 “They’re called heels, and I wear them because they make my legs look amazing.”

 Joe tilts his head to the side as his face takes on a contemplative expression.

  “‘This is true…” he says with a nod. “You look fuckin’ gorgeous in ‘em.”

 You offer a hmph in smug agreement, picking your book back up and continuing where you left off.

 Tonight had been the night of Chuck’s family’s yearly holiday party, the one night where both you and Joe dressed to the nines and got to rub elbows with people Joe and Chuck lovingly referred to as ‘rich snobs with inherent mommy fetishes’. 

Joe never failed to leave you starstruck when he wore his nicest uniform, and even though you didn’t wear yours, Joe always managed to convince you to pin your Purple Heart and as many unit citations you could fit to the breast of whatever dress you picked out. 

 “Fuckin’ love watching those ignorant fuck’s faces when they realize what a badass my wife is,” he had growled in your ear as you had gotten ready that night. “Gets me harder than a goddamn rock, you got no idea…”

 The two of you had danced and drank and laughed over some of the most amazing food you’d ever tasted. It had been perfect.

More and more things were becoming perfect as time went on and the dark horrific shadows of war began to shrink away under the bright California sunshine. 

It was heartbreakingly nice to see Joe happy, truly happy. He deserved it- you all deserved it.

 A groan of frustration is the only warning you get before Joe crawls up your body and plops himself atop you, the suddenness of the action making you release a grunting giggle. Undeterred by the obvious fact that you’re trying to read, he kisses at your chest through your shirt.

 “Pay” kiss “attention” kiss “to meeee” kiss

 You take one hand from the book to scratch lightly at his scalp, smiling at the sound of him humming in annoyance.

 “What’s in that dumb book that’s got you glued to it, huh? What can big words give you that my big—OW.”

 You cut him off by clunking the book gently against the back of his head, giving him a soft smile when he looks up at you with a frown.

 “You’re so needy,” you chastise hollowly. “Never thought you’d get jealous over something as silly as poetry—”

 Joe rolls his eyes. “Poems are for kids and nerds, don’t get what it is about-” he sits up a bit more so he can see the cover of your book. “Whatever an ee cummings is that’s got you so gaga over it…”

 You raise an eyebrow at him. “Believe it or not, Joseph, I think you’d actually like this guy’s poems—”

 Joe snorts before bringing his head back down to rest on your chest. “Yeah, okay—”

 “Hey,” you challenge, scooting up on your pillows so you can sit up, the movement bringing his head to your ribcage. “I’m serious! If you were to like any sort of poetry, you’d need it to be as sexual and swear-y as you are…. Here, listen-”

 Before he can protest, you flip to the one you had in mind: 44.

 “the boys i mean are not refined 

they go with girls who buck and bite 

they do not give a fuck for luck 

they hump them thirteen times a night

 one hangs a hat upon her tit 

one carves a cross on her behind 

they do not give a shit for wit 

the boys i mean are not refined…”

 “Gimme that!”

 Suddenly, the book is ripped from your hand- and before you can protest you are shocked to see Joe turn the book so he can bury his nose in it. Careful not to be smug about it, you bite back a smile as you watch him mouth the words as he reads. 

 The fact that you’re able to hold in a laugh when his eyebrows shoot up in surprise should make you eligible for another Purple Heart.

 When Joe’s eyes flick up to meet yours, he’s looking at you as if you’ve just done some suspicious slide of hand- intrigued but still somewhat cautious.

 “Well?” you ask. “What did you think?”

 Joe flicks his gaze down to the book again, like he thinks it may have changed somehow when he wasn’t looking.

 “Are they….all like this?”

 You do smile now. “Well, I’m not sure- I haven’t read them all yet.”

An idea pops into your mind as he flips through the pages of the book.

 “If you give it back, I can see if I can find another—”

 Joe suddenly smirks, and when he lifts his face so you can see him, he’s looking like the cat that ate the canary.

“Read this one.”

 Now you’re the hesitant one, taking the book back from him as if it could suddenly turn into a snake.

The poem he’s picked  is one you haven’t read yet, but if it’s one that Joe picked out you can only imagine what the subject matter is.

 “Okay then,” you say slowly, clearing your throat as you cast him a brief look of suspicion before beginning.

 “may i feel said he

 (i'll squeal said she 

just once said he) 

it's fun said she”

 (may i touch said he

 how much said she

 a lot said he) 

why not said she….”

 As you read, Joe’s hands come up to hold your sides as he kisses slowly across your chest, your stomach. Every so often, his thumbs smooth upward to rub across your shirt-covered  nipples, and you can feel him smile as he kisses at you.

 Your shirt has bunched up, revealing your hips and the sensitive skin between them. Your cheeks feel hot, and your mouth suddenly becomes dry as his lips drag between your hip bones promisingly.

His hair tickles your skin when he begins mouthing lower, to the waistband of your underpants.

 “Y/N?”

 “Yeah?” you sigh, tongue wetting your bottom lips as you begin to breathe heavier.

 “Keep reading.”

 Oh. You hadn’t realized that you’d stopped.

Clearing your throat, you blink a few times before finding the place you left off.

 “Uh, (let's go said he 

not too far said she 

what's too far said he 

where you are said she)

 may i stay said he 

(which way said she 

like...like this said he 

I-if you kiss said she- shit, Joe….”

 Joe’s warm hands have worked your underwear down your hips and around the swell of your bottom, and the heat of his breath across the thinner skin that he’s exposed has you losing focus again.

Because he’s nothing if not a consummate tease, he doesn’t do anything more than kiss only a sliver of the newly revealed skin.

 “Y/N…” he reminds you, nipping lightly at you when you groan in frustration. “I think there’s still some to go—”

 Your heart is thrumming in your chest, and it takes you a few seconds to find where you left off this time.

 “M-may i move said he

 is it love said she) 

if you're…..uh, if you’re willing said he 

(but….. you're killing said she….”

 The words have started to dance across the page, a whine coming from somewhere deep in your chest at the first touch of his fingers to the slick lips of your sex.

You’ve officially lost your place, now. You just pick the stanza your eye catches first and hope for the best.

 “(tiptop said he 

don't stop said she

 oh no said he) 

go slow said she- fuuuuuck…..

 I-(cccome?said he….goddamn it Joe, please!”

 You throw the book off to the side, sweat beading on your brow from how deliberately cruel Joe is being as he continues massaging at you. When Joe sees that you’ve started to shake, he lunges up the bed to wrap a hand around the back of your neck and kisses you messily- your teeth clacking together briefly as he buries his fingers inside of you and immediately finds the place that never fails to ruin you.

 Clinging to the front of his shirt, you squeeze your thighs together as a delicious tremor rolls up your body from where you’ve trapped his hand. You’re so worked up you almost want to cry, the heat in your lower belly almost bowing your back.

 “Does that feel good, Baby?” he mumbles against your lips. “Who is it that’s making you feel this good, huh?”

 You make an incoherent noise, quickly wrapping am arm around his shoulders to try and bring his mouth back to yours, mewling in frustration when he refuses to do so.

 “Ungh! Joe, I’m begging you!”

 “Say it again,” he says darkly, and if you had the strength to open your eyes you’d see just the power-drunk way he is looking down at you. “Do it—”

 “Joe! Joe Joe Joe Joe Joe….”

 You chant his name like a prayer, your voice dying in your throat as he starts using his palm to stimulate your neglected clit.

 With a silent scream, you come apart, head lolling back as he continues to coax you through your orgasm, dimly aware of the praise being kissed across your chin as he refuses to relent the punishing paste he’s established.

 Your face is throbbing with the strength of your thudding heart when he finally starts to slow down, your body still bowing and writhing as he begins to coo down at you sweetly, capturing your lips with his as your shaking starts to subside and your sweat begins to cool.

 “Good girl,” he sighs into your mouth. “You’re such a good girl for me….”

 You don’t reply- can’t reply.  Joe’s reduced you into a boneless mess of a woman.

 When you do eventually open your eyes, Joe is smiling down at you with an obvious affection that threatens to get your heart racing once more. Not taking his eyes from yours, he gently slides his fingers from your still-fluttering sex and makes a show of licking them clean. 

 With a mischievous wink, he uses his other hand to smooth your hair from your forehead before carefully rolling so he’s laying beside you, his shoulder pressed against your as he chuckles.

 “Huh, whaddaya know,” he says after he releases one of his fingers from between his lips with a lewd pop. “Guess poetry isn't that bad.”

 Using all of your energy, you turn your head to give him the weakest glare you think you’ve ever given.

 “When….when I can breathe witho’ havin’ to think about it so hard, I’m gon’ make you cum til you pass out.”

 Joe gives you a smiling kiss.

“And I’ll let you….once we finish round two.”

 Well, looks like I’ll be going back to the bookstore sooner than I thought.

~ ~ ~ Taglist: @mrseasycompany​ @itswormtrain​ @mrsalwayswrite​ @happyveday​ @sunsetmando​ @teenmagazines​ @liebgotttme​

[bumbershots]

THE AGE OF THE UNDERSTATEMENT

Author’s note: Hello! So last winter I spent it binge watching so many Mexican soap operas, A LOT of old winter Olympics footage, and Harry Styles music videos so I came up with this idea, but didn’t really did anything until I was writing the one shot for the playlist challenge and the characters sort of came to life. I wrote the whole idea for every chapter so I don’t slack (like with my other story lol) anyway. Here’s the result. Enjoy! (:

Story page ★ Word count: 2.6K

Chapter one: Time

It’s snowing outside. Small, thin flakes that can be easily mistaken for hail, until they stick to the window and melt into the glass. Selena wants nothing more than to track the damp streak with one of her fingers, a bad habit she keeps from when she was a kid —one of many. She refrains from doing so because duty calls, there are a minimum of ten things that she was asked to help with right now. She makes her rounds across the wedding venue, instructing the string quartet where to place the chairs, confirming for the hundredth time that the bride’s father is not sneaking cupcakes out of the catering team or trying to have one last pre-wedding conversation with her fiancé.

In another situation she would’ve delegated the tasks to Minako and Paloma or any of the other bridesmaids. But Selena needed to stay busy, just so her thoughts don’t draw a mindmap, a list of everything that went wrong in her life for the past three weeks. A complete disaster, one bad choice after another one. A mistake on her side, a mistake on his, all of them domino-stumbling into each other, where the only possible outcome was to try to go back to how things were before she committed the first fault.

The good and bad thing about Selena, is that she’s also very efficient, fifteen minutes later she is done with her duties and is dismissed by Maki, the bride herself. But this free time more than a blessing is a curse that leaves her dwelling and all of a sudden she is aware of how alone she is feeling. Selena is alone, literally and figuratively, she is so unused to it. For someone who grew up in a big family, surrounded by aunts, grandmothers, cousins, nieces and nephews —some of them not even related by blood. She used to be so comfortable in her solitude, when she first moved to Tokyo. But it somehow feels weird when it is not self-inflicted. She stands in the empty corridor, feeling lost, before she decides to find the only person who won’t make her feel alone, whose presence is always a silver lining in her life, and who is apparently the only person that she will keep coming back to over and over again.

She finds Viktor going over his speech in the car park, he is leaning against his car, his brow knitting deep in thought, eyes scanning quickly the paper before him. He looks seconds away from giving up his task —or the wedding altogether. But he won’t actually leave, because he cares about Maki too much, just like all the other guests. Selena knows that although Viktor is not a very romantic person, he will at some point in his lecture, make the bride cry with whatever unexpected analogy he’d come up with.

It’s freezing, colder than the usual, even for a December morning. Selena pulls her coat closer to her body and rubs her hands together, another poor attempt to channel her anxiety to another part of her body.

Her companion doesn’t miss it, but all he says, after folding the paper he had in half and a long exhale, is, “I’ve always wanted to attend a summer wedding, right before the sunset and as the ceremony takes place so does the sun in the horizon… and the twilight comes in view and seals the couple’s love with its last beaming rays.” Viktor lends his scarf to a now shivering Selena. “When it’s your turn, promise me you’ll have a summer wedding, at the end of June?”

Selena’s first thought in response to this is not the discomfort she was expecting, but actually a quick flash of what her long time friend just described, it seems ridiculous when she is too certain that something like that will never happen in her life. Not when she doesn’t even have anything close to a stable relationship in her present.

“Why would you bestow upon me such expectation or needing to marry a man… someone, anyone, if ever. It is very sexist of you—”

“Please, shut the hell up.” Viktor unbuttons his coat, completely unbothered by this weather, a mark of the Russians.

Weirdly enough, Selena does shut the hell up. Something so rare that has Viktor going still. From her periphery, Selena sees her friend stay quiet, probably pondering what he is about to ask next, because he knows that he only has one chance to do it right, that’s how Selena is about things that bother her. If you are unable to articulate the appropriate question, she won’t say anything.

“Where’s Harry?” says Viktor. “Is he charming the string quartet already?”

“We had a fight.” Selena breathes out, glad to get that off her chest, the mist from her breath curls upwards until it’s undistinguishable. “I don’t think he will come.”

“Why?”

Because it was a big fight, an ugly one. She thinks but doesn’t say, still Viktor can tell and he scoffs.

“God what a dick.”

Supposedly Viktor was friends with both Harry and Selena, but it doesn’t really feel like that for him, not after the incident last week. Not when Harry was acting jealous every time Viktor was around. He is not one to romanticise that behaviour and call it love. He sees it as a red flag, one that he would immediately discuss with Selena, but not now when she looks like she’s attending a funeral and not a wedding. Viktor and Selena share a lot of things and they have planted plenty of questionable habits on each other, but beating around the bush was not one of them. But her vulnerability can be felt in the freezing air, in every misshaped snowflake and Viktor studies her, not liking the apprehension on her face.

“But he will come,” says Viktor.

Selena lets out a bitter laugh, refusing to look up. “Why would he? He doesn’t even know the bride or groom.”

Viktor leans away from his car, before he slips out of his coat.

“I would,” he says, wrapping her in the garment carefully, “because of the cute girl who asked me to, and the free food.”

◇

All flights were postponed due to the snow. Harry laughs, knowing it is completely ridiculous that the moment he is looking to get out of Japan, a blizzard comes out of nowhere to prevent it. As if there’s someone up above, directing his acts, trying to get him to attend the wedding he was dressed up for and invited to only a couple of days ago. It’s unfair, and he feels uncomfortable to be stranded at the airport. Harry is tempted to call Selena, knowing that she won’t deny him the chance to stay at her place until his flight can take off the next morning.

There’s no way he is calling her, not after the fight from the other day. All the things she said filled his head to the brim and it had been constantly dripping unkind thoughts about her. He decides to just wait at the airport, a bench can’t be the worst place to sleep tonight.

But a tap on his shoulder saved him from what would’ve been a really dreadful day and night. Harry finds himself face to face with the last person he expected to see today in Japan.

“I’m going to give you a moment alone, so you can sit with what you’re feeling. When I return we will talk about it.”

There’s a knot on his chest, but he nods. “Yes, thank you Sam.”

As soon as Sam has disappeared upstairs, Harry goes to stand by the window, and stares at what is probably one of the nicest views of Tokyo. He wanted to yell, cry until his voice ran out and his eyes were so swollen that he would have trouble opening them for the next few days. He could scream and Sam wouldn’t hold it against him, but just one look at the city before him was a reminder that he was not home. It’s one thing to have a much needed breakdown in his own flat under the watchful eye of his friend and bandmate Mitch and another to disrupt the peace of Sam’s loft. It’s one and a half floors that Harry has associated with calm and security from the moment he first stepped into it three weeks ago, and while he had never played any part to this, he’d rather have a crisis at the airport where everyone can see and judge him than to threaten the tranquility so shamelessly.

He rests his forehead on the window and breathes like that, counting and counting until he hears Sam return. He expects her to join him but she continues to the kitchen and Harry just follows with his gaze.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Sam asks, tying up a black apron, standing in her pristine white kitchen. Harry wants to tell her that nothing too fancy, that he’s not even hungry. But he can’t say anything.

It all feels so foreign, watching Sam cook him breakfast, fighting with Selena, being in Japan. It all piled up on Harry’s shoulders until he couldn’t carry it any longer. It dawns on him that he doesn’t know what he really wants.

“I’ll make an omelette.” She concludes after his silence.

If Harry believed more in the strengths of his relationships, he would say that they both find comfort in each other. Sam being the only person who didn’t get invited to the wedding and Harry being the only one that shouldn’t have. But he doesn’t know her that well, all he knows is what Selena told him that night before they arrived at her place for dinner.

Well she was dating Maki last year, but they broke up. She had carelessly said and for a moment it unsettled Harry, how little she cared about her friend’s feelings. They don’t like to talk about it, so we don’t. Boundaries, something that everyone in their circle seemed to have. It’s the reason why he was so surprised at Sam’s offer to stay at her place until his flight is rescheduled.

Ten minutes later, he is summoned to the living room area. “I was debating whether to ask why you are dressed for a funeral,” says Sam, walking back to the kitchen counter to retrieve their mugs. It’s almost lunch time, but she leaves a mug of steaming black coffee in front of Harry. Then she nods at where Harry left the black jacket of his two-piece suit draped over the arm of the sofa. “But I remembered about the winter wonderland wedding you’ll both be attending.”

Both.

Harry sits up over the old peeling couch, he crosses his legs under him and Sam takes the one-seater to his left, eyes sharp on how Harry crinkles his pants.

“We don’t have to talk about the wedding.”

“You seem to be under the impression that you talking about the wedding will unsettle me but I can assure you that is not the case.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “No, no,” he says. “It just seems unnecessary, whatever issue I have is not related to the wedding.”

Sam levels him a flat look. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Harry. But you’re terrible at explaining what bothers you.”

“Yeah, that is true.” Harry takes a big chunk of omelette and stuffs it into his mouth. A childhood habit to keep his mouth shut. He watches Sam take a spreader knife to push some jam across the fresh loaf of bread she stopped to get on her way home. “I just wanted to avoid talking about the wedding, the attendees, what happens after the wedding.”

“Just to spare my feelings?”

“Yes, because I know I would feel uncomfortable upon hearing how my ex is getting married this afternoon—”

“Harry,” says Sam. “I don’t feel uncomfortable.”

How can you not? He thinks. Having finished almost all of the omelette, Harry resorts to spreading two thick layers of jam onto an open-faced slice of bread, before folding it in half and shoves it into his mouth. “I can’t look at Selena in the eye ever again anyway.” He said, as he chewed.

“Why?” She is slower in her rituals, more careful as she spreads jam to the very tips of her slice.

“I just can’t.” Harry swallows. The bread is soft and fluffy, the jam has the perfect balance of sweet and citrusy but it still doesn’t go down as easily. “Because it’s such a mess, I feel terrible about everything right now and there’s a chance I go and pass on my bad mood to the attendants. Why would I turn a wedding into a funeral? I can’t get away with that, I’m no Hugh Grant. I don’t know if I can look at Selena in the eye and she’s the reason I was invited. She probably doesn’t even want me there or anywhere anymore. And it’s fine that she doesn’t. It’s her brother’s wedding who also might not want me there. I just don’t even know how to exist anymore. I don’t want to carry all the feelings I have for her back to England where they will surely rot along what’s left of my heart. I wish I was dressed for a funeral, mine if possible. I spent all fucking morning tying up this tie—”

“Breathe,” says Sam. Her knife is hesitant, waiting for Harry to actually breathe, before it is back to sliding smoothly across the bread. Harry knows she’s studying him, trying to ask him about the argument he had with Selena, most likely preparing a speech about why Maki or anyone in that family would want him there. “Have another slice of bread.” Sam doesn’t push him to talk about that or anything, they finish their meal in silence and it gives Harry some time to collect his thoughts for the first time today.

He helps with the washing up because however far away from home, he can’t shake off the manners his mother taught him. As he finishes, the clock by the wall announces that the time to make a choice is running out. Harry can stay here and wait for an update on his flight. He can go to a hotel and thank Sam for her kindness. He can leave his stuff here and figure out how to get to the wedding by train, bus or even scooter. He has time to decide and it occurs to him that it doesn’t apply just for today but any other for that matter.

It’s strange how for the past couple of weeks he felt like he was living towards a deadline, that any minute he spent was some sort of borrowed time. Harry doesn’t feel any of that frustration as Sam wipes clean the coffee table, who’s methodical about even this, each movement measured and easy to follow.

The loft is quiet, nothing but Harry’s level, unhurried breathing in the space around them. Sam finishes her task and focuses her gaze on him, unfaltering for a second before she turns away.

“Grab your jacket. We’re heading out.”

“What?” Harry is surprised, but he goes to do as he’s told, frowning at his luggage by the door.

“You can leave that in here.” Sam slips on her jacket in one smooth motion, shoes slipping on her feet easily. “We’re going for a drive.”

Harry fixes the collar of his shirt. “Where to?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On the things you choose to tell me during the drive.” Sam props open the front door and Harry follows right behind.

But he is not rushing this time, whatever choices he does make today will be the right ones, whether he regrets them or not will be something to look back on, years from now. But as he climbs into the passenger seat of Sam’s black convertible, the city passes by his side. Harry is sure that for now, he has all the time in the world.

△△△

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[13atoms]

An Artifice in Silver - Part Two

A/N - Part 1 was the angsty part of the challenge, written by @wonders-of-the-multiverse, so read that first!! It’s amazing!

Here’s my attempt to make the ending to this fic fluffy.

WARNINGS - Some death and Cyberman conversion are mentioned.

PAIRINGS: Dhawan!Master x Reader

WORD COUNT: 10,323 words

Part One | Part Two

Part Two: A Trap

It felt your though your head had only just collided with the ground when you were shaken awake. Your body been moved, swept awkwardly aside as you slept, clearing a path to the rest of the collapsed crowd from the door. Your head and limbs ached from the hard concrete of the ground, the air no longer green with smoke as you squinted to try and make out the people in the rest of the chamber.

All still human.

A few of them were moving, while others were out cold. You could only hope those nearer the epicentre of the gas being released were simply unconscious, their ragdoll bodies making you wince as they were shaken, loved ones and strangers alike desperately trying to wake them from their unnatural sleep. You could see the horror on the survivors’ faces as they picked over the group, struggling to regain movement in their own aching limbs even as that human instinct to help kicked in. Everyone looked worse for wear.

Motionless Cyber units now stood centurion around the room’s locked doors, terrifying even in their stillness. They appeared to be without instruction, frozen in place, but very much still functional. What was wrong with them? You knew the answer. Your mind drifted back to The Master.

Where the hell was he?

How could he do this to you?

To any one of these people?

A stranger filled your vision, and you felt panic surging through you instantly, heart pumping enough adrenaline to power your chemically-weakened muscles.

“You alright?”

The woman had the authority and certainty of a someone medically trained, a kindness in her eyes even through her fear. She grabbed at your shoulders, checking your vital signs, moving her hands to watch if your eyes tracked them. You groaned. It was all too much, too intense, and you tried not to see rude as you flinched away.

“I’m fine thanks,” you dismissed, peering past her.

You couldn’t take your eyes off the sheer number of people in here.

With a nod she scurried away, back to the rest of the room. They had no idea what was happening, peering up in fear at the frozen metallic claws, at the empty faces of the Cybermen.

You had been so close becoming that. Rotting flesh, trapped inside of a walking tombstone, at the whim of the hivemind which controlled these creatures. You shivered, noticing one frozen in place a few metres behind where the Master had been. They must have encroached on the halted conversion room whilst you’d been asleep, creeping in like demons in the night. Fear gripped you at the idea of those monsters stepping over your unconscious, unguarded body, preserving your form only for its use to them as a puppet.

Since you’d taken those casings apart, you’d been terrified of them. Of the fate which befell those trapped inside, stripped of their humanity. None of those people inside were any more or less worthy of life than you, no one had saved them. They were undead, beyond saving but not yet released from life.

You shuddered.

Your legs continued to shake as you clambered to your feet, tiptoeing closer to one of the Cybermen, expecting it to jump back to life any moment. One question wouldn’t leave your mind: Why were you still human?

