#they took so long to draw my hand started cramping

[safetypinxtales]

400 years | Azriel

summary: drinking with your best friend takes a turn when you happen upon some of Feyre's art supplies.

words: 3.2k

warnings: steamy 18+ mdni, nudity, sex is insinuated but not described, kissing, alcohol consumption (drink responsibly), reader and azriel are drunk, making out, big dick azriel, fluff, no use of y/n, neutrally described reader/no reader description

notes: happy valentines day, here's some azriel for youuu🤍 I got the inspiration for this whilst reading this fic by @solbaby7 bc who wouldn't want to draw az like one of your French girls?? Frankly there is nothing I would like to do more. Their fic is amazing and you guys should totally check it out if you haven't already! Anyways, I'm sorry for the "shut the door" type ending, but I cannot write smut to save my life so this will have to do. Hope you enjoy!🤍

masterlist

Thud.

The sound of Azriel accidentally smacking his head on the wall as he plopped down on the sofa across from you echoed within the walls of the cabin, and you couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled out of you. Azriel’s own shaking shoulders and scrunched up nose let you know that he couldn’t help it either. 

But that was to be expected wasn’t it? The past hour had been filled with nothing but bubbling laughter from the both of you, giggles from Az, and some very graceful snorts… also definitely from Azriel. 

The reason why he had brought you to Rhys’ cabin in the mountains was long forgotten after the two nearly empty bottles of alcohol on the table in front of you. The heartache of getting stood up on your date earlier that evening buried under a considerable amount of drinks. 

“As long as the glass is never empty in between refills, they don’t count.”

Azriel’s words from earlier came back to you, only fuelling your cramp inducing giggles. 

That had always been your motto in times like these. A consistency that had lasted centuries. 

“I can’t breathe,” you wheezed out in between fits of hysteria, your arms coming up to wrap around yourself. But your laughter didn’t die down, and neither did Azriel’s. Your uttered words only seemed to fire him on as he tipped over on his side, hand landing a slap on the armrest.

Seeing him like this, so free and relaxed, was rare. You could probably count each separate occasion on your hands. He only really let go like this when you needed it. When the urge to drink your walls down and flush the pain away seemed like the only remedy to whatever situation you were dealing with.

It was a very rare occurrence indeed. But one of your favourites. 

Azriel’s carefree giggles, that luminous light in his eyes; you swore it could make budding flowers bloom.

You sat up straight, and the situation stopped feeling so funny as you laid eyes on Azriel’s still laughing frame. The uncontrolled giggles, and the way his wings shook in time with his chest. It was enchanting, the sight of your best friend being so relaxed, so happy. 

The shadows that were usually crowding his frame were nowhere to be seen – with the exception of the lone swirl of darkness slowly snaking its way around your wrist, coming down to entwine with your fingers every now and again.

It took a couple more minutes until Azriel’s laughter had finally seized. You both sat on separate sofas, smiles stretched wide and eyes glazed over from the alcohol you had ingested, and as your breathing started to return to normal a thought struck.

“What?” Azirel asked as he leaned forward on his elbows, a curious glint in his eyes. 

“What?” You prodded back, more confused than curious, blinking a few times to try and rid the alcohol-induced veil that surrounded you. What was he on about? 

“Well,” he waved one floppy hand in your direction, “you just perked up, it was like you grew ten inches,” he exclaimed, before continuing in a slightly lowered, bemused voice, ”and that means you just had one of your ideas.”

The corners of your mouth quirked upwards as you slowly nodded your head. He was right – you had come up with an idea.

“Well, I was just thinking about how Feyre mentioned after the last time she was here,” you stood up from your seat, swaying slightly but quickly finding your balance, doing your very best to not bump into the table separating you. “Something about forgotten art supplies.”

Like a predator sighting a prey, Azriel’s interest piqued in a moment. His razor sharp focus was on your every step as you walked towards the supply closet at the other side of the room. 

The closet was unusually dusty, a strange thing for being Rhysand’s property. He was usually very meticulous when it came to things always being spotless and presentable. But you supposed that a small, rarely used supply closet in the family cabin wasn’t a priority of his. Keeping it clean was not a good enough use of his magic. 

Luckily for you, that just made your quest easier. You just had to look for whatever was covered in the least amount of dust bunnies.

“Aha!” You whipped around to face your friend, triumphantly displaying the sketch pad and charcoals in your hands. 

Azriel’s eyebrows shot up at your revelation, grin still present on his beautiful face.

“That’s your big idea? Drawing?”

“You should know I used to be quite the whiz with the charcoals when I was younger,” you rebutted and Azriel’s eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. 

“I have seen your penmanship, so I will believe this talent of yours when I see it,” he muttered and you couldn’t help but gasp at the sheer audacity in his words. Your penmanship was not that bad.

Taking a few steps back in his direction with a huff, you flipped through the sketch pad in search of an unused sheet of parchment. You were gonna show him, alright…

You couldn’t help but admire Feyre’s old sketches as you went through the pages. Some you recognised as early-version sketches of paintings you had seen around the river house, and some were–

“Oh!” Your fingers froze as your eyes landed on what seemed to be an anatomical study. A very detailed, very beautiful, anatomical study of – oh my Gods. You felt your cheeks heat up. 

“Is that Rhysand?!”

At the screech in your voice and the mention of his brother’s name, Azriel shot up off the sofa to get a peek at whatever had managed to pull such a reaction from you. 

The warmth of his body radiated into your side as he peered over your shoulder at the drawing of the very naked high lord. 

You noticed him stiffening out of the corner of your eyes and then, like a tether snapping, laughter started to boom inside the walls of the cabin. With a steadying hand on your shoulder he doubled over in giggles so contagious it didn’t take long before you joined in with his hysterics. 

“No way,” he wheezed, “oh Gods – I can’t wait to tell Cassian!” 

The mere thought of how Cassian would react to such a revelation, the look on his face, had you clutching your stomach. Poor Rhys would never hear the end of it.

And by the cauldron, if you don’t wake up with rippling abs tomorrow from the amount of laughter this night had brought….

“You can’t blame her though,” you mused once you managed to get your giggles under control, “I mean, nice job Feyre.” A low whistle left you as you peered down at your clearly blessed high lord.

The laughter quieted down beside you and you raised your gaze to look at Azriel, only to be met with an incredulous look. 

“What, I’m just calling it as I see it!” You exclaimed and raised your hands in defence, charcoals and disrobed Rhysand