You suspected the Master’s involvement but, from the devastation on his face as the gas descended, perhaps he hadn’t had as much influence as you’d thought. With another glance back at the door, you reminded yourself that your worst fears had been realised: he was still gone. Only a frozen monster in an otherwise empty corridor loomed back at you, still locked away by the thick doors which had separated you from him.

They must have closed again after Cybermen entered the chamber, and you knew you couldn’t open them. Cybermen were far too methodical to allow your escape.

Nothing added up. Especially that you were alive without The Master’s involvement.

Had he left on purpose? Assumed you dead? Given up on you?

You couldn’t bear to think about the worst case scenario: that he wouldn’t come back for you. Was he already running, a million lightyears away? Had the Doctor gotten to him?

Had he gotten to the Doctor?

Dwelling on your fears did nothing but make you freeze.

You needed to do something.

There were still people who needed help, you could help them.

But you couldn’t be drawn away from the door. For a sickening moment you wondered if you had imagined him, the way he trembled, begged for you to fight off the inevitable. Perhaps induced by your fear, had you imagined the one person in the universe who could comfort you?

You longed for him to come back, to tut at you for being so scared and tease you for not having a respiratory bypass system.

Instead, he was gone. You were trapped. The noise of the crowd had gradually increased again, raising to a murmur as whispers and hushed sobs of children echoed off the walls. Tones were hushed, everyone terrified of waking the machinery again. Of restarting the horror. Every movement in the room spooked people, and the crackle of an overhead announcement system made people huddle together, whispering frantically as you all anticipated a robotic voice.

‘You will be converted’ still stung fresh in your ears, that sound which had followed you, been offered as the only explanation for what was happening.

That soulless reading of a death sentence still loomed over everyone trapped here.

You tried to stand strong in your position – if nothing else you could be a barrier between the crowd and whatever came through this door – even as freshly-dried tears made your eyes ache.

When a Yorkshire lilt called your name through the speakers, and you smiled.

“Here!”

The group of people backed away from you, watching with equal fear and curiosity as you desperately shouted up to the ceiling, hoping she could hear you.

“I can open one of the doors for a moment, need a power surge and an external battery, it’s a whole thing. Can you see me?”

You scanned the perimeter of the conversion chamber, and spotted movement on the far side of the room. A few of the crowd moved to let you through, whispering, and you could have cried with relief. Her mane of blonde hair was visible through the clear panel of a door, and she waved to you manically as you jogged over it. It was a harsh contrast to how you’d spotted The Master. This time, your relief was warranted.

Unable to hear her, you relied on trying to understand how she pointed frantically to the ground at your feet, before crouching as the played with wires sticking out of something which looked suspiciously-bomb-like. You mirrored her pose, hidden from each other, now below the glass of the window.

You could hear muttering behind you, the shudder of your own breath, as you waited.

There was no rejecting the Doctor’s help now, no matter where your loyalties or personal grievances lay. With the Master gone, she was your only way out.

You had to trust her.

With a gut-wrenching clang the door suddenly shuddered and rose upwards. The thick metal looked too heavy to stop if it fell, but you just held your breath and rolled underneath, trusting her yelled command of:

“Quick!”

She scrambled to pull you clear of the door as it slammed closed like the heavy drop of a guillotine blade, making you cry out as it shook the ground. You had barely made it. That impact would have been fatal.

“Doctor!”

She was already stood, hands on hips. You found yourself left shaking on the ground. She was already on to the next problem.

“I hope that didn’t rewake the system.” She mused as she picked at the smoldering wires, seemingly unaffected by your near-death experience.

You were panting, staring at her in shock. While you’d realised a long time ago that she wasn’t any more careful with your wellbeing than the Master, you couldn’t believe her complete nonchalance. Were The Master in her shoes he would be dragging you back to his TARDIS, apologising for putting you in the situation, his bravado stripped the second he’d seen your wellbeing at stake. He’d be all gentle hands and mumbled reassurance, fury at every single person responsible for the construction of the machinery which had scared you so much.

The memory of his face through the door of the conversion room made your chest hurt, your eyes sting, and you knew he’d never forgive himself for being so reckless. For putting you at risk.

When you looked up, expecting a concerned look at the minimum, you saw the Timelord’s spot vacated. A rat’s nest of wires were the only indication she’d even been beside you. The Doctor was already walking away, shoes clicking on the metallic floor of yet another identical corridor. The Cybermen here were still too, making you hug yourself and run to keep up with her.

“What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” he ground out.

The Doctor couldn’t stand not knowing. She consulted her sonic screwdriver with a scrunched-up face, holding it to her ear, scanning one of the stationary suits as you finally caught up.

“Where’s the Master?” You demanded.

“What?”

“The Master.”

Her face turned dark, and she scowled.

“Of course he’s involved in all this. I should have known. Right, um…”

With another wave and buzz of the sonic screwdriver, she scowled at the result, then at you.

“Got him.”

Perhaps you shouldn’t have told her that he was here. Would it put him at risk? Would it put her at risk? You couldn’t bring yourself to feel guilty. They would have met eventually, dragged together like unwilling magnets. They always converged eventually. And you really needed to see him.

The Doctor took off running, backtracking occasionally as she followed the trace of him the sonic had picked up. You tried in vain to remember these featureless corridors, should you need to navigate back alone. It wouldn’t work. This facility was endless, an economically designed rabbit warren marked with ruthlessly minimal symbols which you couldn’t discern meaning from.

You wouldn’t be able to get out of here alone.

You spared a thought for the poor souls still trapped in the room you’d escaped, cowering under those metal claws and eyeless Cybermen, herded here like trembling sheep.

As you ran after the blonde Timelord the corridor suddenly opened to a large hangar-style door, like the hotwired one you had barely made it under. Seeing the metal above you made you shutter and halt at the threshold, but adrenaline forced you onwards. You cared more about what was inside, who was inside.

You could see him. Hunched over a computer, Cybermen shrunken at his feet like dolls, the Master was in a state of mania as he ripped the room apart.

Seeing him The Doctor gasped and tugged you around a corner and out of view of the room. You went to whisper a protest, but found her lean hand clapped over your mouth, barely touching but enough to stop you giving away her hiding spot.

“Just trust me,” she insisted. “Stay here.”

She grabbed your hand, squeezing it as though you might be less inclined to follow her somehow.

You couldn’t. Despite everything, you felt the draw of the Master, and she tugged your arm to hold you from straying too close to him as you peeked around the corner, just watching him.

His booming voice was unmistakable as he shouted into the room, but his face was hidden from you. The control room of the underground building was sparking and torn apart in places, The Master’s precise tapping of computer keys was interspersed with the ruthless smashing of server racks as he threw them to the ground, scattering the technology. His dismantling of the room was equal parts strategic and uncontrolled destruction, and you worried for the blood seeping from his knuckles and forearms, his jacket strewn aside and sleeves rolled up.

As he took another break from the computer system to punch at a glass pane, you couldn’t let him hurt himself anymore. You surged forward from your hiding spot, feeling the Doctor trying to hold you back. Adrenaline and happiness to see him was all which powered your body.

Calling to him, you imagined his excitement at realising you were alive. Maybe he’d stop smashing. Take you to safety.

“MAST–”

The Doctor grabbed you around the waist, pulling you against her body, muting you with a single hand clamped vice-tight over your mouth. For a moment the pair of you waited in silence, shocked by each other’s actions in equal measure.  

“I don’t know what he’s done to you, but you need to stay away from him.”

Her accent grew stronger as she whispered, and you frowned. Her hand allowed you to breathe through your nose, but was tight around your jaw, her grip as strong as the Master’s.

“This is between us. You need to go back to the TARDIS.”

Not her TARDIS, you were sure of that.

You grunted into her hand, making her yell in pain as you bit down on the flesh of her palm, wriggling to get free. It didn’t even matter who she was: you refused to be manhandled. Your eyes flashed to the corridor, hoping The Master had noticed you, run to your rescue.

No footsteps came.

With a sigh, her hands found your temple, and your body weakened.

“I’m sorry, it’s a dirty trick. He’s done worse, I’m certain.”

You wanted to cry when you realised she was right. But not for the reasons she thought.

Her TARDIS was a mere few-minutes’ walk from where the pair of you had hidden, and she half-carried you the whole way, her mouth set in a grim line which terrified you more than any time the Master had ever shouted around you. You wanted to struggle, to fight her, but your body was too weakened to do anything.

You couldn’t even cry out, forced into obeying her, muscles made limp by her touch on your mind.

Setting you on the ground in the console room, she finally uncovered your mouth and dashed to the doors, calling back to you. As quickly as you had lost it, you suddenly you regained your strength, able to run at her.

“Stay in here.”

“DOCTOR!”

She darted out of the time ship just in time to escape your fury.

The TARDIS doors slammed closed, locking in an instant as you rushed to try and tug them open. It was no use, your whole body weight against the wood couldn’t move those doors.

You looked up at the ceiling of the sentient ship, hoping she might take your side, only to be met with the gentle hum of the time rotor.

“I need to get out,” you begged. “Please!”

Your exit remained barred.

A blue-tinged screen on the console flickered to life, and you left your post by the doors to peer at it. You could hear muffled voices outside, the screen showing a mute overhead view of the Doctor and her best enemy.  

“Please,” you whispered to her, stroking the console. You hoped she was like the Timelords who piloted her, using the touch to tune into your heart. “Let me talk to them.”

There was static, then a click, and you rushed back to the doors. They were still locked.

As you spun to the console in confusion, two familiar voices echoed through the ship’s speakers.

“Is she in there?”

It was him, voice desperate, demanding. The Master.

“No.”

The Doctor was a weak liar at times. He’d see through her. You pounded your fists at the translucent glass of the doors, then held one palm flat against it, begging him to notice you.

He did.

“Doctor!” He taunted. “You lied to me!”

“Stay away from her.”

Glancing back at the monitor, you could see how the Doctor’s body blocked his access to the door, positioning herself between the two of them.

“She wants to see me.”

“She doesn’t.”

You wanted to scream, object as The Doctor stood cross-armed guard between him and the ship. Your words couldn’t permeate the doors.

“Is she okay?”

The feed showed how his attire was destroyed in places, how he slumped, and something else too…

“You’re crying!” The Doctor declared, shock clear in her voice.

The Master didn’t hesitate, taking a long stride towards her, making The Doctor jut her chin out.

“Is she ALIVE?”

You didn’t need the audio feed to hear his yell, and you could see how the blonde Timelord recoiled.

“Obviously!”

He relaxed a little, taking back control, but you could still see how anger dripped off him. His words escaped him as a growl – frustration and fear a melting pot in his voice.

“You have no idea what could be in that stuff she breathed. You haven’t even checked her over, Doctor.”

“Oh, as if you actually care.”

One of them would snap, the Master’s snarling voice met with a harsh laugh from the other Timelord. One of them would just throttle the other, pull the TCE or a gun from some deep recesses of their pockets, or snap the others’ neck. One of them would survive, pulling you into their arms over the broken body of the other.

You couldn’t bear it. Tension seeped through the doors, through the silence of the TARDIS speakers and the bluelight of the screen.

“I care so much it frightens me. Can you imagine that, Doctor? That it scares me?”

He got closer to her face, almost spitting from anger.

“You’re lying,” she growled.

“I destroyed the Cyberium.”

In the grainy monitor you saw her take pause, inspecting his face for a moment, like she’d be able to see whether the Cyberium had left him from nothing but his panting and the whites of his eyes.

You’d heard about it in vague terms, the Cyber AI which he’d absorbed. You’d seen how he avoided the species like the plague as you travelled, the way he fought with it inside his own head sometimes.

Even when it seemed to cause him unbearable pain, he’d promised you it wasn’t that bad. Only in the quiet moments, when he thought you couldn’t see, did you catching him muttering to himself with his eyes pressed shut.

“You what?”

The Doctor looked disbelieving.

“I followed it. I obeyed it, helped it, and this is how it rewarded me. So I killed it.”

Speechless, The Doctor just stared at him.

“I’ll give you the command codes if you like, just let me take her. Please.”

“Have you hypnotized her?”

The Doctor’s new line of attack made you wince, spitting out her words like poison. The Master held his hands up in a surrender, a small silver box tucked under one thumb.

“No. I swear.”

“Let me talk to her first.”

For a moment, the Master seemed to look straight through the monitor, directly at you, and you swore he could tell you were watching. You moved closer to the screen, arms folded nervously as his eyes flickered back to the Doctor.

“Have it your way. I’ll be in the ship’s command room.” He turned to walk away, but you heard his voice still, steady through the speakers. “If you dematerialise, Doctor, I will hunt you down. And everyone left here will die.”

He marched off and you watched on the monitor as he left, longing to run to him as much as you wanted to kill him. The Doctor’s image paused for a moment, and you could see her pacing outside the TARDIS doors. Distracted by the live feed, you jumped when the doors finally banged open. The screen went black, and you silently thanked the ship for being on your side.

“Let me go.”

You told her firmly as she trudged towards the console, playing with one of the instruments like she was toying with just piloting the ship away.

“I will.”

The pair of you stood in silence for a moment, and you longed to say more, but what else was there to say?

“Is there any way I can convince you to stay away from him?”

You were already looking at the door, wondering if you could remember the route back to the smashed control room alone. The Doctor walked towards you, hands awkwardly behind her back, and you felt a pang of longing for what could have been if she was a little more honest, a little more open.

Her voice was desperate, soft, and it made your heart ache for the happier times you’d spent together. Before the pain which surged back and forth between you, the harsh words and the abandonment. You’d hurt each other irreparably. You couldn’t be happy with her and the fam. They would never be enough.

Despite everything, though, you didn’t want to hate her.

“I’ll always remember the adventures we had together,” you promised her.

So much had gone unsaid earlier, in your anger at her for dropping by unannounced and whisking you away like she still had a guarantee you wanted to travel with her. Facing the realisation that this really might be it, you wanted to hug her.

It was strange, wanting to leave her, and yet being so devasted about it.

“What is he, to you?”

She looked afraid to ask it, and you were sure she wouldn’t like your answer. With a sigh, you saw no sense in lying to her.

“I think I love him.”

The drop of her face was enough to confirm it, that there was no getting out of this without hurting someone.

“No mind control,” you promised.

“You can still stay. He’s dangerous.”

Her words were half-hearted. She knew your choice. You shook your head, and she finally left her comfortable spot, rounding the physical barrier of the console so there was only a few feet separating you.

“I know.”

For the first time since you’d known her, she hugged you, awkward and all misplaced limbs. You accepted it, hugging her tightly back. Her face was hidden from you, and you held her as long as she’d let you, hoping you were imagining the ragged breaths which caught in her throat.

“Will he look after you?”

“I think so.”

She nodded against your shoulder, letting you go.

“Thank you, for everything.”

You meant it. For the adventures, for the chance to get more from life than Earth could give you, for the friendships you’d shared with the fam, and for the chance to meet him.

Perhaps she already regretted that last gift.

“Let’s get going, then!”

Her chipper tone was mismatched for the somber mood as you stroked the console goodbye one last time, mumbling your gratitude to the impossible, ancient ship which had first shown you the beauty and terror of this universe. The Doctor strode out the door like this was any other adventure, and you almost expect to be met with the surface of an unknown planet, just one more time.

She led you through the corridors in silence, and you still shivered at the Cybermen as you passed them, recalling the horror concealed inside these metal soldiers.

With a quick instruction to wait for her, The Doctor darted off to check a rack of servers. This was it. Her easy out. She knew you wouldn’t wait.

You kept walking, unexpectedly recognising where you were. He wouldn’t be concealing anything in the corner of a cramped storage room. He would be at the heart of the ship. Waiting for you.

You were right. The doors to the control room hissed open as you approached, revealing him stood in the center of the room. He’d cleaned up, put his jacket back on, brushed his disheveled hair back and lost that snarling, wild-animal demeanor he had been overcome by outside the conversion room, and while he’d spoken to the Doctor. Like the best of his disguises, composure covered his true feelings as he waited for the pair of you, distain on his face and his hands casually strewn in a trouser and jacket pocket.

When he saw you approach alone his performatively curled lip dropped, face slackening as he rushed towards you, open concern on his face. When you didn’t reach out to embrace him, and he stopped, deflated a few feet from you. He tried to lighten the mood, his features picking up into an unnatural smile.

“I told you I’d get you out!”

“You didn’t.” You told him flatly.

He reached for you, and you crossed your arms over yourself, resisting his offer of affection. You wouldn’t go back to him without an apology, if you could help it.

“You left me there.”

“You’re here, you’re…”

He trailed off at the Doctor’s appearance, barging flustered into the room, muttering that she’d ‘told you to wait’. At her entrance the Master wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you tightly to him. You tried to get away, and he wouldn’t release you.

This was a show, meant only to remind the Doctor her friend had chosen him over her, and you hated it. You didn’t want to help him hurt her.

“Don’t touch me.”

He ignored your snarl. You kicked at his foot, and he broke his grip, allowing you to retreat from the two Timelords.

“Lover’s tiff,” he smiled apologetically to The Doctor, reaching out his hand for yours.

When you retreated further away from him again, he froze. He offered his palms up apologetically, and you noticed they were still littered with cuts, some particularly brutal looking. You suspected the smashed-up control room around you could answer for that. He caught you staring, open horror on your face, and shoved them in his trouser pockets.

“It’s okay,” The Doctor’s Yorkshire lilt tried to settle you, and she approached you from the other side like a scared animal. You recoiled from her too, and the Master stepped in front of you.

“You brought her here!” He scoffed to the other Time Lord. “Don’t pretend you’re any better than me!”

The Doctor was acting like the hero, as usual, treating The Master like a teacher calming a mid-meltdown child. Her soft voice and outstretched palms didn’t seem quite so sincere, on the receiving end. You could understand The Master’s anger, as her gentle voice tried to placate him.

“I brought you what you want, we can trade.”

Suddenly, pieces clicked together.

“You said you didn’t know the Master was here,” you frowned.

“Did I?”

You turned on her.

“This was on purpose. You brought me here on purpose?”

From the drop of her jaw, you could read that you were right. At least a little bit. You felt your throat tighten with tears. The Master growled.

“How dare you drag her into this!”

“What? Into your plan?” You caught yourself getting hysterical, but you didn’t care. The Timelords glanced at each other, herding you back towards the glass projection which covered the entire back wall.

“You were supposed to be on Earth! If you had stayed, like I told you –”

Under your glare, he fell silent.

The Doctor, ever playing at being a peacekeeper, tried to step closer to you, only to be matched by the Master. You had nowhere left to go, backed against the dark glass wall of the bunker as they looked between you and each other.

“Doctor, did you… know the Master was here.”

“Yes.”

She had the decency to sound remorseful. You thought back on when you first landed, how quickly you’d lost her, been swept up in the horde of people shepherded towards the conversion chamber. You remembered how you’d feared for your life, the heartbreak on the Master’s face as he’d almost watched you experience a fate worse than death.

How she’d suddenly decided she should have a heart-to-heart with you, the second the Master left you on earth.

“You used me.”

They played this game, and you were a pawn in it. She’d brought you were, let you follow her out of the TARDIS, to play with the Master. Just so she could be the savior, and he could play at matching all of her light with his dark.

“Give me the codes, and this can all end,” she spoke to the Master, refusing to relinquish any of her control as the two of them trapped you. “I’ll let you leave. Everyone downstairs lives. The Cybers get destroyed.”

“You’re monsters,” you whispered.

The two Timelords glanced at each other, not meeting your eye.

“Darling… ” The Master began. You cut him off.

“Don’t.”

“The Cyberium in my head, it was too much. I couldn’t handle it, and if I did this, I could find a way to get it out. I needed their technology, their trust. I’m sorry, love.”

You winced at the pet name. He’d called you that in bed, once, and you’d felt like the happiest person in the universe. You couldn’t even look him in the eye.

“I hope it was worth it.”

Even The Doctor wasn’t speaking. You glanced at her, trying to read anything but shock on from her expression. Following your eyeline, the Master seemed to jolt at the recollection she was even there. Both of you startled as he shoved a hand into the inside of his waistcoat, rummaging.

He threw a small silver communicator underhand to The Doctor, and she barely caught it, inspecting it with unguarded horror.

“Take this. You can dismantle the conversion facility with it, get the people downstairs out.”

She was already at the computer console, sneaking wary glances at the pair of you as her hands flew across the keys, computers still a little scorched from The Master’s earlier go at them. With the second Time Lord out of the picture, The Master turned to you.

“I was destroying this place. For what they did to you.”

“Why did you leave me?” you demanded, “down there?”

“I had to be here, to stop the gas, to freeze the hivemind. I’d already destroyed the Cyberium, I couldn’t stop it. I wasn’t in control.”

You wanted to believe him so badly, the pain in his eyes seemed so real, and he held eye contact with you like you’d never seen before.

“She was never meant to bring you were. I swear, I’ll kill every one of them myself if I have to.”

“Those people down there, they’re just like me. You were going to kill them?”

“They’re not you–”

“Believe it or not Master, I’m human. I’m the same as them. I know you hate it, but I’m the same as them.”

“You’re not–”

“I am! And you were willing to let them die.”

The tremble of his hand as he reached for your cheek gave away his fear, and you recoiled, wincing as your head collided with the hard glossy wall. The Master flinched too, dropping his hand.

“Think how many would have died if the Cyberium had taken over my mind. Taken my ship. Had you.”

The timeline was confusing. Upsetting. Too much to think about. You frowned as you tried to think about it.

“That’s why you dropped me home.”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t let you see me losing control like that. I thought I could come back when it was all over, if I could get my mind back.”

The Doctor was working noisily, and an alarm started going off as she hacked further and further into the base’s system. Outside, you heard a ringing as a Cyberman crumpled to the ground.

“We need to leave.”

As angry as you were, you nodded quickly, letting him guide you out of the room. As you passed, the Doctor called your name.

“It was the only way, I’m sorry. I had to show him what he was doing…”

Her face was truly devastated, for the brief glimpse of it you caught, but you couldn’t forgive her. The Master’s arm found your waist, guiding you away from her quickly, and you let him.

Betrayal had rooted deep in your gut, making you want to nauseous as you looked at her face. All your history together, and she had knowingly dumped you in the middle of a crowd to be converted into Cybermen. Just to hurt The Master.

You saw those blank creatures, their masks hiding the faces of real people, who had loved and been loved, had dreams and wants and needs.

She’d told you it was the worst thing she could imagine. That she’d lost friends to that cruel death and would never risk losing another. At the time your heart had ached for her, for the suffering she had been through, her only crime trying to do the right thing. Apparently she didn’t consider you a friend anymore.

The screeching of collapsing metal ricocheted off the bare corridors, and the Master moved the two of you faster.

You screamed as a Cyberman moved beside you, an electrical twitch before it collapsed to the ground in a pile of loose metal, and the Master’s arm tightened around your waist even more protectively.

You couldn’t move. Your feet were stuck to the ground as you saw the unnatural way the creature fell, the skeleton inside so decomposed the usual flexibility limits of a human body were far exceeded.

Almost pulling you over with his momentum, the Master stopped beside you. He followed your stare towards the horrific sight beside you, and made a noise of discontent in the back of his throat. With a gentle hand he guided your head away until you couldn’t see the creature anymore and the vision was replaced with his face.

“I’m sorry.”

Against your better judgement, and despite everything you’d been through, you hugged him. In the corridor as the base started to crumple around you, you couldn’t help unravelling at his touch, his head against yours as he pulled you tightly against him, feeling tears welling up in your eyes as you pressed your face to his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

“No.”

Deep red lights illuminated the corridors around you, and you felt his sharp inhale of fear.

“Talk later. We need to run. Now.”

The Master struggled to navigate the corridors, swearing to himself each time he reached a junction, and dragging you in the right direction after a moment of panicked, hitting-his-own-head thought. It brought you some small measure of comfort, in the midst of this horrifying day, that he couldn’t have been here long.

Lungs aching, you fought to keep up with him. Even the Master was stumbling, unused to running for this length of time, and he shot you looks of concern as your human body needed to wheeze for breath. The collapsed bodies of Cybermen and the screaming of alarms were enough to keep you moving as the very structure itself rumbled. The burning pain in your muscles could wait.

You noticed the Master cursing up at the ceiling level above, where the Doctor still resided, muttering. What was she doing?

Finally you let yourself slow at the sight of his ridiculous outback shack. It was completely out of place and blocking a walkway. That stupid ship. You loved it.

It was facing the wrong way, and you had to use the back porch steps to clamber up onto the structure, faltering as the comfort of being near the machine finally let your adrenaline crash. He half-dragged you to keep up as you both rounded the veranda, throwing the doors open and firmly pulling you inside. He rushed to the console as the rumbling of breaking concrete and collapsing earth followed you into the ship, and you didn’t have the heart to care about the destruction happening outside.

The Doctor could handle the people who were trapped. She always did, their savior no matter the cost.

The moment the TARDIS’ doors closed, you fell into that old rickety sofa, and sobbed.

The Master piloted in silence, and once the murmur of the ship engines had stopped, he paced towards you awkwardly. He crouched to sit himself on the low table opposite your curled form, clasped his hands, and bowed his head. He let you cry yourself out, staring out as the windows at the vortex – empty and filled with flashes of colour all at the same time.

After a while he left, coming back with water and tissues, and you took them gratefully.

A few sips of water left you with enough voice to speak, albeit tremblingly, as he watched you worriedly.

“Do you think the bunker collapsed? After we left?”

“Probably. I think she got them out though. The computers could open the doors to the surface.”

“Good,” you said firmly.

“Good that they got out, or that the building collapsed?”

“Both.”

He chuckled, pulling your clenched hand away from your face. He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, keeping them held to his lips. His hands were warm against your fingers as he held them, leant forwards with his elbows resting on his knees, lips surprisingly soft.

You knew he could check the fate of the bunker collapse. Future archeologists would have found it, if no one at the time recorded its outcome. But you didn’t particularly care for the truth. This ending was nicer.

Even after you fidgeted, trying to get more comfortable with him holding your hand away from you, he didn’t let go. You noticed the marring on his hands, already scabbing a little, and turned onto your side to touch the wounds.

“Do these hurt?”

“A little. They’ll heal up with some sleep, though.”

You laughed hollowly. Of course, a nap could heal wounds which you would need stitches for. He smiled sadly against your lips.

“Did you get hurt, at all? I was worried about the gas.”

“I’m a bit bruised, but I’ll be fine.”

The fall and the running made your muscles ache, but the main hurt wasn’t physical.

She’d betrayed you.

“She asked me to leave with her.”

He bowed his head, lips moving against your knuckles as he spoke.

“You said no?”

“Duh.”

He smiled.

“Thank you.”

You shrugged, not totally forgiving of him yet either. The energy had left you to fight. All you wanted was a bit of peace, convalescence before this inevitable game started again. The reckless travel, fighting over how much damage to cause, and the sex he didn’t care about.

How much longer could the two of you keep this up?

You wondered if you’d ever regret the decision to stay with him. When death stared you in the face again? The next time he forgot how human you were? At the pull of the TCE’s trigger, as he killed someone without a second thought?

Maybe then the Doctor’s different-but-equally-grey morals might seem more appealing.

Perhaps if you’d begged her to let you rejoin the ‘fam’, the Doctor might not have used you as a bargaining chip.

“When I saw you through that window… I realised you mean more to me. More than I’d ever expected.”

The admission would have made you swoon, on another day, but you just threw your head back against the wicker armrest, emotionally exhausted.

“I mean it.”

He was watching you for a reaction, and you rolled your head to face him.

His eyebrows drew together in a frown.

“You must be shattered, love.”

You could only nod, and he dropped his forehead to the hand he was clutching, a silent apology.

“What can I do to help? I need you to tell me. I’ve been alone too long, and I’m not good at this stuff –”

His breath was hot against the skin of your hand. It made you shiver.

“I just want a shower. And to sleep. We can talk in the morning I just… I’ve had a long day.”

“Of course.”

It wasn’t a surprise to you, his capacity for tenderness, but you hadn’t seen it this exposed, this prolonged, before. He seemed to move a little easier than he had in the last few weeks, his mind not drifting so far from where it ought to be tethered.

You wondered if he’d ever tell you how badly the Cyberium had affected him.

“Sorry.”

Maybe he knew what your apology was for, maybe he didn’t. Nonetheless he shook his head, helping you up, his hands held out in a silent offer for support walking should you need it. You took your own steps, legs trembling a little from overexertion as you walked alongside him towards the corridor which housed both of your rooms.

“Wait a second,” he murmured, leaving you so he could check a screen, humming at whatever he saw.

Like he’d never left, he was back, arm held out for you to take. You laid a hand across his elbow lightly, not to lean on him, but to be near him.

“What was that?”

“Just checking you’re okay.”

At your puzzled look, he continued, tone dismissive.

“The TARDIS checks your vital signs. That green gas was nasty, unknown, I just wanted to check it didn’t need any immediate attention. Seems like it just knocked you out. How are your muscles feeling?”

“Exhausted, obviously. I think I’ll ache tomorrow.”

He hummed in agreement as you reached your door, surprising you when he opened it for you and followed you inside.

“High lactic acid. Blood-oxygen’s a touch lower than I’d like, too.”

You frowned.

“Do you really measure all that stuff on me?”

“Is it creepy? I hoped it wasn’t. I just… it’s not exactly intrusive, better than a checkup or whatever. It lets me know you’re not about to drop down dead.”

He moved around your room as he spoke, collecting pajamas and your hairbrush, various other bits and bobs you might need in an overnight bag. When he caught you watching him, confused, he walked back to the door. Your possessions were bundled against his chest, secured by one of his hands.

“Come use my bath. There’s some soaks that should help you recover.”

The shake in your legs wasn’t just from the running as you crossed the corridor, surprised by the realisation his door appeared to be unlocked. It was barely six feet from the entrance to your room, but you’d never seen this door open.

You had assumed his room was always locked. When he was in there, absent from the rest of the ship, it meant he wanted to be left strictly alone. Going inside, even with his hand guiding you, felt forbidden.

He’d always fucked you in your room. It was easier for him that way. It allowed him to leave the second he was done, if he wanted to. Even when the pair of you got more comfortable, laying together, spending more time intertwined just reading or watching movies, his space was off limits.

He didn’t miss the way you halted at the threshold, looking around at the curiously designed space. The furniture didn’t match the room, you noticed. Colourless walls were contrasted with a regal four-poster, antique bookshelves stretched high towards an iridescent crystalline ceiling, futuristic inlaid lights illuminated the messiness of a hand-carved oak desk.

Old and new clashed, everything regal and big, but barely filling the oversized space.

“It’s a bit weird,” he conceded, “you can stick to your room if you like.”

“No, no its fine. Just not what I expected.”

He set your things on the bed, and you picked over the sweats he’d brought, clutching them to your chest.

“What did you expect?” he grinned.

“I don’t know. Versailles? Or some kind of BDSM torture chamber?”

With a laugh he appraised the room, biting his lip in amusement.

“Are you disappointed?”

You found yourself grinning too, as he shucked off his coat and lay it over the desk chair.

“A little.”

The newly formed tension between you had felt like a lead weight, and you only realised when it was broken. You bounced on your heels as much as your injured muscles allowed, and let him lead you to the bathroom.

“Don’t change yet, I’ll just grab some shower stuff!”

More classic, the bathroom was all marble, the space dominated by an oversized claw-foot tub. For a moment you realised the pair of you could fit in there comfortably, before brushing the thought away. Exhaustion was making you hazy already. You’d just fall asleep.

Plus, you remembered, you were mad at him.

Ignoring his warning you started to strip off, left in just your underwear by the time he appeared in the doorway with an ‘oh!’

“Its fine. Nothing you haven’t seen before,” you pointed out.

He still looked sheepish.

“Rub this on anywhere that hurts before you get in the water, should stop any inflammation and you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Help?”

You were too tired to navigate the pain mapped all across your body alone, and you didn’t want to be without company. The screams of the child who’d lost a mother, of the people who’d seen that gas descending, the slamming of the door you’d barely rolled under, they’d all find your ears again as ghosts the moment you were without distraction.

Without you stripping off any further, the pair of you managed to apply the chalky substance all over your body, the honey-sweet smell filling the air as his hands cautiously rubbed it across your muscles. You were more slapdash with your own application, and he quietly returned to spots you’d missed, making sure you wouldn’t ache. His attention to your muscles was so tender and careful, you had to keep talking, just to stop yourself choking up.

“I could have used this on the Doctor’s TARDIS!” you had tried to joke.

The other Timelord was far more fond of running, and you’d woken up countless mornings in agony, even as the fun of the day before electrified the atmosphere in her ship.

The Master stayed silent.

On many levels, you felt you understood him a little better now. It had hurt, to be betrayed by her, but you had something in common now.

“Did it hurt to leave her?” he whispered.

The Master’s eyes were on your calf as he kneaded the substance into your skin, but his hands froze at your momentary silence.

“Yeah. It did. Before I realised what she’d done, at least.”

He nodded silently, swallowing. The pair of you froze as you finally put the glass jar down, accepting that this excuse to be together was done. His hands left your skin and he walked to the sink awkwardly, washing his hands in silence.

He didn’t leave, leaning against the counter and watching you.

“Give me a shout if you need me, okay?”

You smiled, suddenly shy, barely recognising the man in front of you.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll be just outside.”

Finally, he left. He closed the door with a click, and instantly you felt like an intruder, left alone in his bathroom. It was tidy, but everywhere were reminders it was his space. Aside from your clothes folded messily on the counter, there was only his things. A matte black range of branded products scattered the room, lined up by his toothbrush, on a built-in shelf of the shower. You wanted to investigate them, smell them. See which of them were responsible for the smell you associated with him.

The tub of hair clay by the sink had the lid slightly ajar, and it made you smile as you corrected it. He must have gotten ready in a rush. It was strange, that he’d even wanted you in here, but you hoped it was some step towards real closeness. There was still so much to say, but that was easy to forget when he was there, caring for you.

You’d only left the Doctor because you could see a future with him – something she couldn’t offer you, surrounded by carelessness and lies and three other companions. The Master could offer you more. You could almost picture your own toothbrush, stood up next to his.

You stripped off your underwear and left it on the countertop, foregoing the tub for the alluring waterfall shower in the corner of the room. It was easily big enough for four people, all natural-cut stone with a simple pair of dials to control it. Beautiful, and completely to the Master’s taste.

Before you had touched anything the TARDIS started the water, a slow trickle turning into a warm sheet of water which made you sigh at the sensation of being underneath it.

“Thanks, dear,” you mimicked how he spoke to the ship, and she flickered the lights in return.

It was heaven, to finally have every remaining atom of that base, that conversion room, those corridors, swept off your skin.

The products you reached for all smelt faintly like him – a matching suite of mildly citrus-scented body wash and hair products. Exhaustion and the smell made you feel dazed as you rubbed the chalky healing substance off your body. The smell of him made you feel somehow guilty as you tried to clean the sweat and grime from your hair and your face. His senses were so attuned, you wondered if it would freak him out. Or whether he’d like it, to have you smelling of him. Like a claim.

If he was still outside the unlocked door the thundering of the water hid any noise he made. You rolled your shoulders and turned the heat up, letting the heaviness of the water rush over you, waiting for this day to make sense.

You had no idea how long you stood there lost in thought. The Master’s voice dragged you back to reality, calling your name worriedly through the door with a rap of his knuckles against the wood.

“Are you okay?”

“All good!”

Calling back, you quickly rinsed your hair before shutting the water off, suddenly driven back to motion by his concern. Back in your early days together he’d often overestimated how much humans could withstand, lamenting the ‘wasted’ hours of sleep you wanted, or the frequency with which you had to eat. He’d gotten better recently. He was aware of how exhaustion affected you, appreciated that you couldn’t walk or run forever. It had amused you when he started carrying food and even occasionally arranging places for you to stay overnight, should your travels require it.

On a fundamental level, he had started caring for you more.

The Master had never gone to this extent, though. Or perhaps you had never needed his care as much. The scans his ship seemed to run on you proved he’d at least been checking your body was okay all this time.

Maybe he’d always just checked your health and opted to let you heal alone, before today.

A deep burgundy towel hung on a heated rail beside the shower and you grabbed it, careful not to slip as you wrapped the material around you. It was oversized, thick and soft, and you couldn’t help the jolt when you felt the warmth of it on your bare skin and remembered it was his.

Even though he’d been inside of you, gotten to know you, you’d never been allowed to know him back. Not really. This felt like a start.

You had to brush the thought aside, drying your hair as best you could without a hairdryer, pulling on pajamas and leaving the wet towel back where you found it for the ship to deal with. It took a moment, and a deep breath, for you to finally emerge from the steam-filled room.

The Master was sat on his bed, reading some book from his collection which was quickly strewn onto his desk as you approached.

“Better?”

“Yeah, thanks. I think I’ll still ache tomorrow.”

He looked a little sheepish.

“Hopefully not. That stuff’s pretty good, usually.”

You stood uncomfortably for a moment, waiting for some cue from him on where to go from here. He turned down the bed, silently pulling the covers aside for you to climb in. Then he looked at you expectantly, as if you were obviously supposed to just clamber into his bed. You were surprised, but all too grateful for the comfort.

“Really?”

He left your question unanswered. You settled beneath the sheets, and The Master watched you as he tried to figure out what to do next.

“Do you want me to…”

He was mid-thought, it seemed, asking you if he should leave his own bedroom. You spoke over him.

“Can you stay with me? Just for tonight. We’ll forget it ever happened tomorrow if you want.”

He faltered, still watching you curiously. You wondered what his plan had been, if not to stay with you.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see those fucking metal claws, the insides of those creatures, I –”

Without a word he stripped off his jacket, boots and waistcoat.

“I just need a shower. Give me five minutes.”

You nodded, wrapping the covers around you and trying to get comfortable. You’d never had ‘sides of the bed’ - he’d never stayed long enough to designate those - but you couldn’t shake the feeling you were in the wrong place.

It was stupid. To be having casual sex with the man, to trust him with your life, and not even feel entitled to be sleeping in his bed.

Something had to change.

The Master was barely gone two minutes, emerging from his shower with a towel slung around his hips. He rummaged through his wardrobe before tugging free a pair of checkered pajama trousers, glancing to check you were still there before silently returning to the bathroom to change. You looked away at his half-nakedness, hoping he hadn’t noticed your breath hitch.

The two of you were a mess.

His awkwardness didn’t escape you as he rounded the bed, shirtless and with wet hair.

He climbed in beside you, careful not to touch you, and you tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, letting him pull the covers over himself and refusing to let your bodies roll together, even as the mattress gave. To your surprise, he lay out to mirror you, on his side behind you.

If not to the distance between your bodies, he could be chest to chest with you.

“Comfy?”

You nodded against the pillow, hands self-consciously tucked away in front of you. You could feel it when he spoke, the whisper of his breath on your neck. His head rested inches behind yours, intimate even as the pair of you didn’t touch.

“You smell nice,” he mumbled, nose close to your freshly-washed hair.

You laughed.

“I smell like you, of course you like it!”

That got a chuckle out of him, and you could feel how his body moved the mattress as he exhaled.

“Are you cold? Your hair’s still wet.”

You shrugged, and he brought his arm around you, resting it on you without pulling you in. He made a noise of contentment as you shuffled closer into him, letting him hold you more easily.

With a gulp, you hoped his closeness to you would stop him from recoiling at your question.

“Before you dropped me off… when I fell asleep…”

“I’m sorry.”

Oh.

“So, you did do it.”

“You wouldn’t leave otherwise. It is not safe for humans around Cybermen,” he trailed off.

The question you wanted answered was obvious, hanging in the air, making you tense.

“Its not okay, to mess with people’s heads like that,” you chided him gently, with no anger in your tone, nothing to make him explode at you like he had before.

“I… yeah. I know.”

You frowned, even as you knew he couldn’t see you.

“The Cyberium… it made me not trust myself. It was relentless, talking to me. Muddling my thoughts with the AI…”

“You were scared.”

“I was furious. It made me volatile.”

His face buried into your neck. As though this was the most natural thing in the world, you found yourself trusting his touch. You brought a hand up to stroke his hair as he mumbled against your skin.

“I was scared. It threatened to hurt you if I didn’t do what it wanted. I didn’t sleep for a month, couldn’t let my guard down, knowing it might use my body to hurt you. It was trying to get to me.”

You found his arm where it was strewn across your side and covered it with your own arm, squeezed his hand in comfort.

“You should have told me.”

“How could I?”

Without a response you fell silent, thumb tracing the hairs on the back of his hand.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, someday. You shouldn’t have been there. I promise.”

He blamed the Doctor, beyond all anger, he was just upset with her. You could never hope to understand the length and breadth of their tumultuous relationship. It would take a human lifetime to comprehend the bond between them – two near-gods who had been stuck in a game of cat and mouse for their whole lives.

“She used me.”

“I wish she hadn’t.”

Without seeing each other’s faces, it was easier to talk.

“Would you have stopped it, if I hadn’t been there?”

“Eventually. I wanted to destroy the base properly. I wanted a plan. I hate the Cyberium for what it did to me. It should have been power, knowledge, and instead it tried to steal what I knew, take my body for its own. The things it showed me… how it threatened me… I couldn’t let it take what’s mine.”

“The TARDIS…” you realised.

“And you.”

You nodded abruptly at his words.

One thought wouldn’t leave your mind: those people around you, he would have let them die.

Collaterally to you, he’d saved them.

And maybe that could be a start.

“Is the Cyberium totally gone now?”

“Yep! Transferred it to the supercomputer on the base, and then destroyed the machinery. Tricky to hide my plan from the AI, but I managed it.”

You couldn’t help smirking at his brag.

“And how do you feel?”

“Glad to have my mind to myself again,” his tone flattened.

It was hard to believe everything fell together, just like that. It still felt so unfinished, so… unhandled. In the minutes you were alone the feelings of betrayal, the sheer enormity of your ordeal, had felt so unmanageable. Now, you felt ready to heal.

Beneath his hand, your stomach gurgled loudly, and you cringed at the noise.

As you were about to apologise, the Master spoke.

“Wait, did you eat today?”

You frankly had no idea how long today had even been. You shook your head with a confused frown, realising that now the adrenaline had left your system, you were damn hungry.

He clambered out of bed, and you pulled the duvet aside to follow him, your muscles protesting at even the idea of walking to the kitchen.

“No, stay there, you need to rest. I’ll be quick.”

True to his word, a plate of food was dumped on your lap in minutes. Some of it not quite fit for human consumption, but most of it your favourites.

He clambered back into bed beside you. He used his body to prop you up comfortably. He picked off what you didn’t want, chatting away about nothing in particular, and something scarily like peace settled over you. That twinge of panic, the fear his mood would flip on a dime, ebbed further away every time he made sure the blankets were covering your feet. With every second he sat beside you, sneaking bites of your food and laughing when you spilt crumbs on his covers, your resolve grew.

You’d stay.

Maybe you imagined it, but he seemed so much happier in his own head. The dark moments when he wasn’t paying attention never appeared, the mental war he was fighting never sneaking outwards to play across his face. Every laugh felt sincere, every word authentic.

When you were done eating the Master cleared the plate, and you took it in turns to brush your teeth. He went first, and when you took his place in the bathroom you saw a brand-new toothbrush sitting innocently beside his at the sink.

The sight made you feel dizzy, even minutes later when you re-emerged into his darkened bedroom, taking your place once more in the bed. The image of those two toothbrushes side by side was burned into your mind. He pulled you to his shirtless body wordlessly, no hesitations this time, whispering a goodnight as the room fell into pitch-blackness.

You needed to rest.

Each time you closed your eyes, you tensed up. No matter the comfort, The Master had gone still beside you, but you were certain he was still awake.

“Where are we?”

“Somewhere near the Alzarium Galaxy, I believe.”

“How far–”

“Half a universe away, I promise.”

You closed your eyes again, feeling him breathe behind you as you tried to push the image of that collapsed Cyberman from your mind, the screams, that crying, motherless child. You’d seen horrors before, but rarely as the victim of them. Never so close.

Suppressing tears, you opened your eyes, staring into the darkness of the room.

“I can’t sleep.”

He hummed sympathy, pulling you tighter to him and brushing his nose against your neck. You sighed into him, trying to close your eyes again, unable to keep your mind from straying.

“Help me?”

You could talk more tomorrow, when you’d rested and had some distance from everything. But as you fell asleep, dreamless as the Master’s hands cupped your temples, you knew you were home.

[kopikokun]

Star-Crossed Lovers༄ mark l.

↳ You’re not supposed to be so hopelessly in love with a man as dangerous as Mark, especially given the fact that you’re engaged, but you just can’t help it.

pairing: hitman!mark x reader

genre: fluff, angst

wordcount: 1889 words

Request 28: Mark + “I’m so in love with you.” (36) + “I wish we could stay like this forever.” (39) + “I want to take care of you.” (51)

— 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧. | 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬.

What was that saying? It’s wrong yet it feels so right?

  Regardless of what it is, you can’t deny the exhilarating rush from doing this. You feel a shiver creep up your spine, and it’s not from the cold night breeze. No, it’s from the sight of the lone figure before you, the ends of their robe dancing with the wind, their lithe fingers adorned with the faint gleam of silver rings, and their large, near worn-out hood, draped over their head, obscuring their face.

  The figure on the shingled rooftop with you holds a small knife in their hand, its sharp and pristine blade reflecting the moonlight as they twirl the small weapon expertly around their fingers.

  You should be scared, and you would be bluffing if you weren’t at least just a little. But you know the man would never let his knife even graze your skin. The only sharp thing which makes your heart pound is his smile.

  “Miss me?”

  Mark’s hood falls to his shoulders, revealing that mischievous face that you fall in love with every night. His grin is deadly, arguably even more so than he is as he continues to weave that knife easily between his ring-clad fingers. From the way he so casually does it, it’s as if he was born with a knife clasped in his fist, which wouldn’t be surprising for Mark. You turn away from the sight, a feeling of mild disdain building in your chest.

  You hum vaguely in response, and Mark smiles softly, almost a little sadly, as if he knows what you’re thinking. He tucks his knife away.

  “I hope that’s a yes.”

  You don’t even realise that Mark has taken a seat beside you until he sighs. He’s truly a talented hitman, but you’re unsure if that’s exactly a compliment.

  “I missed you,” confesses Mark, his voice so quiet it could almost be mistaken as the light gust of air which fans your face.

  “Really?” you challenge, raising a brow and turning to face him. “I guess you didn’t miss me enough to come yesterday.”

  Mark holds your gaze. “I-I had something to do.”

  “Something to do...” Your chest tightens, and you debate on whether you should even ask. “Who was it?”

  Mark blows out an unsteady breath. “It doesn’t matter.”

  You would push him further, but doing so would take you nowhere. You know that from experience. “Okay.”

  You decide to rest your head in Mark’s lap. It’s what you usually do when you meet him up here every night. At first, you would sit crossed-legged beside him, relishing in the one-of-a-kind view. Buildings and humble homes stretched out for miles, a few of them emitting a yellow glow from their windows, but most dark and dormant, its inhabitants fast asleep as the moon casts its light onto their roofs. The stars blinking, scattered across the vast and endless canvas of the night sky, whispering to you about the tales of the past, about wars, treachery and greed, yet also of two lovers, just like you and Mark, who had lay under these very stars professing their love and clinging onto one another until the Sun began to rise.

  You’ve got a clearer view of the sky with your head in Mark’s lap anyway. And a clearer view of him too. It’s unrealistic how attractive he still looks at this angle. Unfair, actually.

  “What’re you looking at?” Mark’s hands support his weight as he leans back, staring down at you. His eyes are playful and a familiar brown—intoxicating almost—as they reel you in and drag you under.

  You smile up at him. “You.”

  Though one of Mark’s most impressive qualities is how easily he can slither his way into any woman or man’s heart without any emotional attachment, his breath still catches in his throat despite having heard that line over a hundred times. You don’t miss this fact, smiling coyly, knowing that you have this untouchable hitman wrapped around your little finger. “You’re really pretty,” you elaborate.

  Mark laughs heartily, and though he’s a feared man, painted out to be a ruthless beast with a cold stare and a rugged edge to his voice, his laughter contradicts that belief. It’s joyful, airy and boyish, reminiscent to that of a young teenage boy in love, and in this moment, you’re reminded that he’s hardly an adult. He’s only barely been chaffed by the harsh reality of adulthood, yet his eyes possess a wisdom far beyond his years, one he’s earned from the twenty years of sneaking through the shadows and scaling walls silently, grappling to stay alive. But as you stare deeply into his eyes, roaming their never-ending depth, you can make out that dim glimmer of childlike euphoria, something Mark never had the chance to experience. He’s a crumbling monument, only barely standing thanks to a few make-shift pillars and beams, but there’s something beautiful about him, something that had drawn you in that first night you met him.

  Mark tilts his head, smiling softly. “You think I’m pretty? Look at yourself, darling,” he says, putting those long years of charming others to use. But unlike with them, his words are genuine with you. He giggles again, smiling fondly. “I’m so in love with you.”

  Your hand reaches forward to caress his surprisingly smooth skin. He flinches as the chilled metal of the band which hugs your left ring finger comes into contact with his cheek. “I love you too.”

  Mark grips your wrist, even his own fingers are cold compared to yours and the contrast in temperatures sends a prickling  jolt through your arm. He tugs your hand from his face, inspecting your ring. “Oh, really now? You do?”

  You pull your hand out of his grip, sitting up from his lap. He gives you a pointed look, leaning back in his position.

  “Mark…” Your own fingers subconsciously fiddle with the ring, twisting it around. “You know I didn’t have a choice. I don’t get a say in who I marry…”

  “I know that.” He frowns, his usually light-hearted and carefree expression overcome with a bitter one. “He must be great, huh? Kim Doyoung; rich, handsome, intelligent, son of a prominent figure—he’s perfect for you. Little old though, don’t you think?”

  You roll your eyes. “He’s only three years older than you are, Mark. And how did you—”

  “I’m a hitman. Finding out who your fiance is isn’t exactly the hardest thing I’ve had to do. And it’s not like he’s particularly low-profile or living humbly either.” Mark crosses his arms. “And I figured I should know who’ll be sleeping in the same bed as you every night.”

  Mark’s tone grows sinister, and a muscle in his jaw twitches. You place a cautious, delicate hand on his shoulder and sigh, “Mark…”

  “I know. I shouldn’t be getting jealous or possessive. I don’t have the right to, but I want to.” Mark looks at you, his gaze sincere and his smile, sad—longing. “I want to be the one who marries you, who kisses you before you go to bed, who makes breakfast for you when you wake up in the morning, but I can’t do that, huh?” He laughs humourlessly.

  You grow silent. You can’t even bring yourself to look into Mark’s eyes. You know they only hold sorrow as he grieves for something he’s lost; you. Though, he’s never really had you to begin with, and how could he possibly lose something he’s never had anyway?

  You’re selfish. You knew being involved with Mark would only end in tragedy for the both of you, but you went against your own logic regardless. Something about following your heart, you suppose. How naive of you. Fate isn’t kind.

  “I guess, I,” Mark clears his throat, “I want to take care of you.”

  You laugh dryly, though tears threaten to spill, blurring your vision and those stars that seemed so bright and hopeful look fuzzy now, like they’d vanish with one measly swipe of your thumb. “You want to take care of me? You murder people for a living, Mark.”

  Mark laughs too, but it’s laced with despair. “Killing pays, babe.”

  You curl up beside Mark, resting your head on his shoulder as you wrap your arms around his. He lets his head fall to yours too, stroking your hair gently. “I can’t say you’re wrong.”

  “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

  Your frail heart shatters at Mark’s words. His voice is thick with tears, with heartbreak and with acceptance. You don’t realise that all your pent up tears have finally escaped until you feel a single drop land on your left hand. The ring on your finger glints with malice, and that’s what finally breaks you.

  Mark smoothes down your hair, shushing you gently and whispering reassuring words into your ear. You pay no heed to them, because you know they don’t possess an ounce of truth. Because they’re just words—wishful thinking and momentary delusions to get you through the sobs. And Mark knows that too, because eventually he grows silent, crying soundlessly, his warm tears and muffled hiccups mingling with yours.

  When the Sun begins to peek through the mountains in the distance, Mark stands to leave, kissing you softly as farewell. His lips mould perfectly with yours and you grip his sleeve, willing for him to stay. He pulls away, his hot breath interlaced with yours. He runs the pad of his thumb across your hand, before he’s turning away from you, your arm falling limp and cold to your side.

  As Mark is about to leave and flips his hood up, he glances back at you, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He pauses, swallowing a lump in his throat. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mark.” You brave a smile for him, desperately hoping it looks genuine.

  Mark has spent his entire life observing people’s emotions, perfecting his craft so he can secure the best time to strike. He knows it’s not genuine, but he returns it anyway and it looks just as forced as yours is.

  As you watch Mark’s nimble figure retreat into the jet black landscape of the night, his body skilfully navigating and leaping from roof to roof as he’s done all his life, you can’t stop the tears from falling. Despite that, you’re still smiling from ear-to-ear, rubbing your swollen eyes with the back of your hands.

  When Mark is finally out of sight, the only trace of him he left behind being the inviting smell of his fabric softener, you hug your knees to your chest and lift your gaze to the sky. You begin to wonder, if you and Mark’s circumstances had been different, would you have fallen in love and got to experience the life you yearned for with him?

  With a resentful laugh you realise you probably wouldn’t have. Fate is cruel, and star-crossed lovers will always remain star-crossed lovers. Suddenly, a burning abhorrence towards the illuminated sky grows in your gut, the flames lapping at you and tearing down everything in its path.

  You cover a single, miserable star with your thumb, childishly hoping that you’ve snuffed it out. You screw your eyes shut. The view doesn’t look that great anymore.

[quarantineddreamer]

a little fall of rain 

aka: it’s my fanfic and i’ll make myself cry with les mis!zutara if i want to

Day 4 @zkfanworkweek​: Angst. Hello! For those of you who know me as quarantineddreamer on AO3 a heads up that this one-shot is very different from my usual style. I experimented with present tense and I’m still not sure how successful I was with it, so I hope it doesn’t totally disappoint the wonderful artist who inspired me to write this!

In any case this amazing piece by the talented @firelord-hotman​ is worth checking out even if my writing cannot do it justice! I saw it and immediately got all the Zutara feels --along with a certain song stuck in my head... 

There’s an uprising in Ba Sing Se and she is dressed proudly in blue. 

The color is noticeable even in the shadows of night. It is a challenge, a dare, thrown boldly to the troops that have gathered and are waiting, arms at the ready, for the students behind the barricade to disperse. Or else. 

She is dressed proudly in blue and it fills Zuko with a dread so deep he can feel it in his heart like a drum, pulsing with each step he takes further into the tense silence. 

He wishes she would dress as the others he passes have, in muted browns, greys, and greens, but of course, her bravery and passion are as much a part of her as the curls that move like water across her back as she turns to speak with another rebel --and he loves every part of her. 

He has loved her since the day they met. The day she found him curled in the street, clutching his face, and without a second thought took him to a healer. She is more selfless than anyone he has ever met. More selfless than he will ever be. She is always thinking of others, always dreaming of a better world, and now here she is, ready to fight for that vision. Zuko thinks maybe, in another life --a life where the enemy’s face was not burned so intimately into his every nightmare- he could be more like her. 

Zuko has always carefully avoided conflict. He was taught that when tension fills the air it is best to mind your own business and look the other way or severe punishment will be dealt. It is a lesson he learned when he was young. It is a lesson he has carried within him ever since the day he met Katara. He has tried to teach her this lesson of self-preservation, because his worst fear is seeing her hurt, but it is not in her vocabulary. 

“Where does the barricade still need reinforcing?” 

Katara glances at her friend Toph before examining the earth wall before her. “Aang!” she calls.

A boy in orange robes comes forward. Zuko has been envious of this boy ever since they met. He is like her, courageous, decisive and he has seen how she smiles at him. The same look of admiration crosses her face now as he confidently instructs Toph on the best place to bend next. 

Coward, Zuko calls himself, as he avoids the light of the lanterns, but continues to follow them from a distance, observing. 

Katara is walking alongside Aang, he has looped her arm through his. Together they are checking on the members of their revolution, soothing nerves with just the power of a few words. Eventually they settle around a small fire with several other rebels.

You need to tell them, he thinks, but he feels so out of place here. He has been helping Katara organize her movement for years, but always discreetly. Scrounging up useful information and stealing supplies from behind the safety of a mask. He never thought he would be here, undisguised, sneaking into what will soon be a battleground. It has been years since he last stood directly in his father’s path. Yet here he is and beyond the barricade are his father’s men. It is an undeniable and terrifying truth that turns his veins to ice. 

He wonders what fresh torture his father might dream up for him if he is discovered. Banishment will not be enough. Perhaps obliteration will do. 

“Sokka, Suki, seriously, get a room! I can hear you smacking lips from here,” Zuko’s thoughts are interrupted as Toph groans at Katara’s brother and the girl who sits beside him.

“Toph, there’s no rooms around here and we don’t know what tomorrow may bring. If you don’t mind I’m going to kiss my girlfriend.”

“She has a point,” Aang coughs. 

“Oh please, I know you and my sister will be sneaking off before the night is done.” Sokka rolls his eyes, but he and Suki have separated and a playful grin is on his face. 

Zuko’s stomach twists. Katara’s head is resting on Aang’s shoulder and a slight blush has appeared on the face Zuko knows so well. His nerve is failing with each passing second, but Katara is wearing blue and time is running out. 

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to steady himself. In his mind he sees a day from years ago. One of his favorites. When they walked to the park together to feed the turtleducks. It had felt so easy with her, so carefree, like for the first time in his life everything might just be okay. He remembers the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed at his jokes. He recalls the warmth of her hand in his as he walked her home along rainy pavement shining like silver… but Katara was a storm, a tempest, beautiful and strong and he hadn’t been able to find the courage to tell her, afraid of what might happen if he confessed how he felt. Of the loss that might follow. The loneliness. What would he do without her?

Now the years of friendship are a sort of regret, because it was safe, yes, but it is another who is tucking a strand of her hair gently behind her ears, and he might never know what could have been, but she must know this… 

“Katara…” Zuko steps forward. 

Everyone jumps and reaches for weapons, but she is quick to assure them. “Zuko! What are you doing here?” Her eyes take in the red of the uniform he wears, but they do not narrow in suspicion as the others have. She trusts him. 

“I have to tell you something.” He pauses only briefly, watching her face for a moment before the rest of the words tumble out, “I snuck into the palace--”

“You what?!” Katara is shocked. She knows what that place means to him, the marks he still bears from his years spent behind its walls. Though she is clearly still trying to figure out what has possessed him, she lowers her voice. “Why would you do that?”

For you, for you, everything I do is for you, he wants to say. “I know what you have planned and I knew my f--.... I knew the Fire Lord would retaliate.”

Aang is regarding him with a cautious curiosity. His arm settles protectively around Katara’s shoulders and it takes everything in Zuko not to visibly cringe. “You still haven’t answered her question. What are you doing here?”

Her eyes are locked onto him. They are the moon in the darkness that has been his life, illuminating everything, making him feel seen when it would be all too easy to disappear into the abyss. They are blinding and perfect and he does not want to see the disappointment in them when he shares the intelligence he has gathered. When he pleads with her to stand down. Still… you must do this. 

“The Fire Lord does not intend to fight you fairly. He does not intend to fight you at all. He intends to kill anyone who remains behind this barricade. You need to get home. All of you…” He speaks only to her at first, but then turns his gaze to the others sitting beside her. When they do not react he tries again. “They do not intend to wait much longer. They will come before sunrise and they will not show mercy.”

“What are you saying?” Sokka asks.

“I am saying if you do not leave these streets will run red with your blood. I’m saying today is doomed, but you can still save tomorrow if you go now.”

It hurts that Katara looks away from him and turns immediately to Aang, for guidance, for comfort, for all the things Zuko wants to give her.  

“We can’t go. This city needs change. The people need us to change it.” Katara faces him again, resolve in her eyes. It makes his spirit spark, speaking to something inside of him only she can bring out. It reminds him why she is a voice for the helpless, a leader of people, a warrior. He knows that she has taken his warning into consideration, but has stubbornly decided she will not betray her values. “I will never turn my back on people that need me.”  

“Katara pl-” but Zuko does not finish his sentence. He has spotted a lone Fire Nation soldier perched at the top of the barricade and taking aim. Her target is clear. She is aiming for blue. She is aiming for Katara. 

For the first time in Zuko’s life he feels he is doing what he was meant to. For the first time in his life fear does not rule him as he jumps between Katara and the lightning that comes shooting from the soldier’s hands. It tears through his body sharp and sudden. He is grateful she will not experience the agony he does in that moment.

Commotion erupts. Toph bends the barricade higher with the help of other earthbenders, Aang charges towards the soldier with the lightning, and Sokka and Suki scan the area for more soldiers, but it is only the one for now. Zuko’s message has reached them just in time.

Katara drops to the ground beside Zuko, but he does not quite understand why her hands, usually so sure and steady, are trembling. Why her voice wobbles as she speaks. “No, no, no… Zuko, no...” 

He smiles at her. “It’s okay, Katara.” And it is. It always is when she is with him, because she makes him feel safe --like the home he never had.  

“I’ll mend this wound, you’ll be fine, y-you’ll be.” 

She reaches for the pouch of water that is always at her side, but Zuko takes her hand away and places it against his chest, against his wound, against his heart. The heart that he wishes she knew he had given her long ago. Her tears are falling freely, they land on his face like rain and roll down, but he does not join her in sorrow. 

“Just stay with me,” he whispers. “That’s all I need.”

“I won’t desert you now,” Katara promises, voice breaking. “I’d never desert you.”

“You wouldn’t?” 

“No, of course not…” She presses her free hand to his cheek, the other hand bends water towards his chest. It begins to glow, but it provides no relief. “Zuko, you have to live. You’re going to live.”

He knows he is not. He wants to tell her with the time he has left how much she has meant to him, but he hesitates, unable to find the words. Wondering if all the courage and purpose he would ever feel in life were intended for that moment of sacrifice that has already passed. Besides, what good would it do now except to cause her more pain? 

“Remember the day we went to feed the turtleducks?” 

“Of course,” she murmurs. “You held my hand and walked me home, I thought… Well, I hoped that you were going to…” She stares at him for a moment and he watches emotions play out on her face that he never in his wildest dreams thought he would see there.

They have been there all this time he realizes, but he has not allowed himself to believe it, because he is still not sure he is good enough --that he, a banished prince, is deserving of a heroic spirit like her. 

Katara bends down and presses her lips to his and he has just enough strength left to place a hand in her hair as she does so, marveling at this dream come true, the only dream, and the last. 

It might not be worth as much now and it’s not how he wanted to say it, but he says it anyways, softly, reverently, a prayer. “I love you.”

“I love you, too…” She cradles his head in her hands, he can feel the tremors of grief running through her --it is the only thing he feels, the only thing that still hurts. “I’m so sorry…”

I’m sorry too, but all the years spent in hesitation, in fear are nothing now. All that matters is that he has finally said it --and by some miracle so has she. It’s the greatest day of his entire life. In his euphoria he does not notice the hitch in his breathing when he tries to inhale nor the stillness building where a strong heartbeat should be. 

“Zuko, stay with me,” Katara insists with a sob. 

He wants her to understand that she has made him so unbelievably happy. He wants her to feel this way too. It is all he has ever wanted. There’s very little air left in his lungs, but he fights to tell her anyways, to assure her that all is well. 

“Don’t worry...it doesn’t hurt anymore…”

[starswornoaths]

Our Noble Legacy - Commission!

A commission for the delightful @faerflowerkid, featuring her oc: Faer wir Galvus, Warrior of Light, great-granddaughter to Solus zos Galvus.

Emet-Selch knew he would have to confront the Warrior of Light directly, at some point. It was as inevitable as the tide. That she was his family would not, could not, matter.

5.0 spoilers, canon divergent!

Word count: 10,752

~*~

Seeing the shattered little fragments of souls congregating, collaborating in tandem to achieve the impossible was…almost inspiring. Granted, very little in these fragmented worlds made Emet-Selch feel anything but tired indifference, so mayhap he was just surprised that he felt aught positive at all, watching the Warrior of Light rally them to a hopeless cause. Watching her inspire people who had, only hours before, been content to sit in their own misery, idle under the ever burning light, and wait to die, well…it was hard not to be roused in some way.

Even knowing it was impractical, Emet-Selch still often found himself studying the Warrior of Light that he was now in an uneasy alliance with, searching for some sign that he could cling to that could possibly cast doubt on her lineage.

His lineage, for that matter, and really, that was the crux of the issue.

It was harder not to see a bit of himself in Faer than it had ever been, in that moment. There had been, of course, the obvious signs of their relation, from the shock of silver-grey bangs against deep chestnut (in another shorter hairstyle she had begun growing out again, he noticed,) to the golden, hawkish eyes that mirrored his own, but if there had been any doubt before that she was of his blood, her cleverness, and her knack for rousing people in common cause made it undeniable to him. From the instant he realized that she was his great granddaughter, one he had held as a babe, in the twilight years of Solus’ life, he couldn’t help but notice, more and more, that Faer seemed a shining example of what his lineage would have been, perhaps, had fate been different.

Whatever pride he may have felt was inevitably tarnished by her status as his enemy—his greatest yet, certainly, of all the fool heroes that had dashed themselves against his might. The greatest of his enemies in both the threat she posed to their designs on the world, and in that even at this juncture, even knowing that she could yet prove him wrong and show him the error of his ways…this would be the hardest one for him to kill.

Should it come to that, Dark Lord guide me, he thought grimly.

Mayhap Zodiark had always known better than to trust that Emet-Selch wouldn’t care, and had intended to see if he would be willing to slay his kin in the name of their most noble designs. A waste, if that were the case; whatever blood he may have passed down in this life, in this body, that was not the family that he fought so hard for. The Galvus family was not the one that he mourned—mostly.

He tried not to think of his son. Always, did he try not to think of his son. And always, did he fail.

Zodiark was ever present, a persistent, low murmur in the back of his mind. As familiar to him as his own heartbeat, after so many eons, but ever since he’d laid eyes on the Warrior of Light herself and realized that it was his great-granddaughter, it had felt as though he could hear the Dark Lord laughing at his expense. What an apt reward, for toiling in the shadow of his God: a test of faith, at a critical crossroads.

Such maudlin thoughts, while commonplace under the ever burning sun, felt ill-fitting such an occasion as this, watching people mill about with good cheer and throw their entire, frail beings into the work before them. When he refocused and realized that Faer couldn’t be found among the workers anymore, he scanned the immediate vicinity. For a blessing, he wasn’t searching far: taking yet another page from his book, she stood out of the way of those using their tools, those inherited, hawkish eyes surveying the work before her. 

He was walking toward her before he had even consciously chosen to do so. Even through the constant reminders that she was his enemy, that he should keep barriers between them, it seemed the pride he felt for her accomplishment, even knowing that their deal could— and in all likelihood, would— end in failure. Perhaps it was those very reminders that made his words drip with sarcasm, once he had moved close enough to his great granddaughter to speak.

“Would you look at that? The citizens of Eulmore engaging in what can only be described as “manual labor.” Who would have thought it possible?” He mused aloud.

Though they were still some distance away from one another in the entryway to the ladder, his voice carried enough that Faer still turned her head to face him. Even knowing that he had gotten her attention, Emet-Selch made no effort to quicken his pace to her; he was old, and weary, and she had good ears.

“Do you know the most reliable way to deal with those who stubbornly refuse to see reason?” He asked without losing his stride, eyes never moving from hers.

Faer was ever an intuitive soul: sensing the weight of the conversation, if not necessarily the mood of it quite yet, she turned her body fully to face him.

It was only a few more steps until they were within reaching distance of one another, but they seemed to take an age longer than all the rest. It was less that he particularly cared whether or not they were overheard, but it would make his already strained relationship with the other Scions all the more so, if they heard his answer, and the indifference in his tone as he spoke,

“You conquer them— crush them under heel.”

He might have put more effort into sounding less cavalier about that if he had anticipated the faint wince she couldn’t quite hold back. Of course she would somehow feel responsible for all the steps of the great plan that he had overseen. Of course she would.

Hero types, really.

“Such was the trusted method of the Allag, and one still favored by Garlemald,” he continued in that same tone, and pretended that he hadn’t noticed her reaction in the first place.

With a wave of his hand, he shifted into a lesson— a windup to an admittedly fumbled compliment he was still half forming. Zodiark was getting in the way of all the words, and it was hard to form them. Exposition was always an easy fallback in theatre, and it saved him now as he explained, “But conquest is the easy part. The true challenge begins once the dust has settled— quenching the glowing embers of animosity and maintaining a semblance of peace. This requires the conqueror to treat the conquered with dignity, and the conquered to let bygones be bygones. A difficult feat to achieve.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say you were trying to train me to be your successor,” Faer bristled. “You sound like my old tutors back home.”

It was Emet-Selch’s turn to wince, even through his smile. It was always hard not to think of the life that could have been— in particular, how things could have been, had he been allowed to love his first son, and all the family that might have come after. All the things that might have been accomplished.

“In another life, I might well have.” He admitted.

That thought seemed to settle differently on the both of them. Where Emet-Selch, already susceptible to dreaming of what was lost and what could have been, could readily see a brighter, happier world for him where he had been allowed to learn to love the Galvus family, Faer looked as though the thought of her participating further in the machinations of the empire would cost her sleep.

Not that he could blame her, really. Hero type, and all.

“But you have achieved just that...to my considerable surprise.” He added when she continued to say nothing.

At the way she narrowed her eyes at him, he couldn’t help but roll his. “It’s a compliment.” He sighed sardonically. “Take it.”

Faer blinked owlishly up at him. 

“Oh, I— thank you.” She murmured, and even if her tone was sheepish, he could tell it was sincere. “I guess I just wasn’t necessarily expecting it to be a compliment that wasn’t backhanded.”

Another wince, this time from both of them— he supposed she had a point. She hadn’t even necessarily done anything to him, to earn that. Apart from the death of his kin, though he couldn’t put the fault of their centuries old struggle solely on her; he’d been through this dance a thousand times before. Doubtless, he would continue to do so long after her, too.

They lapsed into silence for a few moments, and watched some few dozen paces off, as Urianger and Y’Shtola maneuvered around toward the idle Talos, cheered on and guided by Dulia and Chai Nuzz respectively. With outstretched hands, they filled the machinery with the thrumming, brilliant blue of their aether, powering the cores within. The sight inspired in Emet-Selch thoughts of the Bureau of Concepts, back when time hardly mattered, where death and tragedy were naught but bad dreams and the punishments of villains in all the stories.

“Ahh, the vibrant energy that fills the air when like-minded souls gather. To think back on that time before time fair brings a tear to my eye.”

She seemed mildly surprised he was capable of it at all. Something in him bristled at that.

“What? You thought ancient beings like us incapable of crying?”

Even he could concede that he sounded defensive. He could stand to leave himself less open, blast it all.

“N-no, it’s just—” She cut herself off, chewing on her bottom lip. “I never could picture you being happy, but I also just...couldn’t fathom you crying, when I was a child.”

She seemed to catch herself in the moment, and gave him an apologetic smile as she said, “Sorry, I shouldn’t keep comparing you to my great-grandfather. You were playing a role back then.”

“It was—” He tamped down on the words, frowning as they tangled on his tongue. Swallowing, he tried again, “While I might have been...doing my part, in our noble work, it would be almost impossible, to not live an entire lifetime and not feel something other than boredom, from time to time.”

Not entirely an admission of affection that most certainly did not exist, though an acknowledgement of his humanity. It seemed a diplomatic enough response.

“I...hadn’t thought of it that way before.” Faer admitted slowly.

Emet-Selch harrumphed. “Well, rest assured that if your heart can be broken, then so can mine!”

“...You’re right.” Faer said, surprising him. “For all our disagreements, I shouldn’t deny the humanity that Ascians possess. Certainly not my own great grandfather’s.”

As painfully formal as it sounded, her apology was a balm on a sore nerve. Enough to let his thoughts wander, as were their wont. Before he could think better of it, he started to give voice to them, and let the dead be among him for a little while through his words.

“Back when the world was whole, we had family, friends, loves…” He began hesitantly.

When she didn’t interrupt him, he turned his gaze toward the ever burning heavens, contemplative, as he continued, “Men knew peace and contentment, and with our adamant souls, we could live for an age. There was no conflict born of want or disparity. Our differences paled into insignificance next to all we had in common.”

The ladder itself was still in his periphery, even when looking at the sky. So, it was only natural that, when he finally looked at the structure proper, that he compared it to the towering landmarks he was so accustomed to back when all he had known was happiness.

“And then, there was Amaurot...never was a city more magnificent. From the humblest streets to the highest spires, she fairly gleamed…”

When at last he brought himself— and his focus— back to the earth, he spared his great-granddaughter a plain look from the corner of his eye. “Not that you would remember any of this,” he said, infinitely and eternally bitter.

“Remember…?” Faer asked, understandably, with a ponderous frown and a tilt of her head.

He had already said too much. Frankly, he was shocked Zodiark permitted him to say as much as he had. Shaking his head, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Never mind.”

Faer pressed her lips together thinly, hands faintly fidgeting in front of her. After a few long moments of silence, Emet-Selch cleared his throat.

“You are staring.” He noted when he could see her start to lose herself to thoughts. “Dare I ask why?”

Her eyes refocused with a blink. “Sorry, you were talking about families, and I was just...thinking back on home. I know you held me as a babe, but the only clear picture I had in my mind of you was when you were older than you look now. I wouldn’t have even recognized you when you showed up if it weren’t for all the murals and the history books, I don’t think.”

He hadn’t even thought of that, when he had first taken up residence in the first clone that Varis had made— or when he had kept the form when he had taken a body for his own in this world, for that matter.

“Would it have been a comfort to you, had I been the elderly and frail grandfather you knew?” He asked, only able to muster half of his usual snark. Something about the thought upset him in a way he couldn’t describe.

“I don’t honestly believe so. The shock was what kept me from killing you outright, when you showed up.” Faer admitted with a shrug. “I had yet to have a pleasant run-in with an Ascian, I’ll remind you.” When he didn’t have a response to her comment, she shifted on her feet, awkward that her comment had not landed with him. She crinkled her nose, and admitted hesitantly,“I didn’t think the paintings were right, if I’m being honest.”

Paintings. And she had mentioned murals before—

“Ah, the royal gallery.” Emet-Selch nodded at the recollection, ample excuse to avert his eyes from her. “I’d nearly forgotten; I had to pose for so many portraits, even before I was crowned Emperor, I learned how to nap with my eyes open to make it even a little bearable.”

She let out a little snort on the inhale of her chuckle, and promptly smothered it behind her hand. It seemed Garlean etiquette had not been entirely beaten out of her. He remembered the tutors that had been in the employ of the royal family: to be frank, the thing that impressed him the most was how little her knuckles had scarred from their yalmsticks. They were likely responsible for her resilience in the face of constant sneering; her good cheer would have run out malms ago otherwise, the same as her newly reunited companions.

In spite of their uncertain alliance, he joined her in laughter when she looked up at him again, face faintly flushed from holding in her giggling. In truth, his comment wasn’t necessarily funny, but it was just human enough to startle the both of them into unexpected chuckling.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized again— and really, she did it far too often, in his opinion. “I interrupted you. What were you saying?”

The lingering smirk on his lips from laughing faded. It was a bit of a shame, to have their mood shift so suddenly as he knew it would.

Nevertheless. She did ask.

“The point is: the world of old was a far better place than what we have now. I believe you would like it, having witnessed the things you have.”

Would that he could give it all to her. Her true inheritance: a world without conflict, a world where no one suffered and all were equal in the eyes of one another. A world where jobs like hers were absolutely redundant but for the sake of exploration and learning.

A world fitting for his great-granddaughter.

Capitalizing on her surprise at his comment, he pressed, “Remember, you are of the Source. Unlike the halfmen here, you stand only to gain. Should you survive the remaining calamities, you will become our equal. A complete existence in a complete world.”

Pressed too far, it seemed: a look of pain flashed over Faer’s face. Of guilt. Was that what she wanted, too, he wondered. A chance to put her weapon down and simply be. Surely that was not too awful a thought for her to have? Too soon, he reasoned. She isn’t ready to stop playing the hero.

So he could be supportive, in his own, twisted way. Could nudge her, as a villain, could inspire her to the greatness he knew, in his heart of hearts, that she could achieve.

With another shrug, he chided, “But such talk is a pleasure for later. Back to work, hero.”

He turned to leave when a thought occurred to him. Pausing mid step, he angled his head back toward her and said over his shoulder, “Ah, there was one thing I had meant to ask: how well do you know the Exarch? Has he ever deigned to show you what hides beneath that cowl?”

In part to play his role as the villain, in part to service his role in the grand plan, he played both to perfection, just to see what would happen. Even still, Faer shaking her head “no” came as a surprise; he didn’t get the sense that she was lying.

“What, never? Not even to you? How very interesting…I shall enjoy working out what it means. Until next time.”

Faer called after him when he began to leave in earnest. Much as he might have found another reason to linger, he would rather be with his thoughts. With a dismissive wave, he pressed on, and hoped the distance he put between them was well beyond any chance of her words reaching him.

Despite everything, they still had.

It had been a point of pride, how much Emet-Selch had kept his distance from watching Faer in action, for more than had been a necessity. For a blessing, such occurrences had been infrequent; before now, it had largely fallen to the more...hands on of his peers. He was among the last, now— most ironically of all, the most hands on of the surviving Unsundered.

But those words he had been running from had caught up to him, sunk their teeth into him, and bled him of his will to stay away. He was too old to run from such things, these days. He had been for a very long time, he supposed. To save himself from being drained of all he had scraped together the last eon, rather than try to thrash and tighten the vice of those fangs, he relaxed, and let go.

And so, Emet-Selch did what he did best: he clung to the shadows, and watched. He bore witness to his great-granddaughter’s struggles, in the moment, far more closely— in attentiveness and distance both— than he ever had before. If living in the dark was a comfort, then he could still peer into the light, that he might try to see.

What he saw should have terrified him— and, in a distant sort of way, he supposed that it did. It should have angered him, nauseated him, to see the ferocity with which Faer took down her foes. Meek and mild though she may be in those interpersonal moments, this was him truly beholding the Warrior of Light, in her element, and all her glory, both.

It was a peculiar thing: to look at her directly was almost too much, as if she took after her namesake too well. Mayhap, that was the Light that she had absorbed, burning beneath her skin, and naught more. He hadn’t looked closely enough before now to know for certain.

He might have been too old to run from the things that he couldn’t face, but as he worked to keep up with the pace that Faer had set for her crew, every one of those years fell away. In the moment, as he darted from shadow to shadow, and peered through every portal he popped out of when his current, dark roost could no longer track her movements, he felt young again, in a way he had forgotten.

There was so much of himself that Emet-Selch saw in her, even before witnessing what she was capable of on the battlefield. He had been far from a spry youth, then he began to build the Garlean Empire, but he recalled the years before he took the crown, how he had unleashed Hell itself unto his enemies, to ensure that he achieved the accolades that would make him a fitting Emperor, and couldn’t help but see much of the same tenacity, ferocity, and unrelenting strength that he had once employed, now passed down to his great-granddaughter.

Faer was hardly the first hero that he had ever witnessed in combat. In truth, she wasn’t even the first hero that he had been moved by.

But she was the first hero that he had such a direct connection to. A connection that forced him to look, with both eyes open, upon the path that she walked— and, by proxy, that he walked.

Maybe it was the Light, radiating off of her, but Zodiark’s veil felt unusually thin, as they climbed, higher and higher, from towering Talos to the perilous peak of Mt. Gulg. Thin enough that he could see, for the first time, that Faer was his equal in fervor, in dedication to her goal. Equal also, in the belief that hers was the just cause.

Perhaps that was why, when Vauthry descended upon Faer with twofold forms and fury alike, Emet-Selch celebrated her victory over the last of the Lightwardens.

He’d often been told that the air itself felt heavier, on the precipice of great change. Even before the Sundering, such a philosophical discussion had been brought to the Forum of Debate. It had been something he had understood only in the most joyous of occasions— death was such a rarity, outside of accidents, he had practically only known the air to grow saturated with satisfaction, or heady with happiness.

The air here, at the summit of Mt. Gulg, already scorching, stale, and still for the eternal Light, shifted around him as he emerged from the shadows, one last time. It was noticeably harder to breathe, for the lingering particulates of Vauthry’s remains hung in that unnatural stasis, glimmering in the gilded light.

Haunting, had he cared enough to look anywhere, save for his great-granddaughter.

The lingering, shimmering ashes of the Lightwarden had a faintly dusty, saccharine scent. Cloying, much like the makeup powders that Emet-Selch so enjoyed to dabble with. However, it was several heartbeats before he realized that, as he held his breath, watching Faer absorb the Light.

The eternal, beaming rays above split, and tore open as a gaping wound, through which the night itself bled. It was a gasp of air amongst the drowning stillness, a breach in the surface, but it was fleeting— it sewed itself back up, just as the Warrior of Darkness collapsed to her knees.

There were voices, not far from him, but they sounded as distant as rolling thunder. There was a blue ring of light— contrasting to the all encompassing luminescence above. It was enough to distract him, though only enough for Zodiark to remind him of his task.

Emet-Selch breathed in that heavier air of change, as he craned his neck to look up again. The momentary glimpse of the night sky was long gone, and any trace it had ever been there taken with it. She failed, she failed, just as we knew she would, Zodiark urged him.

The gun he’d kept on his person as Solus zos Galvus was in his hand before he realized he had summoned it. There was someone opposite his descendant, speaking with her kindly— ah, the Exarch— 

The secretive man’s hood fell away with another pulse of that blue, blinding light. Emet-Selch didn’t know the man— he didn’t need to. He didn’t care.

He recognized those red eyes anywhere.

So, it was just as he suspected, then. Somehow, that didn’t surprise him; he had never been able to truly stamp out the Allagan Empire in its entirety without over meddling. It should almost be expected, that its echoes would dog him all the way here.

The bullet Zodiark had loaded in the chamber for Faer was instead lodged into the scarlet sorcerer. It struck him in the abdomen— nothing fatal, he did need the man alive for his Allagan eye, after all. 

Well. That, and his great-granddaughter had failed to keep her end of the bargain. It was only meet that he take his consolation prize, and be on his way.

At least, that was what he told himself, staring down at the barely conscious form of the man that had tried to spare Faer her fate. A strange sort of anger welled up in his chest at that; here this, this Exarch was, posturing as the secretive, scheming villain, all to spare Faer her precious little feelings, so no one would miss him as he went to make a star of himself.

Emet-Selch couldn’t bite back a cruel quirk of his lips. The Exarch wanted to play a villain? He could watch the Architect put on a real show. 

“Only those who possess the Royal Eye of the Allagan imperial line are capable of controlling the Crystal Tower.” He raised his voice loud enough to be heard. “Such individuals do not exist in the First.”

He lowered his gun as he spoke, unperturbed by the veneer of civility being shorn so thoroughly in Faer’s presence; she was barely keeping herself kneeling, her entire body quivering with the effort of holding in every onze of light that she had absorbed.

“Therefore, in all likelihood, the Exarch arrived here with the tower. This much I had surmised, yet I could not discern his grand scheme. To think, he went through all this trouble for the sake of a single hero. It’s almost admirable in its absurdity.” 

He stepped up to the crumpled sorcerer, peering down at him. There was a strange sense of pitiable understanding that welled up in him, thinking on his own words; in a sense, they were not so different. After all, he, too, had gone to great lengths to make an exception to the rule, all for the sake of a single hero.

“Alas, it is not your grand scheme that will succeed, but ours.”

One of the little mortals was squabbling at him again. Really, he had thought they had learned by now.

When that same mortal— Thancred, he distantly recalled the name— reached for his gunblade, Emet-Selch warned, “Stay put. Your friend is still alive, but whether he remains so depends on you.”

Though the brute bared his teeth, he did not make another advance. Once it was clear that he would not be attacked, Emet-Selch turned his attention to his great-granddaughter. 

It didn’t matter what he felt, watching her writhe in agony so. They had an agreement, and now...now, he had his part to play. And she, hers.

His final test of faith.

“What a disappointment you turned out to be.” Said the Architect— softly, as if to himself. As if his remorse was genuine.

Perhaps it was. It couldn’t matter regardless.

That anger that the Exarch had sparked swelled in his chest, the longer he looked down upon Faer. To think that for a fleeting instant, she had dared to chase away the shadows from his eyes. To think, he had dared to see.

“I placed my faith in you. Let myself believe that you could contain the Light.” He spat accusingly. 

His temples throbbed in time with his heart for how hot the anger in his breast ran. The longer he stared down at her, pale and trembling and bleached out for the Light inside her, the brighter his fury blazed. To think, he had dared, once again, like the fool that he was, to hope. And once more, he was reminded of why such notions are folly.

“But look at you now,” He sneered, “halfway to becoming a monster. You are unworthy of my patronage.” 

For some reason, Faer’s refusal to look away only served to anger him further. What did she hope to gain from such useless posturing? She had lost.

And yet, he supposed, she couldn’t have possibly gotten half as far as she had, if she had ever lied down and accepted her fate. Even through the anger, he couldn’t help but respect her effort; few understood how hard it was to simply try.

“What...what happens now, then, great-grandfather?” Faer managed to snarl between gasping heaves.

Before Emet-Selch could respond, she buckled under a fit of productive coughing. So productive, in fact, that the very light that she had absorbed was now being spat onto the gilded ground. She slipped, as she tried to stagger to her feet, and folded back onto her knees, panting from the exertion. 

His frown deepened; something about her pitiful struggles agitated him, enough that he felt like his skin itched from the inside. To hide the depth of his rage— and genuine disappointment, he realized with belated shock— he took a moment to let out a noise of disgust. 

Emet-Selch was still in character, after all.

He reminded her, tutting, “I am an Ascian. My heart’s sole desire is to usher in the Great Rejoining.”

Spitting once more, she looked back up at him, eyes blazing with fury, tears, and the light that glimmered off of them. 

It was too much, in particular, knowing precisely how he was about to hurt her next; he looked away, toward her Scion accomplices, and struck: “A hundred years ago, I entrusted my comrade, Loghriff, with the task of increasing Light’s sway over this world. This, we sought to do by manipulating heroes.”

A wet, gasping sob tore itself from Faer’s throat. Emet-Selch hid his wince from her. He had struck true. 

Continuing his onslaught, he kept his eyes locked on those lesser servants of Hydaelyn, as he spoke, “When that failed to achieve the desired result, I created Vauthry. But thanks to your meddling, that, too, has ended in failure.”

“What was your true purpose in approaching us?” One of the matching pair demanded.

“By your Twelve, boy, have I not told you before, that everything I said was the truth?” He countered. “You were specimens by which I might gauge man’s potential as it stands.”

As if he had ever lied. As if he had ever pretended. As if he had ever had a choice.

Strangely incensed, Emet-Selch pressed, “I genuinely had an interest in you. Genuinely considered taking you on as allies! Provided that she—”

He spared a sneering glance out of the corner of his eye, over his shoulder, at his kneeling great-granddaughter. What he could see of her, through the light that was seeping through the metaphorical cracks, at least. 

“—Could contain the light.”

He managed to pretend at disappointed boredom. The mask was always easier. Always, always easier.

Leaning into his assigned role in Zodiark’s most noble design, he turned to face his failing, fading family. 

“If not, then she— and by extension, you— would be of no use to me. ‘Twas as simple as that.”

He couldn’t even muster the strength to straighten his posture; he could distantly hear his old vizier, in simpler times, huffing about how unlike an Emperor it was to slouch. When the yappy one with the gunblade snorted indignantly, he faced the noise, half expecting someone to attempt something stupid.

For a blessing and a curse, the Scions seemed to yet possess their senses, and did not attack him.

Thancred, instead, drolled, “So we’ve been found wanting. How disheartening. But even had we fulfilled your conditions, there was no guarantee that we would cooperate. What then?”

As if it had not been obvious. They took advantage of his good grace, and thought him docile for the trouble? He would remind them of their folly.

“Then I simply kill you all.” Emet-Selch replied plainly, and shrugged. “At the very least, it would restore the world to the way it was before you went about trouncing Lightwardens willy-nilly.”

He shot a glare at the troublesome, unconscious Exarch. The creaky little mischief maker. All the magic of the Allagan Empire, stolen out from rightful fingers, and yet, here he was! Laid low by a bullet. As any murdered king, as any defeated tyrant: they bled, all the same.

“Suffice to say it would be most inconvenient to have all that Light taken away— and I would be lying if I were to claim his actions didn’t have me worried.”

Another bout of Faer’s gasping coughs brough another wet splatter of ectoplasmic light scattering across the broquet. Her back arched with the might of her heaving, as her body tried to force air into her lungs, any way that it could.

It did not bother him. He did not look away again. This was his test, after all. He could not falter here.

The Architect stalked over to where his great-granddaughter of Light knelt there, in all her broken glory. There was a ringing in his ears— it made the dull, purposeful thunk of his boots sound especially loud to him. Nevertheless, he did not stop, not until he was close enough to observe her, and knelt to her level.

It should have been easy, to look at her. It shouldn’t have hurt, to see how she had been twisted, her features bleached out in harsh light, how she seemed almost swallowed by the luminescence that clung to her skin, that radiated from her. It should have even given him some sort of grim glee, seeing his greatest enemy laid low.

It didn’t. He couldn’t look away. 

Solus watched his little great-granddaughter, the same one he’d bounced on his knee and read to, his family, his lineage, all that he had left that he could even begin to consider family, and he was killing her.

But Emet-Selch...he had a role to play.

“Hm,” he hummed, seeming unaffected. “You still retain your form, and your senses...but you have all but become a sin eater.”

Faer’s head hung, at the words, “sin eater.” For a moment, she looked defeated. She did not lift it again, until he next spoke.

He should have triumphed, in the moment. Should have taken that defeat and solidified it, right then and there, and made good on his word to kill them all and just be done with it.

Instead, Solus could only softly explain, in a voice he’d heard one of his hospice chirurgeons use with him, toward the end of his life, “Whether you will it or no, your mere existence will serve to engulf the world in Light.” He only half remembered to put a villain’s cruel twist to that kindness, “Those in your company will likewise turn into sin eaters, and, in time, you will succumb to your base instincts, and hunt innocents to feast on their sweet, sweet aether.”

Faer’s head swayed, as she struggled to keep it upright, to watch him as he emphasized, venting some of his anger with bitter delight, “Those few with the will left to fight may rise up against you. But before your absolute might, they will quickly know despair. “There is no hope! We are finished! Mankind is finished!” Ahhh, the irony. What Vauthry achieved through bliss, you will achieve through despair.”

He had taken all he could of watching Faer struggle; watching any longer than this would only bring harm to him, and would gain him nothing in exchange. Ignoring the popping of his knees, he stood.

“But I have overstayed my welcome. I shall look forward to seeing you bring the world to its knees, hero.”

Emet-Selch granted himself reprieve when he turned fully away from the Warrior of Light, and focused on the Exarch, as he snapped his fingers. In an instant, the Allagan pretender was whisked away, in that void between realms carved out for the Unsundered.

Ignoring the whinging of the Warrior of Light’s accomplices crying out after the Exarch, demanding justice, and all of the usual trappings of a squawking hero that he paid no heed, he reasoned, “I have naught to show for all the time and effort I invested in you. He is a small token for my troubles. I did not expect that I could learn aught from man, but I may yet learn something from all the knowledge he had hoarded for his precious hero.”

Emet-Selch had always been above them— figuratively, and literally. He opted for an exit befitting that stature— only the best would to, before their intercession, after all— and with nary a half onze of effort, he lifted himself high above their heads, well beyond their reach—

Or at least, he had intended to; the Warrior of Light lunged at him suddenly, and before he could properly react, clutched at the front of his coat to keep herself upright on quivering legs. With an effort that looked herculean in effort, she pulled herself up by his lapels, trying to draw on her full height. Her eyes blazed with an intensity that threatened to blind him, and she bared her teeth at him in a heaving snarl.

A hero, to the last. A familiar habit, of a familiar, familial hero.

“I pity you, I do.” Emet-Selch drawled, sparing an emphasizing glance at her Scions. “Your friends are now your foes. If you do not kill them, they will kill you.” 

He caught her hands, intending to rip them off of him, but he froze at the way her knuckles tightened around the fabric, enough that he couldn’t tell where the creaking of her gloves ended, and that of her knuckles began.

Emet-Selch tried to be angry at that. Tried to be indignant, that she would dare try while she was at death and sanity’s door. He should have thrown her off of him, should have given in to that quiet, almost inaudible whispering in his head, scrabbling about like fingers dancing along his spine, playing him like a puppet, and just finished it already—

Instead, Solus could only ask, in a private, terrified whisper, “Why are you still fighting?”

“Because I have to.” Faer whispered back, just as brave, and no less scared. “I have to.”

His great-granddaughter. Would that he could give her the world. Perhaps, a shadowbox of it that he had made would do.

“Then...seek me out at my abode, in the dark depths of the Tempest.” He commanded. “You’re my great-granddaughter. Act like it. Prove me wrong.”

“I’ll be there.” Faer warned, in a low voice. As if she were in a place to warn him of anything but when she was about to be sick. “And when I get there...I’ll make you see.”

Lacking the strength to respond, to retaliate, to do aught more than tremble with her, Solus let Zodiark take him away. He melted through her fingertips, and even long after he had rematerialized in the shade of his home, he could not reconfigure himself in such a way that made him feel whole.

So Emet-Selch waited. He waited long enough that he had begun to wonder if the Warrior of Light would miss her cue. Long enough that, eventually, he began to question whether or not he had nodded off, at some point, and a whole new buggering age had rolled in, while he wasn’t looking. Again.

But then, there she was, his family, walking the paths of Amaurot. From a distance, he might have pretended that all was as it once was— 

Except that, while Faer had, in fact, arrived at his humble abode— she had not done so alone. 

There was something about her arriving, accompanied by people that claimed to be her family, rather than him, that rankled Solus. Sure, he had been the one to put them all on this path to begin with, but that didn’t mean he stopped being her real family—

Even as she wasn’t his real family, Emet-Selch reminded himself. He wasn’t even sure why it fanned the flames in his chest.

“This really is unacceptable. I gave you very specific instructions.” He reminded her snidely, to hide how affected he was at the sight of her so withered.

Ignoring the squawking of one of the younger scions, Emet-Selch took a moment to force his expression to match his tone; it wouldn’t do for him to try and convince his captive audience of his indifference with a pitying grimace, after all.

“My invitation was for an abomination, ripe with the power to bring about the world’s annihilation. Not this half-broken...thing.”

A glance at Faer’s face, even paled as it was from the Light, he could tell she wasn’t buying that he didn’t care. In truth, nor was he, at this point. But the show must go on, after all.

“What ever am I going to do with you?” He couldn’t help but ask, with almost fond exasperation and a maimed, maiming smile. Helpless to stop himself, he further barbed, “And I see you insist on keeping the same, familiar company. Are you so lost without them?”

“It is not she who is lost without the familiar.” Quipped the sorceress.

A wince cracked Emet-Selch’s mask in twain— he was well and truly surrounded by the evidence against him, should he try to rebuke that. Not the least of which was, of course, his own flesh and blood, standing beside that same witch.

“I may have gotten a little carried away, in my attention to detail. Added a few unnecessary flourishes…” His petty attempt at a defense died half formed on his tongue. Zodiark did not prevent him from feeling the loneliness, the loss, from the absence of his fellow Ancients. Nor, did He prevent the truth of his plan from being brought to the light bearers. “Weeell, there’s no point in trying to deny it. Yes. 

“Once the rejoining of worlds is complete, Zodiark will regain His full strength, and shatter His prison. Then, we shall offer up the Source’s remaining inhabitants in sacrifice, that we might resurrect our brethren who died to bring Zodiark into existence.”

“We don’t have to fight.” Faer replied, dancing around the subject. “You could join us. You could help so many people—“ 

“Those pale imitations are not people.” Emet-Selch rankled, bristling.

“They don’t stop being people just because you don’t like them!” She shouted, standing straighter, as if her indignation gave her a new well of strength to tap into. “If you won’t stop this, then we have come here to stop you!”

She wanted to continue to champion these lesser beings, in favor of embracing Zodiark’s unavoidable truth, did she? So be it. 

“Did you now? One last do-or-die attempt to foil my plans, then? How very, very...heroic of you.”

This was the best he could have possibly hoped for, from humanity. His very own creation, sired and carefully monitored to see how she developed, and this was the best that they could do. He wanted to spit curses at her until her mind had succumbed to the madness. He wanted to scream until his voice fled him. He felt nauseated. This was his family, he was fighting—

This is but another hero. You have been here before, Lord Zodiark reminded him, ever a gentle, guiding hand. 

Those distant fingers pulled at the back of his mind, as if to straighten out his thoughts. Rather than think of the great-granddaughter standing before him, he thought back on those who had stood there before. The more he thought on it, the more their armor blurred, in his mind, until he couldn’t discern one from the other; they were all but obstacles in his way. What did it matter, who they were? They were nothing to him. Thank the Dark Lord, for showing him the error of his straying thoughts. 

“In every single age, there is always someone who wants to stand up to the evil Ascians,” he echoed Zodiark’s sentiments spitefully. “Always the same arrogance, the same insistence that the world belongs to them. As if theirs were the only rightful claim, theirs the only existence worthy of preservation!” 

“Do you not hear yourself?” Faer demanded. “I could criticize your number for those very same thoughts!”

The implication that they were of equal value shifted Emet-Selch’s anger into something frigid as space, and just as dangerous, where these mortals were concerned. 

“Even now, after everything, you refuse to see reason.” He said with an unaffected shrug, the calmness in his voice startling even him. “You think it unfair that you are subject to suffering? That your lives will be sacrificed for the ancients?” 

That white hot anger, a molten volcano that had rumbled low in the pit of Emet-Selch’s gut for centuries, erupted forth, frothing and flaming and furious.

“Look at me!” He demanded, smacking the flat of his palm against his scorching chest as though it were a hammer on a red-hot iron. He spat out the sparks, “I have lived a thousand, thousand of your lives! I have broken bread with you, fought with you, grown ill, grown old! Sired children and yes, welcomed death’s sweet embrace. For eons, have I measured your worth, and found you wanting! Too weak and feeble-minded to serve as stewards of any star!”

He flung his hand away from himself; his chest had grown too hot, even through his robes, to comfortably touch. Magicks ancient and roiling rose to the surface, needled against his skin, itching to bleed the life out of his enemies. Distantly, he was aware that his chest was heaving with the weight of his breathing.

It startled all in the room, the depth of even a taste of that long-aged anger. Himself, most of all. With more effort than it should have taken, he took a shuddering breath to attempt to calm himself. 

Inevitably, it did not work. Their debate would only circle, and circle, and circle, and while he might have enjoyed partaking of that, back when the world was whole, he had no patience for it, while he tried to piece it back together again. 

Hero types were always so eager to try and prove themselves, after all— would a test of her strength not be a more satisfactory exam, versus a pointless argument? 

With that justification, he visited upon the Warrior of Light the darkest hour of his life. He rained the fall of Amaurot down upon her, bearing the full brunt of those horrific memories, all for the sole purpose of hurting her, of destroying her. She was his opposition: he had to stop her, at all costs.

She was too bright to look at directly; he did not watch her progress, apart from knowing when to elaborate on what forms his trauma took. To make her see, this time. If he had bathed in her light ascending that miserable mountain, then he would drown her in his darkness, descending into his deepest horrors.

Infuriatingly, she persisted, survived, and stood before him again.

Lashing out in a fit of pique, he sneered as he tore down, one by one, the Scions that attempted to close the distance, to cover the Warrior of Light’s last, pitiful hobble toward him, as the Light threatened to consume her.

Eventually, he flung her backward, too, and waited for it all to end. Waited for the Light to take her away, so he never had to think about her and everything that could have been, ever again.

When it finally did, he watched, waiting, praying, for relief. Instead, all he got for his trouble was a momentary glimpse, of the soul that his great-granddaughter used to be. Azem.

In the blink of an eye, that flickering recollection vanished. And all that stood was Faer. Fully restored, ready to fight. In another, the Exarch, clinging to staff and life with equal desperation. 

“This ends this day, great-grandfather.” She called, voice calm despite the tears that poured from her eyes. “One way or another, it ends.”

One last do-or-die for the both of them, then. For them all, if he were feeling poetic. He was not; he fought like the lives of everyone he loved depended on it. Because they did.

“Very well.” He said, and began to let the arcane glamours that kept his form human fall away. “Let us proceed to your final judgement. The victor shall write the tale and the vanquished become its villain!”

She did not move. So, he began to stalk toward her. Goading her.

“But come!” He called as he drew near. “Let us cast aside titles and pretense, Faer, and reveal our true faces to one another!”

The symbol of his seat blazed brightly in front of his eyes. Once more, he was a sorcerer of eld, in appearance and power alike. Still constricted by his mortal trappings, he still towered over those who opposed him all the same. His voice reverberated through his ribs as he bellowed,

“I am Hades! He who shall awaken our brethren from their dark slumber!”

He did not claim himself a hero, not just yet. It remained to be seen, which of them were the villain, after all. And so, Hades did not hold back.

Nor did his opponent. Just as he expected.

Somehow, somehow, she still attempted to reason with him, as they traded slashes and spells, staff and shield.

“We can still stop this!” Faer sobbed from behind her shield.

He dipped into the wellspring of eternal darkness that Zodiark bled into their veins, his hands reaching, reaching out with claws dipped in darkness. They scrambled against her shield. He felt it tremble beneath his onslaught, felt her quaking with the effort to keep him at bay.

Hades persisted; he was inevitable.

“Have you not heard a word of what I’ve said? You are not worthy to be successors of this star! You are worthy only of death, at my hands!”

Even casting aside the mortal flesh that constricted his power seemed to be insufficient to snuff out Faer’s light— she burned all the brighter, the darker the force he brought to bear upon her. 

Immortal as he was, time had little concept to him already, but the battle between he and Faer, Hades against the Warrior of Light, seemed to stretch out for an eternity before them. He waited, waited for the moment that she would slip, the moment that her strength would falter, the moment she would buckle beneath his onslaught. Just one moment, that was all it would take for either of them to catch the upper hand. 

In the fixation on his primary opponent, and the desperation that drove his every attack to snuff out her light, he had left himself open to be struck by one of those damnable Scions— who had prepared ahead of time with that thrice damned auracite— 

Hades had heard, in a thousand different voices, in as many tongues, say that the air at a crossroads was always heavier. It was a strange truth, one he had always forgotten to put much stock in, until he found himself standing where those paths intersected.

Now, he found the comparison more apt to crosshairs, watching the Warrior of Light bear down upon him as he struggled, prone, against the shards of auracite that had pierced him.

It should have made him feel fear. Perhaps anger, outrage, hatred, for the fabricated family that destroyed him, and any chance that he might have had had restoring his true family to their former glory.

All he could feel was relief—this fight was no longer his. He had done his part. For good or ill, he had played his role. The failure was, while certainly on his shoulders, no longer his concern.

The Light pierced Hades, and, just as he knew that it would, everything stopped.

Lahabrea had been the scientist of the lot of them, but he had been no slouch in his studies, back at Academia Anyder; he knew what should happen to him, suffused with Light as he now was. He knew what his fate was, the moment his arcane shields failed him.

And so he waited. He waited to lose feeling in his limbs—from the furthest nerve points, inward, he recalled. Waited to feel enfeebled and cold. Waited to feel too tired to keep his eyes open, and to drift off, for the last time, into that quiet dark.

Hades had died before, after all.

Those restful stretches had always played with time strangely, as he awaited his awakening, so he had anticipated the concept to cease to have all meaning, when he was sleeping forever. Even still, when the light faded, and he still felt himself very much breathing, very much alive, a ponderous frown creased his brow.

Well. That was new.

With caution, he opened his eyes— the light in front of him was still brighter than he had been expecting, and he had to blink several times before his sight adjusted.

It shouldn’t have been as hard as it was, to process the dawn cresting over the horizon, shining upon the desiccated, dilapidated remains of his Amaurot—

No, that wasn’t quite right, was it? Amaurot had fallen eons ago—ah, and there was his brain, at last waking up with the rest of him.

His thoughts were alarmingly quiet, for how his mind raced with them. Belatedly, with an awe that dawned on him as the sun rose before him, he realized that he felt strangely empty—but where that would have given him a sense of anxiety, once, he could only breathe a sigh of relief at hearing no one else in his head but himself. The strings that had pulled his thoughts in different directions had been cut: Zodiark’s hold over him, was at last, somehow, no more. A distant pondering on whether he had lived longer tempered or not flitted through his mind, but it dragged his heart up, into his throat, on its way out.

Everyone he had loved, and lost, and mourned, now so many eons passed that not even their stardust remained. Those he had convinced himself, through sheer stubbornness and the magnitude of his lies to himself, that he could save. In the heart of his grief, when he couldn’t see another way to go on, he’d clung to the delusion of “what if,” and tried to manufacture a tomorrow for the dead, stealing it from the living, time and again, and justifying it all the while because they weren’t his people.

In the strange stasis of realizing that he was neither dead, nor tempered, there was a numbness to all that he had done. There was, at least, until his sight focused on more than the sprawling, dilapidated remains of his memories.

For there, standing before him, restored to her true glory, gleaming sword of pure Light in her trembling hand, and looking at him as though she were terrified for him with wide eyes that swam with tears, was the Warrior of Light. Faer: his great-granddaughter. His family.

The family that he had betrayed, a thousand, thousand different ways, until it had shattered in his grip, and the fragmented pieces that remained had to make do with what was left in the wreckage of his rampage. Hades felt as though he couldn’t breathe, as the weight of all he had done, over the eons, bore down upon his unclouded mind.

“Faer…?” He whispered.

The blade in her hand rattled, quietly, from the strength of her trembling grip. For all the ferocity that they had both brought into the fight mere moments ago, it felt like neither of them could find the strength to move. The strength, or perhaps, not knowing how to move in this eerie stillness.

“...Great-grandpa?” She called back, sounding just as shocked as he felt.

“I...my eyes, at last, unclouded...to think that I…” He rasped, his throat feeling as a desert, even when he tried to force it to work, and swallowed thickly.

The vision of her swam before him. Tears, he realized distantly, as they began to flood his eyes, stinging with a distantly familiar saltiness, made new again for its centuries long absence. Zodiark had dulled the senses that were compromising; the anger, the bitterness, He allowed to flourish. The love, too, if only to serve as kindling for the former. But all the inconvenient facets of grief, the paralyzing sense of emptiness, the yawning chasms in long tracts of land in his soul, filled only with a sea of sorrow, Zodiark had walled off from the Unsundered.

If he experienced sadness, it had been a gray, tiring thing; he would sleep, and dream, and awake freshly embittered and ready to enact the will of his Dark Lord. Without that dam to keep the flow of that complicated mass of emotions from flooding him, they spilled out of him, and he could only helplessly shudder to try and keep himself still. He was only as successful as he would be trying to stand in defiance of a flooding river in a hurricane.

Horrified at all that he had done, and the breakdown that was in progress before Faer and her Scions, he sank down to his knees. He could feel the rattle of his voice against his chest; he was speaking, he was saying something— likely pitiful, mourning mewls. He could scarcely believe himself; the depths he had sunk to, the shame that his Ancient loved ones would feel, knowing what he had done to try and bring them back—

Hades wanted to laugh. Resurrection, in direct defiance of everything that the Lifestream stood for? What hubris they had harbored, to think that they could construct a simple solution to the consequences of their own irresponsibility.

They had been poor shepherds of their star. He had been a poor shepherd, and a poorer hero. But he could begin to make right, if he were given the chance.

He felt as though he could scarcely articulate himself, through the aeons of grief catching up to him, at long last. The hands that he wept into were wrenched away from him— Faer had knelt before him, to level with him, without him even knowing she had moved at all.

Squeezing his hands, she gave him a watery smile. “You’re not making any sense. But that’s alright. Breathe. You’re alive. You’re free.”

“How—?” Hades managed to gasp, through the tears that choked him.

“I...I don’t know. I wanted to save you, so, so desperately. I think...I think I just...forced it to happen, is all.” She shrugged, around the shuddering of her shoulders. “I couldn’t bear killing you. I couldn’t. I’ve already been forced to kill my own brother, once. I’ll likely have to kill my father. Please...please don’t make me kill you, too—”

Gathering her to him, he promised, over and over again, through his tears, that he wouldn’t. He couldn’t— given the royal mess he had made his family, under Zodiark’s guidance, she was likely the only family he would be left with. He had already lost so much—

For a few long moments, they knelt together, and just let themselves mourn everything that had brought them to that moment. Every tragedy that had forced them to their knees, together, clinging desperately in the dawn of a new day.

As Hades finally felt like he could breathe again, for the first time since time forgot him altogether, he let that awakening wash over him again: he could take what he had left, and help his family rebuild. He need not truly lose everything. That revelation was enough for those tears that had flooded his eyes to be stemmed; they yet fell, and he yet grieved, but he could at last taste tangible, true hope, beyond that harrowing sorrow. There was a light that, at long last, did not burn him.

“He gets one chance.” One of her friends— Thancred, Hades remembered that he had been corrected on that— said, from a respectable distance. “Surrender, or we’ll spare her our duty.”

“I surrender.” Hades replied, looking up at them. “We lost our home, and everyone we loved, and our grief made monsters of us. I am among the last of them. Let me teach you the ways of our successes, and our stumbles alike. Learn from me, and let me help.”

Hand on his gunblade, Thancred wavered. “I’m not sure that’s enough—”

“Make that enough, or you might as well have struck me down, too, Thancred.” Faer warned, standing and facing him. “Don’t make me lose more family. Please, I’m so tired.”

If Hades’ plea wasn’t enough to satisfy him, Faer’s was; they were the truest sense of family, she and her Scions. Observing them with eyes unclouded, that much was obvious.

Some distance from both the Scions, as well as himself, the Exarch watched, fidgeting. Doubtless, he had his own reckoning with Faer awaiting, for all his secrecy and subterfuge throughout their adventures through Norvrandt. As their eyes met, they shared a sort of understanding that could only come with living a lifetime beyond what most mortals could conceive of, even through the trauma, and all that Hades had put him through, the Exarch could find it in him to empathize with his warden.

To think, he had thought these specimens of mankind insufficient, when they so desperately reminded him of the very people he had loved and lost.

“Lest you have lingering concerns: I can neither see Zodiark’s hand around Hades’ heart, nor sense His touch upon him. Hades is tempered no longer.” 

It had been more than enough, for Y’Shtola to make that declaration, for the Scions to accept that he was not the same man that was capable of the things that he had accomplished under Zodiark, but hearing it had been something Hades had not realized he had needed, until it had settled gently over his raw, healing heart. 

“Given that, I see no reason I should not immediately start with those lessons— and I know precisely where to begin.” Hades said, finding the strength and steadiness to stand once more.

With a snap of his fingers and a faint, effortless pull from the newly purified fire in his soul, the ruined remains of his home were once more restored to a reflection of their former glory. 

“Come: it is high past time I show you the full depth of your inheritance, Faer.” Hades offered, sweeping his hand out, toward the door. “Let me show you my yesterday, that we might better our tomorrow.”

For a few agonizing moments, stillness reigned once more. He feared that he would appear false, now, at the height of their victory, that they would not believe him. For the second time in his life, he feared not being permitted to live.

And then, Faer was beside him, her smile beaming brighter than the morning light that haloed her. When he looked behind them, the Scions, and the Exarch, had all begun to follow behind, though their distance was understandable.

“Shall we, then?” His great-granddaughter asked, hesitantly.

They were far from recovered, from the blood price they had both taken from one another. They would not be for quite some time, he imagined. There would doubtless be confrontations over ugly truths, and rebreaking of emotional wounds that had healed improperly the first time. 

But Hades would walk that path, with eyes open and unclouded. Every step of that journey would be worthwhile, to begin to truly rebuild from what was left, for the first time since the Sundering.

“We shall, my dear.” He agreed, and fell into step beside her, into their tomorrow. “We shall.”

[the-crows-typist]

I’d like to request Sebek x female Mc ficlet with the random word as quiet. Btw I love your blog and all your writings! 🥰

Oh my, anon. It seems I have written so much. I must say that this prompt was extremely fun to write. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did. And thank you so much for the kind words, please enjoy this lovely piece.

This is a sort of AU. Sebek and his darling MC are explorers (loosely based on urban explorers) looking to solve the mystery of an abandoned villa. But Sebel knows more that he lets on.

I'm currently experimenting with writing styles and wish to extend the length of my word count. Some feedback would be highly appreciated.

CW for potential OOC from Sebek and angst towards the end.

The Possibilities are Endless

"Through the entrance covered in thorns, through the river separating worlds, up the cliff of the dragon’s demise..."

Deep inside a forest covered with black thorns lies a villa once belonging to the late reigning monarch of the Kingdom of the Fae. Though belonging to the King himself, he lived in it with three of his closest companions: His advisor and his loyal guards. There they stayed until the king suddenly vanished off the face of the earth and soon his companions followed suit, disappearing from existence and leaving their belongings inside the once warm and lively villa.

The story has since sparked many explorers to find the villa of the king but none so far had the pleasure of finding it.

But article after article, guide after guide, discussion after discussion; a path was laid from the failed attempts and a single sentence formed guiding those who were curious enough to go look for it.

Through the entrance covered in thorns, through the river separating worlds, up the cliff of the dragon’s demise.

Soon, multiple exploration groups took the challenge and it became a race to see who finds the villa first and find answers to why the king disappeared, where his companions went. It was a challenge that was accepted almost immediately by Sebek Zigvolt and his partner, his confidant; a woman who was just as eager and as curious to explore the unexplored.

“The forest we’re entering is actually part of a valley.” Sebek explained as his companion manoeuvred past the black thorns. “So the thorns actually stretch that far?” She asked, the cold air of dawn dusted her cheeks a bright red and her thick, warm clothes warming her body. Behind her was a large camping back, a style Sebek mirrored. “Yes. One of the guides said that once you reach the river, the thorns should look bigger. That’s the indicator that we’re going the right way.”

She took his hand in hers, smiling at him. “I’m excited. Let’s go.”

The hours walk was silent between them but they knew better than to let go of each other’s hand. The forest was quiet and sun covered by the clouds overhead, the trees were silent and the chirping of birds that one should hear when in a forest never came. All there was to hear was the heavy, deafening silence. “You noticed it too?” Sebek  asked, his voice soft and whispery. “The grandmother of the king was responsible for this growth of thorns, you know? After she cursed the humans who tried to drive her people away.”

“She was alive during the war?”

“She saw it begin and end.” Sebek shook his head at this. “At the time, magic...had odd standards.” A pat on his back and the two of them shared a soft smile. “But those days are over. The history books tell of its end.” He blinked his eyes and stopped in his tracks, looking over to her in concern. “A tinge of her magic still exists here even after her passing millennia ago. It was designed to keep humans out but...If we stay close and if we stay quiet, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

She leaned a little closer to whisper into his ear, their fingers intertwining. “Sounds like a plan.”

The walk continued, reaching a stream of water. The two exchanged looks. “Through the river that separates worlds...Does that mean the magic is different here?” she wondered and took a tentative step forward. Next to the water were clumps and groups of zinnia blossoms amongst the black thorns.  Sebek’s hand tightened for a moment before letting out a breath, a puff of hot air against the cold air.

“There’s only one way to find out.” The two of them hopped over the stream and welcoming warmth washed over them, providing them with a moment of comfort. “It seems the influence of the king’s grandmother ends here.” Sebek says and lets go of her hand. “This magic feels more different, it’s more welcoming.”

“The king was a far cry from what his grandmother was since he was born after  the war ended.” He kneeled, taking a Zinnia blossom from the ground. “He focused on peace between worlds and wanted nothing more than for the world to feel peace.” The flower slipped on to her ear and her hair tucked behind it. The two stared at each other, his eyes crinkling into an emotion that was hard to read.

One of nostalgia and sadness; of happiness and bitterness.

“He sounds like a nice person.” She took his gloved hand when it held her cheek and somehow, that smile he had became even more broken. “...That’s what the books say.”

More and more flowers began appearing down the path, fireflies and butterflies floating about them, life poked through the large thorns that spread through the ground. A different world was in front of them, one that was kind, a world that was striving to break through the pain of the past.

“I read somewhere that the king fell in love with a human.” Sebek turned to her, eyes wide in surprise. “They met during his studies and they were inseparable. That is, until the human was cursed with an eternal slumber.” There was silence between them for a moment, a heavy silence. “It’s just speculation but...I think that was what drove the king to disappear, he couldn’t wake his lover up.”

A sigh then a chuckle, the green haired explorer bumped shoulders with her. “Despite the sombre tone, the sleeping spell reminds me of one of the king’s loyal guards. A swordsman so sleepy that he would sleep in the most darn places you could ever imagine.”

“Oh, he was the one who was raised to be the king’s guard since birth right?” Sebek nodded his head and looked on ahead. “No one could really explain why he would suddenly fall asleep but he was an expert with the sword. He even became the second swordsman’s mentor for a time.”

“I never heard much about the second guard.”

“He was the last to live in the villa before his majesty’s disappearance. Information about him is small as far as the books and articles say.”

“Sebek—”

They reached the cliff, the thorns large enough to step on. “Up the cliff of the dragon’s demise. We should be close to the castle. We can probably set up camp when we reach the top.” His partner looked up the cliff. The exhaustion she once felt suddenly disappeared. “It doesn’t look so bad. I think we can climb this in an hour!”

“Shhh!!!”

“Sorry.”

The climb to the top was indeed short, only taking a good hour to get to the top. The tent was set and fire was soon made as night began to creep in. Sebek poked the flame, adding more wood to keep the fire alive. “We should get some rest here...I know that you’re excited to find the villa but we should have enough energy to—”

Behind him, the woman was asleep and cuddled into her sleeping bag. The trek had taken a lot of her it seemed. Shaking his head, Sebek stood up and moved the sleeping back into the tent and for a moment, leaned down to nuzzle his nose to her forehead, making her stir. “Goodnight.”

Exiting the tent, he walked in the silence of the night to a place he knew he would find. A weathered tombstone came up in sight and wrapped around were the calcified remains of a sleeping dragon, the remains of his family, his master and his beloved bathed in the light of the moon.

“Master Malleus, I’m back.” He said, kneeling down in front of the stone, his eyes downcast at the silence that greeted him. “I have lost track of the centuries that have passed after you joined your beloved, my classmate, my very first friend in their eternal slumber.”

A sniffle and a sob left his quivering lips. “I remembered the day I yelled at you in anger. The day you said you wanted to do it out of love for them. Love. You felt such a fickle emotion, Master.”

The tears came, wetting the grass under him; flowers blooming in his state of mourning. “Master Lilia and Silver followed in your steps soon after. Both of them leaving for the world ahead never to be found again...And now,” He sniffled, rubbing his cheek “I’m the only one left.”

He closed his eyes. “You said that it was a wonderful feeling. Love. I never understood why a noble such as yourself would dwell on such things…But I understand now.” He remembers his partner, her laugh, the smile he always loved to see, the many adventures he’s spent with her.

He loved her. Very much.

“I understand what it means to feel love.” His swallowed another oncoming sob. “But alas, I was too late to tell you that you were right all this time.”

The stone did not move. Sebek sobbed, hunching over. It was only now that he felt the feeling of loneliness weigh down on his heart. “Please forgive me for my ignorance, Master Malleus.”

In the quiet castle, the second swordsman remained, his cries swallowed by the night and covered by looming clouds. There he mourned the passing of his companions, his family in the silence of the ruins he once called home.

[berkmansimagines]

Taken (Part 5/7)

A/N: I’ll post part 6 in the next couple of days. Thanks for reading!

Summary: Fuches kidnaps Barry’s daughter.

← Part 4 | Part 6 →

“I didn’t think it would take this long…”

Fuches and Barry have been parked across the street from the target’s place for over an hour, waiting for the man to return home. Barry is killing an old client before he has the chance to rat them out to the police. Fuches drove Barry to the hit himself. He wanted to make sure Barry finished the job. 

“These things take as long as they take,” Barry shrugs. He was also growing impatient and being stuck with Fuches wasn’t helping.

The phone in Fuches’ hand buzzes. He reads a new text message.

“When this is done you’re taking me to Y/N,” Barry tells Fuches.

After Fuches dragged you out the door in the middle of the night, a handcuffed Barry passed out on the floor. He woke up to the sound of Fuches returning to the apartment. Your father had no idea where Fuches took you. For now, Barry would have to go along with whatever Fuches said in hopes of getting you back.

“Hmmm… We’ll see,” Fuches grumbles as he sends out a quick text.

“Fuches-”

“Well she’d be in the backseat right now if it wasn’t for that little stunt you pulled last night,” Fuches smugly replies.

Barry looks down at his lap. He blames himself for what happened. He should’ve been able to protect you and get you out of there, but he failed.

“It’s probably for the best that she’s not here. Gives us time to catch up. This reminds me of the good old days… before you left for LA.”

Barry rolls his eyes. He didn’t want to catch up with Fuches at all. 

“Good old days? What good old days? I was miserable here. I hated my life,” Barry says quietly.

“Oh stop being dramatic,” Fuches snickers.

Barry glares at Fuches. His former handler didn’t understand and he never really tried to. Fuches didn’t care about Barry’s safety, happiness or the fact that he didn’t want to hurt people anymore. The only thing that mattered to Fuches was his own self interest. 

“So I was thinking after you kill the cop, we can-” Fuches begins, then gets interrupted by Barry.

“After? There is no after! As soon as I’m done with these two hits, I’m taking my kid home.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Fuches asks.

Barry’s eyes narrow in on Fuches, “What are you talking about?”

“I had an idea…. Maybe you can stay here and come work for me again,” Fuches admits.

“Jesus, Fuches! Was that your plan all along? Why would I even consider working with you again? You’re out of your fucking mind,” Barry challenges.

“Think about it! If you leave LA that means the Chechens, Bolivians and everyone else you pissed off at the monastery that night won’t be in arms reach anymore. You want to keep your girl safe? Moving back to Cleveland means all those threats are gone,” Fuches tries to persuade Barry. 

“Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me or my daughter. If you cared at all, you wouldn’t have kidnapped her in the first place. I never wanted Y/N involved in any of this. All those threats will go away? Don’t you get it, Fuches? You are the threat!” Barry scoffs.

“You don’t think I ever cared? Who got you out of that hospital in Germany, pal?” 

Barry raises his eyebrow. He’s about to speak up when suddenly a car pulls into the driveway of the target’s house. This is it. He’s finally home. Barry and Fuches quickly change into work mode.

“Remember, you need to be in and out of there in ten minutes,” Fuches tells Barry.

“I know,” Barry nods, “Then afterwards, we’re going to get Y/N.”

Fuches shakes his head.

“C’mon, man. She’s scared and I don’t want her to be alone,” Barry tries.

“She’s not alone,” Fuches reveals.

Barry’s face drops. Shit. This entire time he thought Fuches was acting solo. Was he wrong?

“Wha...what?” Barry stutters.

“Barry, you think you’re calling the shots right now but you’re not,” Fuches coolly warns your father, “Just shut up and do your job and the girl won’t get hurt.”

Barry clenches his jaw. He’s seething. It’s taking everything inside of Barry right now not to reach across the car and strangle Fuches with his bare hands. The only thing stopping him is you. Barry knows he can’t do anything until he finds out where you are.

Fuches shifts in his seat and pulls a gun out of his coat pocket. He points it at your father.

“This should go without saying but if you make a move against me, your kid is gone forever,” Fuches threatens.

Barry takes a deep breath and nods. He won’t try anything. It’s a risk he’s not willing to take.

“Ten minutes,” Fuches repeats, handing the gun to Barry.

Barry gets out of the car. He keeps the gun close to his side as he discreetly approaches the target’s house. Fuches remains in his vehicle, watching Barry’s every move and making sure he doesn’t step out of line.

Barry returns to the car less than ten minutes later. It was a simple job. Barry was able to sneak in through an open window. The target was lounging on his couch watching TV. He barely had time to react before Barry shot him dead. No fuss, no fight, easy clean up.

“Nice work,” Fuches pats Barry on the shoulder.

“It wasn’t really work,” Barry mumbles. 

Fuches takes his hand off Barry’s shoulder but keeps it held out.

“Give me the gun, Barry.”

Barry squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. He’s done playing Fuches’ sick game. Barry then opens his eyes and gives Fuches a cold look before turning the gun on him. 

“Who has my kid, Fuches? Where is she?” 

“Give me the gun before you do something you’ll regret,”  Fuches cautions.

“Where is she?” Barry repeats the question, gun still pointed at Fuches.

Fuches gulps.

“I dropped her off with this guy Nick. I partnered up with him on some jobs here after you left,” Fuches explains.

“Let me see her! I want to talk to her,” Barry demands.

“Fine,” Fuches sighs.

Fuches sends out a quick text message. A few moments later-

RING, RING

Fuches answers on Facetime and shows Barry his phone screen. Your father’s heart breaks. He sees you crying on a concrete floor. There’s dry blood under your nose and a nasty bruise is forming under your left eye. The person holding the phone roughly grabs your chin forcing you to look into the camera. You look absolutely terrified.

“Y/N!”

Your eyes widen. You try calling out to Barry but it’s muffled by duct tape covering your mouth. 

“Thanks Nick! That’s enough…” Fuches announces.

The camera abruptly flips to a man in a ski mask. He smirks at Barry. Then the connection goes dead.

Barry’s entire body tenses up.

“Did you hit my kid?” Barry angrily accuses Fuches. Thinking about your black eye is making his blood boil.

“I didn’t do that! It must’ve been Nick,” Fuches puts his hands up in defense.

“You shouldn’t have left her alone with that creep,” Barry argues.

Barry takes deep a breath trying to calm down but he feels himself getting madder and madder. He just wants to pull the trigger and he can’t. He still has no idea where you are or how to get to you. Barry can’t use the tracker on your phone. It was long dead and Fuches left it at Barry’s apartment. 

“Look the quicker you do the next hit, the quicker you’ll see your daughter again,” Fuches does his best to pivot Barry back to business, “I already did some research on the cop. He’s divorced and lives alone. His condo is across town. We’ll go there and wait until he gets home from work.” 

“I’m not doing any more hits, Fuches! The guy didn’t talk to the police and now he’s dead. This case is over. If I kill a cop, the police will grow more suspicious. You’re a fucking idiot for thinking this was a good plan!” Barry goes off.

“Oh I’m an idiot? Barry, the only one who doesn’t understand what’s going on right now is you. If you don’t do the hit, if something happens to me, if I stop responding to Nick’s texts… he’ll leave town with the brat. Do you know how much some people are willing to pay for her? You pissed off a lot of people for what you did at the monastery and they have no problems taking it out on your family. Nick is prepared to deliver her to the Chechens on a silver platter,” Fuches dictates in a menacing tone.

Barry’s eyes widen. He’s so furious that he finally loses control over his emotions and snaps. Barry starts hitting Fuches in the face repeatedly with his gun as hard as he can. 

“WHERE IS SHE?” your father yells.

Barry continues attacking Fuches. Fuches tries to defend himself but he’s no match against Barry’s rage.

“Ok, ok, you don’t have to kill the cop. The job is done! It’s over!” Fuches concedes.

Barry stops beating Fuches but keeps the gun pointed at his face.

“Fuck the job! Where’s my kid, Fuches?” Barry asks through gritted teeth.

“Not like this. Put the gun down. You can’t kill me, Barry. If you do it then Nick takes off with the girl. She’s gone forever. Would you rather kill me or save your kid?”

Barry sighs and hesitantly lowers his weapon. He grips the gun close to his side. Fuches won’t disarm him again.

“If you get out of the car now, I’ll give you the address of where he’s keeping her. They aren’t far from here, you can get there in a few minutes if you run fast enough. And I’ll tell him the job is done. He’ll leave her alone.”

Barry reluctantly nods. He wishes he can kill Fuches but he’d rather save you. Fuches gives him the address.

“Fuches, if she isn’t there or if anything happens to her… I will fucking kill you. Never go near me or my daughter again,” Barry warns in a low serious voice as he gets out of the car.

Barry slams the car door shut and Fuches books it out of there. Your father immediately looks up the address on his phone. It’s only five minutes away.

He races to get to you as fast as he can...

--

Taken series taglist: @midnightseance​, @ihatemyselfmorethanmydepression, @fangirl-imagines​

[dreamiesdotcom]

sunrise, moonset | h.rj

Summary: You two were like sunset; that brief moment of alignment between two, a connection caused by the nature of the universe itself — that breathlessly beautiful moment where silver meets gold, even within the shortest time.

Word count: 1.5k

A/N: Happy Halloween <3 don’t be fooled this isn’t horror.

Renjun knows better than to fall in love.

He doesn’t remember why, he just knows it isn’t as fun and he can’t handle so many heartbreaks. It’s all pure deduction, of course, Renjun never really fell in love that hard. He’s had a couple of relationships, sure, a fair share; it’s just that he is all too good at that game.

At least, he was, until he realized that easy just doesn’t exist.

Easy shouldn’t be this difficult. Easy shouldn’t be this painful, easy shouldn’t be this damaging — simple wasn’t supposed to be this hard to understand. From that point forward, he just busies himself ruining pretty much everything.

He tried not thinking of the future — after all, it doesn’t do anything but give you faux certainty, all while doing it’s best to fragilize you. He insists he doesn’t want easy — even through gritted teeth, he insists he doesn’t want easy. Easy just won’t come, and if it takes so much suffering, then he doesn’t want it.

Renjun stopped painting — the world was too cruel to be immortalized. He stopped singing, too, even if he only ever sung to himself back then and nobody ever heard his voice. He stopped writing poetry and studying his troublesome maths and went to do his usual business, pretty much a zombie. He just… kind of stopped.

His world stopped moving, and he was destroying himself, but he was too tired to care. Everything he’s built, everyone he’s treasured, his passions, his feelings — he needed to stop hurting all of them, so he left. Renjun was too tired to care, but he loved just like that; even when he gets exhausted, he couldn’t help but fight for what should be done to not hurt anybody else more.

He loves that way; places himself after everyone and calls it love.

That wasn’t love. That was a terrible example of what selfish people thought love was.

So, Renjun knows better than to fall in love. How could he? He might’ve memorized the exact denotation of that word, but he barely even understands it! He doesn’t know.

He also doesn’t know how he met you — you were just kind of there, popped up out of nowhere, and smiled at him, even though he didn’t return it. He doesn’t push you away, only because he does like your company — he just really isn’t expressive. Kind of complicated, wired like a maze. You were there and you stayed for months, a very long time — Renjun knew better, but he doesn’t really know.

The only thing he is certain of is that he, Huang Renjun, thinks you two are a bit like the sun and moon — him, the lovely shade of gold, and you, the pristine hue of silver. You two were just too different. It’s almost like you were worlds apart, timelines distant and entwined by broken strings of fate.

And still, you were always the one to try to understand him. You were always the one he finds himself walking back to, answering your odd questions just like this one: “How does it feel to feel empty?”

“Honestly, it feels good to be empty… it feels kind of nice, to feel nothing, just like that..” Renjun drawls out, a bit unsure. Curious eyes await what words would come next — Renjun couldn’t continue fast enough, he realizes that he happened to be so good at lying that it became like second nature to him. Is he lying, or is it real? He clears his throat, “I find comfort in knowing that tomorrow, I will feel nothing again, and it would be okay.”

Renjun concludes that from now on, everything that leaves his mouth about himself that doesn’t involve you is a half-truth.

There’s something quite strange and difficult about you, he’s always noticed. It’s like you’re so special, just slightly not quite like him; your eyes look like they held whatever anyone wants to see, your lips dripped of words that was nothing but comfort. You also seem to be able to read his mind.

“What are you running away from, huh?”

What else should I run away from?

Renjun thinks of the day at the lake — he finally picked up his pencil and sketched the landscape, regretted that he didn’t bring his watercolor again after so long. He comes home and sets up his canvas, picks up a brush, and brings a scenery back to life with paint in a way nobody did quite like him. He does his homework after; he feels oddly fueled, even without coffee. He maps out what kind of future he wants for himself, a happy one. He thinks of ways he can make it work. He writes and he sings and he presses the dusty keys of his piano, the sound so familiarly strange. He drops all the shortcuts and accepts the challenge.

Renjun kept on thinking about how silly he was, running away from himself.

“Nothing,” he smiles.

He feels kind of strange, kind of exposed like this, eating his thoughts about half-truths because with that look in your eyes, so trusting and hopeful that he doesn’t lie, how in the world was he meant to be not genuine? He thinks before proceeding, considering the weight of his words, “I have nothing to run from anymore, now that I have you.”

Renjun thinks of how he’s wearing something different right now, simply because he always wore sweaters and stuff — he didn’t like the way his skin was so pale and lifeless. He also wears his glasses today; he used to only wear them when necessary back then so that for most of his days he saw the world in light leaks and blurs of motion around him. He leaves his hair a mess on top of his head. He doesn’t bother with anything aside from running his hands through it after showering, unlike back then when he would always mess with it for more than an hour.

He thinks of how he stopped trying so hard to not be who he was when his world was still spinning, erasing any trace of softness and anything that reminds him of who truly was, his little way of escaping himself. Then he thinks of how he stopped doing just that.

He sees the world clearly and he sees you clearly, though there was always this soft glow around you, much like a crown of soft light that you always wore. It makes him feel a bit warm with everything a little fuzzier, kind of dream-like, as if an illusion — it was like things were less real, maybe even less overwhelming, more heartfelt. Renjun finds a twisted pleasure in the surreal nature of these moments with you.

You smile at him, “Are you happy?”

“The happiest.” He reflects your expression, nodding enthusiastically. He closes his eyes only to open them again, trying to blink away all the happy tears. Renjun beams brighter, “Be here with me forever, yeah?”

He doesn’t get a reply, no promises made, but he does get what felt like a kiss on his forehead, feather-like and gentle, so very heavenly. He finds himself succumbing to sleep, content and warm, void of anything else but happiness. For an unknown reason, a tear rolls down his eyes.

He was just so happy like that, he couldn’t help but do so.

He wakes up the day after as if he was in a dream — a nightmare, maybe, but nightmares weren’t supposed to be so gently painful. Nightmares used to be a constant guest in his sleep — he knows more than anyone what they feel like; he knows the harsh tug at his chest and the terror in his mind, the desperate need to wake up. It was none of that. It’s a dream.

He knows that it was a dream, something beautiful, so lovely that he couldn’t help but cry, if the lingering feeling of dried tears on his cheeks was anything to go by.

His eyes roam around his room, which happens to be, unlike before, neat and organized. He looks at the empty corners, the door tightly shut, the walls painted a pale blue decorated with his paintings that he finally decided to hang. He slept too much again; it’s already noon, he notices when he glances at the window.

Laughter bubbles up from his throat a little, then he realizes again that oh, you two — you’re really, really different. You two are still different, so very different from each other. Though, rather than sun and moon both on their highest points at different times, Renjun concludes that you two are like sunset — sunset, moonrise; sunrise — sunrise, moonset — one is going up and the other is going down, that brief moment of alignment between the two, a connection caused by the nature of the universe itself. That breathlessly beautiful moment where silver meets gold, even within the shortest time.

Renjun wakes up to the sight of no one and realizes that he woke up from a dream, back to a nightmare. He feels a tear roll down his cheek again.

Renjun was supposed to know better than to fall in love with a ghost.

[rakimaiirisa]

Writing practice.

Asbjorn sighed and eyed the tiny grey cat that gazed back at him, eyes slightly narrowed in annoyance. " You really want me to, huh?" He asked. The cat nodded and settled into resting position, a position he called the breadloaf because she looked like one. He grinned as the cat shot him a death stare. She had heard that then. Well, linking minds didnt come with its drawbacks. Not that he gave a shit, truth be told.

Settling back in her chair, he picked up the electronic tablet and read the instructions listed. Listen to the audio on the tablet and answer honestly. Simple enough. Nodding, he pressed the audio button and listened and then frowned. He stared at his hands for bit, taking a deep breath now and then to settle the swirl of emotions that engulfed him suddenly. Of all the questions...

"Why?!" He demanded and the cat cocked its head slightly, green eyes alert. A silvery voice echoed in his thoughts, "it is necessary to look at your past so you can establish your future."

For a moment, he considered leaving. His creator she might be, but his past was his own, wasnt it? He gave a hollow laugh as he realized his mistake. Even that wasn't his either. Fuck it. He didnt want to. He had better things to do then this. As he stood to leave, the silvery voice spoke again.

"While I may have created you, the story is your own. It is driven by you, the muse. I am only an observer in your life. I take no credit in your past or future. My only purpose here to write it down, to give it life in whatever way I can. My question was not meant to hurt you. I only want to understand it."

He paused, considering the grey cat as it gazed back at him. The green eyes that had shone so vibrantly earlier were muted and dulled now. As they stared at each other, she issued a soft meow at him. He hesitated and then reached out, gently scratching under her ears, listening to her purr under his touch. He continued for a moment, then sighed and sank back in his chair, aware of her eyes on him. The silence felt endless as he debated with his emotions but in the end he nodded, swallowing the hard lump in his throat as he did.

"Very well. But this is the only time."

He picked up the tablet, pressing the audio as he did so and the emotionless voice asked again the question that brought up a piece of his past that he didn't want to remember.

"What happened on the day you parents passed?"

He took a deep breath and began.

"Its's my fault my parents are dead." He said,feeling the sharp familiar stab of shame and anguish pierce him once again. " I wanted to go hunt that day but my Da said no . That the day didnt feel right. But I didnt care, I thought he was just wanted me home to do extra chores around the camp. He said he would take me hunting on another day but I was angry and impatient. I waited til he left to speak to Thorigg and then I stuck out."

He paused again and rubbed his face, struggling to keep his tone from cracking. In his minds eye, he could see his father stern face soften slightly at his teenage sons impatience, watched his hand as he grasped his sons shoulder as he uttered his familar mantra of "Young pups who see the prey before the pack dont survive long." A warning he wished he had listened to.

He shook his head, banishing the scene and continued, struggling to keep his tone even. " I headed towards a spot I always found prey at. But as I got closer, i noticed there was something different. The sounds of wildlife that were normally present were quiet. I figured that maybe I had scared them with my presence so I decided to go hunt somewhere else. Then the smell of bear hit me."

He paused and took a moment to collect himself. " I didn't have a chance. Before I could run, one of the werebears picked me up my my neck and then threw me against a tree. I tried to get up but before I could, another one jumped on me and I nearly passed out from the weight of the bastard as he held me down. I heard them say that my pelt would be a fine addition to the other werewolves they collected. Suddenly I smelled a familiar scent and then my father burst out from the nearby brush, my mother close behind him."

Once again, he saw the scene so vividly. His father, huge in his werewolf form, roaring a challenge to his sons attackers as he rushed to his aid while his mother issued her own, her silver great sword lashing out, piercing the nearest beast's hide and causing it to snarl in rage as it back ed away. His tone cracked as he continued.

"My father knocked the one that held me off and tore its throat out. But that victory didnt last long as 2 more swarmed him. He managed to break free for a moment and the last I saw of him, he had them at bay, with them circling him before my mother dragged me away."

He looked down his hands again, clenching them so hard it hurt. " We ran for abit,but then we heard yelps of pain that cut abruptly. My mother wanted to go back, I could tell, but instead she pushed us on, towards home. But we didnt make it too far before the smell of bear was upon us and then we saw him. I didnt have a chance to dodge before it lashed out with its paw, its claws tearing at my face and sending me flying. I lay there crying, unable to see and then I heard my mother scream out to me " Run Asbjorn! RUN!! As I got up, I heard the cracking of bone and the hiss of pain as she shifted become a snarl. I heard her roar and werebear answer her and then the sound of them fighting with each other. "

He smiled bitterly. "I ran as my mother asked. I couldn't see where I was going so I tripped and fell over everything. I ran as far as I could before the pain in my face became too much and I passed out. The next thing I knew I was in Ravenrock, in the care of a dunmer healer, Aphia Velothi. A local hunter had found me and had brought me to her. I stayed under her care for over a month. She managed to save my eyesight and could've removed the scars as well. But I refused to let her. They are a reminder of what my stupidity cost me. "

He looked up at the cat with reddened eyes. "There, are you satisfied? Did that help build the story for you? Do you need to know how much I hate myself because I'm the reason they're dead?!"

The cat stood and stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable and then in one fluid motion leapt, landing lightly in his lap. As he reached to fling her off, she wrapped her small paws around his neck and began to purr.

"Dont blame yourself. You were just a child, Asbjorn."

The hand he had placed on her stilled then trembled. With a shaky hand, he began to pet her, unaware of the hot tears that splashed into her fur as he struggled to contain memories that threatened to overwhelm him.

[wonkasmissstarshine]

The Chocolatier’s Rose {Willy Wonka x OC} Ch.15

GIFs not mine. Credit go to owners.

Summary: Rose is about to marry Harry, but luckily, Charlie and Willy come to her rescue.

Tagging: @holdmeicant​ @willymywonkers​ @sleepiesapphicxoxo​

Rose stood in front of a mirror in her dressing room, while Harry's sister, Catherine, adjusted the veil that was secured by Rose's braided updo. She was still crying. She was surprised she still had tears left to cry.

Catherine rolled her eyes at Rose. "You have no reason to be crying" She said with an irritated tone. She never understood what Harry saw in this girl. Catherine wished that her brother would end up with another rich girl, but no, he had to pick a poor girl.

Rose glared her eyes at the girl through the mirror. "You don't know what I've been going through these past two weeks!"

"Well you're about to get married, to my brother no less. So, you better start perking up!" Catherine spat. She then muttered to herself, not caring if Rose heard her or not. "My brother could have done so much better than you..."

That felt like a kick in the stomach. Maybe Catherine was right. Who would want to be stuck with Rose Bucket for the rest of their life? Not even Willy wanted to be with her...

"Alright. Are you ready?" Catherine asked, the bitterness still obvious in her tone. She handed the bouquet to Rose. Her favourite flowers weren't even present in the bouquet. It was abundant in lilies and daisies, but none of the very flower she shared her name with. "And wipe that frown off your face! We don't need you ruining all the photos!" Catherine complained.

Geez, when it comes to spoiled families, the Roberts definitely take the gold medal. The Salts would take silver, but knowing Veruca, she'd be demanding to take the gold one.

******

This wasn't the wedding Rose ever envisioned herself having. The music was boring, she'd definitely have the Oompa-Loompas singing as she marched... no, no... danced down the aisle.

And she didn't want to get married in the church. She wanted to get married in that luscious and colourful candy meadow, with a chocolate waterfall as the backdrop for her wedding photos.

She wouldn't be wearing a white dress. She'd be wearing one made of pink and it would be puffy, something that reminded her of cotton candy. And a tiara with candied jewels on her head.

And of course, Harry wasn't the groom in her dream wedding. Her perfect groom would smell like peanuts and chocolate. He'd be dapperly dressed in that velvet red coat, purple gloves, and a top hat. His eyes would be violet, and he'd have the haircut that Charlie found funny, but Rose absolutely loved.

It should be Willy waiting for her on that altar, not Harry.

And the most important thing, Rose's family would be here. There wouldn't be a room full of stuck up, spoiled, snotty snobs silently judging her because of her lack of wealth.

Harry's father walked her down the aisle, and Catherine acted as her only bridesmaid. This definitely wasn't right. Mr Bucket should be walking Rose down the aisle, and Priscilla and Eleanor should be her bridesmaids.

Rose finally joined Harry at the altar. He was smiling at her, but Rose couldn't meet his eyes. The minister looked between the soon-to-be wed couple. He addresses the guests first. "If you'll all please be seated. The ceremony is ready to begin"

The guests sat down and the minister spoke again. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the marriage of Harold Maxwell Roberts, and Rosalie Genevieve Bucket. Before we continue on, is there any reason why these two should not be wed"

"Please, someone speak up!" Rose thought hopefully. No one was objecting. Although, some people looked like they wanted to speak up, but Harry glared at anyone who dared to even blink.

"Let's move on" the minister said, after moments of silence passed. "Can the bride and groom please face each other?" Harry and Rose turned to one another. "We'll start with vows first. Harry, I believe you would like to share first?"

"Yes" Harry said with a curt nod. He pulled out a piece of paper with more writing on it that Rose would have liked. How much could he possibly have to say about her? It's not like he truly loved her!

Harry started reciting his vows. "Rose, it was the very first day I walked into that quaint little pie shop, and I saw you sweeping up the floor. Then you looked at me, and I was immediately taken away with your beauty..." Rose zoned out as Harry droned on.

What was she supposed to say when it came to her vows? I'm only marrying you because I've given up on love.

"And that's why I'm happy, that finally, on this day, you'll finally be mine. And I promise that you will be forever" Harry finished off. Even though Rose was barely paying attention, she did notice a couple things.

One, not once did Rose hear the word 'love' in Harry's vows, and two, she didn't like the way he said 'mine forever'.

If Rose wasn't regretting this before, she definitely was now. But she was too deep into this now, and there was no one here to save her.

The minister turned to Rose. "Do you have anything you'd like to say?"

Rose shook her head and muttered a quiet, "No"

"Very well" the minister nodded. It then came to the part Rose was dreading. The 'I do's'. "Harry, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?"

Harry smiled and nodded, an dark glint coming to his eyes. "I do"

"Rose," the minister started, and Rose swallowed the lump in her throat. "Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?"

Rose's heart beat uncontrollably. Tears were brimming at her eyes. She looked at the seated guests. She didn't like the way they were staring at her.

"I..." Rose's answer was halted when something crashed through the ceiling of the church, making everyone scream in fright. But Rose didn't scream. No, instead she genuinely smiled for the first time in two weeks, when she recognized the glass elevator and the two people inside it.

It was Charlie and Willy. They had come to her rescue.

"What is the meaning of this!?" Harry demanded angrily.

"Charlie! Willy!" Rose exclaimed as the two of them stepped out of the elevator. She grabbed the skirt of her dress and lifted it up so she could run to her two saviours.

"Rose!" Willy smiled at her. "I do hope that we're not too late, because I—" He was cut off when Rose wrapped her arms around him. She held onto him tightly, like she was afraid to let go of him. Her eyes were also closed as she rest her head against his chest.

"I'm glad you're here" She whispered to him.

"You are?" Willy's arms were held out at his sides, like he was afraid to hug her back. He wasn't used to hugs. Especially affectionate ones like this.

"Yes" Rose said softly. "I missed you"

And that's all Willy needed to return the embrace. One arm wrapped around her waist, while the other hand gently cupped the back of her head. His chin rested on the top of her head. "I missed you too, starshine"

Rose opened her eyes, and found herself looking at Charlie, who was grinning brightly at them. "Thank you" She mouthed to him.

"Can someone explain to me why these two are ruining my wedding?" Harry demanded, pointing accusing fingers at the two uninvited guests.

Rose, letting go of Willy, now had the confidence she needed to go off on Harry and his stupid family. "This isn't a wedding anymore, Harry. And you know why? Because I'm no longer marrying you!"

Harry let out a maniac laugh. "Yes, you are. You're going to marry me because I've said so. I've already said I do. Now, you just need to say it, and then we'll be married"

He tried grabbing Rose, but Willy stepped in front of her. "You better not touch her" He warned.

Charlie stepped forward as well. "She doesn't love you. She loves Mr Wonka, and Mr Wonka loves her"

"Really?" Harry scoffed. "They've only really known each other for a day! You can't possibly love someone after only a day!"

Rose glared at him. "That's a bit hypocritical of you, isn't it? Because ever since they day you met me, you've been asking me to marry you!"

"W-well," Harry stuttered, like he was unsure of how to respond. "That's because I love you, silly!"

"Love me!? You don't know anything about me!"

"Of course I do! I know you better than anyone!"

"Oh, really?" Rose challenged him. "Name at least five things you love about me"

"Well, you're... beautiful" Harry answered with a shrug. And that's all he could come up with.

"Rose isn't just beautiful" Willy spoke up. He gazed over at the girl. An adoring smiled danced across his lips. "She's kind, smart and imaginative. She's got the most angelic laugh. You just want to think of ways to make her laugh so you can hear it over and over again. She radiates a scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and chocolate. You can look her in her beautiful eyes, and find yourself getting lost in them for the rest of your life"

Rose was speechless as she heard Willy say those things about her. She had never heard someone, outside her family that is, say such kind things about her.

"There's so much more to Rose than you could possibly imagine" Willy added as he grabbed her hand that wasn't still grasping a bouquet. "And that's why I fell for you, starshine, and I'm sorry for everything I said about....f....f..."

Rose smiled at him. "It's okay, Willy. I forgive you"

"Rosie," Charlie spoke up, making Rose look down at him. "We're going to see Mr Wonka's father. Would you like to come with us?"

"Of course, I would" Rose said.

"No, you're not going anywhere!" Harry protested. "I want you as my wife! And I always get what I want!"

"You know, Harry, you remind me of a spoiled little girl. Do you know what happened to her? She got thrown down a garbage chute by squirrels!" Harry furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, and Willy laughed at the memory. "Now unfortunately, there's no squirrels or a garbage chute for you to be thrown into, but I can do this..."

Rose chucked the bouquet at Harry, hitting him square in the face. All the guests gasped. But Rose didn't stop there. She also reached down, grabbing the skirt of the dress, and ripped off a large piece of it.

"My dress!" Catherine shrieked.

"And one more thing" Rose said, an amused smirk coming across her face. She went over to the table where the cake was. It was a large cake, but it was light enough for her to grab and carry. She brought it over to Harry.

"Don't you dare!" Harry warned her with a glare.

"Oh no, I'm losing my balance" Rose said sarcastically. She purposefully lost her balance, tipping the cake over and making it fall on Harry. "Oops. I'm so clumsy!"

Charlie and Willy stifled in their laughs as all the other guests went into a frenzy. Rose had a pleased smile on her face as she entered the elevator with her brother, and the love of her life.

"That was brilliant, Rosie" Charlie said.

"That's my starshine" Willy said, smiling proudly at Rose, and grasping her hand in his own. Their fingers entwined, fitting together perfectly like two pieces of a puzzle.

Willy reached over and pressed a button. The elevator doors closed and then they were off.

[rumdrum91]

Ever After: Prologue and Chapter 1

@captainswanmoviemarathon

check out @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713  beautiful art work!! We collaborated, and she’s an incredible human : https://allons-y-to-hogwarts-713.tumblr.com/post/628147236387356672/captain-swan-movie-marathon-ever-after-a 

My contribution to the event. No obligation to leave comments or kind words, but just know if you do, I will bake you virtual cookies and give you a puppy named Lloyd.

_______________________PROLOGUE________________________________

“My little swan,” he liked to call her. Like in the story. The ugly duckling was clumsy and gangly and loud—

“A nuisance!” Emma would interrupt delightedly. “Like me!”

Yes, a nuisance like her. The other ducklings would swim in their straight lines and let out respectable quacks to greet the bullfrogs and the dragonflies. But the ugly duckling could only squawk, flapping his gray, mottled wings frantically as he tried to catch up. 

The others did not look back, not even once. They didn’t like the ugly duckling. They hid their heads in their wings, and pretended not to hear him. 

Time went by and soon enough, the ducklings were no longer ducklings. They had grown over the long winter and returned from the south with long, silver feathers. They chattered and quacked excitedly, examining each other’s beauty and reveling in their own. But all that was forgotten when the most beautiful creature of all came into their mist. He was white as snow, with silky feathers and a long, graceful neck. He shone like a star come to rest on earth, and when he glided on the lake, the water around him seemed to sparkle in reverence. 

Who was this mysterious creature, the ducks wondered? What was he? For he certainly wasn’t anyone they recognized.

“I know who he was!” Emma would sit upright, her eyes alight with excitement. “He was the ugly duckling!”

David would laugh, the warmth in his eyes glowing as he gently nudged his daughter back to her pillow. “This story is meant to help you fall asleep, little swan.”

“Tell me who the creature was,” Emma would insist. “This is my favorite part.”

The beautiful creature was someone they did not recognize, but they did know. He was their younger brother returned to them: the ugly duckling. Ah, but he was not a duckling after all, but a swan. A magnificent, beautiful swan. 

“And that, sweet girl,” David would say softly, tucking her hair behind her ear, “is why I call you my little swan. Scraped knees and messy braids may be all that people see, but one day, they will look at you and realize that you are the most beautiful one of all.”

*                *                  *                  *              *                  *                  *

The day her new stepmother and -sisters arrived, Emma did not feel like a beautiful swan. She felt exactly what she was: a messy, muddy, graceless little girl, with too many freckles and not enough teeth. Lady Regina was dark and elegant, with full red lips that curled into a smile as Emma tried to curtsy before her. 

“Lady Mother,” she said awkwardly, wincing as she bent her scabbed knees. The words felt strange in her mouth: Emma had never had someone to call “Mother” before. She hoped it would feel more natural as time went on.

“Girls,” Regina said, her voice smooth and lofty, “say hello to your new stepsister.”

Emma tried not stare at them, for they were almost more beautiful than their mother—as though they had skipped being ugly ducklings, and were swans from birth. Ruby was tall and willowy, and Belle was small and doll-like; both of them with long dark hair and piercing eyes. Their gowns were of the finest silk, studded with gold thread and tiny jewels in the bodice. The girls regarded Emma skeptically as they dipped into immaculate curtsies. Belle rose with a shy smile, but Ruby remained supercilious, glancing away in a show of derisive boredom.

“What do we say, Emma?” David asked, giving her a soft nudge to remind her of what they’d practiced the night before. 

“Pleased to meet you.” She bobbed another curtsy, as wobbly and graceless as the first. On impulse, she added breathlessly, “I’ve always wanted sisters.”

“How sweet.” Smiling, Regina took David’s proffered arm, so he could escort her up the stone steps to the manor. Ruby waited until they were out of earshot, then turned back to Emma, her eyes cold.

“We’re not sisters,” she said flatly. “This has nothing to do with us. My mother married your father for his title, and he married her for her money.”

Emma’s cheeks burned at the implication that her father would ever marry for money. He was an honorable, good man. He would never do something so callous and cold. She clenched her fists, but said nothing.

“Come along, Belle,” Ruby said, still eyeing Emma with cold disdain. “Mother will be waiting.”

Belle obediently followed her sister up the steps, sparing Emma a sympathetic look as she passed. Clearly the kinder of the two, but too meek to stand up to her sister. The door closed behind them, as if emphasizing the separation with the the loud thunk! of the oak door.

*                *                  *                  *              *                  *                  *

“Which one shall we read tonight?”

Emma watched as her father, perched in his usual place at the end of her bed, thumbed through the book of fairy tales. “The ash princess,” she said after a minute. “With the fairy godmother.”

“Ag,” David smiled, nodding as he found the page. “One of my favorites.”

“Mine, too.” Emma played with the frayed end of her braid. “Father?”

“Mmm?”

“Can I come with you this time?” 

He looked up slowly, his gaze way and exhausted. “Emma,” he began.

“I want to meet the king,” she pleaded. “Please, Father?”

“There’d be no one to look after you,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll be at council meetings all day. And besides—wouldn’t you miss your stepmother and stepsisters?”

Emma was silent. She didn’t want to tell him that they were the reason why she wanted to go so badly.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” David promised. “Just two weeks.”

“But you just got back.” Emma folded her arms, stubbornly pushing out her chin. “One.”

“Two weeks, little swan.” David looked down in amused exasperation as Emma balanced her fist on her palm, silently challenging him to rock-paper-scissors. After a minute, he gave in: each shook their fist three times and opened their fingers, David’s in a “scissors” and Emma’s in a “rock”.

“All right, all right,” David laughed as Emma triumphantly  bounced her fist over his fingers. “One.”

*                *                  *                  *              *                  *                  *

They stood in a line on the cobblestone path, watching as David checked the horses and secured their harnesses. Marco, the old groomsman, wrestled with a particularly unruly black devil called, “Lucius.” The horse jerked his head back, fighting the bit being forced between his teeth. 

“Cazzo Madre de Dio,” Marco swore under his breath.

“Non davanti ai bambini, Marco,” David warned. Marco’s English was limited, and Emma’s Italian nonexistent; but she imagined that Ruby and Belle were more than proficient in foreign languages. 

“Must you leave me so soon, husband?” Regina sighed as David came around, placing her delicate fingers on on his chest. 

“I’m afraid I must, my love.” David kissed her softly, once on her lips and again on each hand. Then he looked down at her girls, smiling. “Ruby, Belle…” 

They dipped into their elegant curtsies. The formality seemed to amuse David, but he complied, offering them each a courtly bow before kissing the tops of their heads. Emma waited at the very end, tears welling in her eyes. Her father took her hands and lowered himself to one knee, his eyes warm and twinkling.

“You’ll look after your stepmother for me, won’t you, little swan?” he said. 

Emma hesitated, then nodded slowly. 

“And your stepsisters?” 

“Yes, Father,” she mumbled, even as Ruby’s words echoed cruelly in her head. We’re not sisters. 

“That’s my girl.” He kissed her forehead and rose to a stand. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“One week,” Emma reminded him. 

“One week,” he agreed.

She watched as he climbed the step of the carriage and pulled himself into the driver’s seat. Marco handed him the reins, nodding a farewell to his master as he backed away from the path. Emma clenched her fists, willing herself not to cry. Her throat ached and her vision blurred, but she refused to shed a single tear in front of Ruby. 

David snapped the reins and the horses began trotting down the cobblestone, the carriage rattling after them. Emma almost ran after him, but she hung back, her eyes fixed on his dwindling form. 

“Come along, girls,” Regina said, starting to turn toward the door with a sweep of her skirts. 

“Wait!” Emma said. “He always waves at the gate.”

Regina flicked a dismissive smile, and continued her departure, her daughter trailing after her. Emma remained, watching intently as the carriage rounded the corner of the gate. David raised his hand in farewell—and then, something happened.

He fell.

The world seemed to spin, her nerves on fire, her heart shattering as she watched her father crumple. “FATHER!” 

Her own screaming echoed in her ears as she pounded down the path, not breathing, eyes swimming, panic racing through her veins as she ran toward her father’s unmoving form. Get up, get up. Oh, God, please make him get up. Why wasn’t he moving? Why wasn’t he moving?

“Father, please!” she sobbed, falling to her knees beside him. He was still breathing, but his face was contorted in pain, one side scraped with blood and dust. 

“David!” Regina’s cry broke through the air. Emma hadn’t even realized she was there, and barely registered it now. Her stepmother’s hands shook as she reached to cup David’s face. “Don’t try to move, my love. I’m here.”

David looked at her, then slowly turned his eyes toward Emma. She choked, the tears she had tried to hold back now streaming down her face as her father looked at her for what she knew was the last time. 

“I love you,” he whispered. 

And then, his eyes dulled and saw no more. The warm, twinkling eyes turned gray and glassy, staring unseeingly at the sky. 

“No!” Regina cried, her voice rising in hysterics as Emma bent over her father’s body, sobbing uncontrollably. “You cannot leave me here! You cannot leave me here!”

But she wasn’t the one he was leaving: Emma was. He’d left her to the mercy of her stepmother and stepsisters, unknowingly sentencing her to a life of misery and servitude. Because over the next twelve years, Regina would blame Emma for David’s death; for the fact that he had given his last words to his daughter, rather than his wife. 

When Regina assumed control of the household and finances, she’d decided that Emma was too much of an expense and put her to work, demanding that she earn her own keep. “I have to provide for my children first,” she’d said, reminding Emma as she so often did that she was now an orphan. “I can’t afford a third child on a widow’s living.” Her daughters remained in the highest fashion with the finest possessions, and Emma was given a small, dusty room with naught but a few books and a crumbling hearth to curl by in the winter. She’d had to snitch a few horse blankets to keep warm, and only the kindness of the old cook, Mrs. Lucas, kept her clothed and shoed. The younger housemaid, Astrid, had taught her what she needed to know to be a servant in a lady’s household, and Marco assumed a protective, grandfatherly role over Emma. Together, the four of them created a broken little family that slightly soothed the ache in Emma’s heart. Still, Regina and her daughters seemed intent on destroying every ounce of happiness in her life. Belle less so than the others, though she said nothing when Regina and Ruby directed cruel words and biting commands toward Emma. The few sources of comfort Emma had left were her father’s books and the chest in the attic that contained her mother’s remaining possessions: remnants of the loving family she’d once had. 

___________________________CHAPTER 1_________________________________

It was a hard life, and she feared she would never escape it. And for twelve years, she was right. Until the day she met the horse thief, when one perfectly-aimed apple would end up changing her life forever. 

She could taste autumn in the early morning air. It smelled of smoke and frost and changing leaves, filling her lungs and leaving a pleasant sting on her skin. Emma smiled to herself as she picked her way around the thick bundles of trees and brambles, guiding the pig as he hunted for truffles. Later in the week, she would sell them in the street market, along with whatever fruits and vegetables Astrid could get from the garden. 

The pig snuffled loudly as he found his treasure. “Good boy,” Emma whispered, kneeling down to gather the truffles and put them in her basket. The dirt caked under her nails and her skin was scratched by wayward twigs, leaving thin red lines. She lifted her hands, examining them with a small sigh of regret. They were rough and scarred: so unlike the delicate smooth whiteness of a lady’s. Just another thing for Ruby to mock. 

By the time she was heading back to the manor, the sun had started to rise and golden streaks shown through trees. Marco should have been in the stables, brushing down the horses, but ever since the silverware had gone missing…

Emma’s hands tightened on the basket as she thought of the false accusations Regina had cast against Marco: that he was a thief and a liar, taking advantage of a widow’s generosity. She remembered his desperate pleas as clung to the bars of the constable’s carriage, trembling as he begged in broken English for release. His bail had been set at twelve silver florins, and it would take a hundred street markets before she’d earned enough to set him free. Still she couldn’t abandon him to the brutal prison conditions: he would never survive them. 

“Morning,” she said, entering the kitchen through the side door. Mrs. Lucas was already working dough for the morning bread, while Astrid churned butter. The ladies of the house would still be asleep at this hour, but the preparations for their basic comforts began at dawn. 

“Any luck?” Astrid asked, wincing from the blisters on her hands. Emma shook the basket in response, half-smiling.

“That’s a good girl,” Mrs. Lucas nodded. “Those’ll fetch a good price. Now—give those hands a wash, and see if you can’t get some apples for her ladyship’s breakfast. Might make her a bit more, uh…”

“Human?” Emma suggested, rubbing the dirt from her hands in the wash basin. Regina had a certain fondness for apples, and the treat might soften the normal bite of her marks.

“Well, they’re apples, not magic beans,” Astrid observed wryly. Emma snorted and wiped her hands dry, reaching for a clean apron. After securing it around her waist, she pushed her hair behind her ears and balanced an empty bushel on her hip.

“Back soon,” she called over her shoulder, nudging the door open with her toe. The other women responded with vague farewells and promises of breakfast when she returned. 

The grass was still damp with morning dew as she cut across the grounds to the small ring of apple trees. Red-gold globes hung heavily from the branches, the sweet and heady scent pervading the air. Emma set the bushel down and dropped to her knees, gathering the few apples that had already fallen.

They were scattered around the trees in a vague circle, so rather than moving the bushel around, she used her apron to hold them. She was just reaching for one that had fallen a bit further than the others when she heard a familiar, high-pitched neigh resounding through the air. Emma frowned and whipped around, recognizing the powerful black horse kicking up on its rear legs as a cloaked figure on his back pulled at the reins. 

Lucious. 

Her father’s finest horse, his fierce and fiery black devil—and some common thief was trying to take him?

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she muttered, getting up and running toward him. The apples tumbled from her apron— all but one. In her hand, it became a weapon: one that she hurled with deadly accuracy at the thief, hitting him squarely in the head.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, tumbling from the horse and landing painfully on the ground. Lucius bolted, grateful for his freedom, but rather than going after him, Emma scrabbled for the fallen apples to launch at her enemy.

“Thief!” she spat furiously, pummeling his head—his shoulders—his chest with apples. “How dare you steal my father’s horse!”

“Stop!” he shouted, struggling to stand up, raising his arm to shield himself. “Madam, I command you to stop! By order of—”

“Of what?” Emma shot back. “Lord of the thieves, are you?”

“By order of the king!” The thief flung back his cloak in an indignant flurry that Emma might have laughed at, had she not recognized the shining golden crest the pinned the cloak to his shoulders. Terror struck in the pit of her stomach and she fell to her hands and knees, trembling.

“Forgive me, Your Highness, I did not see you!” she stammered, begging every saint in heaven that he—who she now realized was the prince—would have mercy.

He let out a  wry chuckle, and Emma peeked through the curtain of blonde hair shielding her eyes to see that he was massaging his jaw, regarding her with a mixture of amusement and disdain.“Your aim, madam, would suggest otherwise.”

“I-I—” Emma swallowed, fear swelling in her throat so that her voice was a croak. “I thought you were a thief, my lord.”

“Indeed, I am.” There was the sound of leather scraping leather as the prince swung himself onto Lucious’s back. The horse trotted around her in a circle, and the prince spoke again, “Rest assured,” he said, the sounds of metal on metal clinking within the folds of his cloak, “I will return the beast to you, since you care for it so. And as an honorable thief, I shall compensate you for the misfortune.”

Then came the heavy sound of a bulging leather sack, dropping from his hand to the ground. Emma hardly dared to breathe, let alone look inside. Even so, she couldn’t helping looking up again, barely raising her head to glimpse the prince’s handsome face and tousled black hair. His eyes glinted, and she wondered if even through the dirty tangles of blonde hair obscuring her face, he could sense her gaze.

“My mercy exists on one condition,” he said, though his smirk seemed more amused than bitter this time. 

“Y-yes, my Lord?”

He snapped the reins, and Lucious reared again. “Never let it be known that Prince Killian was nearly bested by a country maid with a bushel of apples!”

With that, Lucious took off, his hooves beating the ground heavily as he galloped away. Emma remained bowed and trembling, never daring to breathe until the sound of Lucious’s hooves had faded completely. Only then did she slowly straighten up, bones cracking, to stare at the bulging leather sack before her.

It was about the size of her fist, tied with a thick leather cord. Emma cradled it in her hands, feeling the hard metal edges of what couldn’t have been coins, because that would have been too generous a stroke of luck. Still, she managed to pull the cord, effectively opening the sack, and a small avalanche of golden florins spilled into her hands.

“Madre de Dio,” she whispered, marveling at the wealth before her. This would more than buy Marco’s freedom. Emma let out a laugh of disbelief before a flood of joyful tears came to her eyes, and she thanked God for the rich thief who’d just changed everything for the better.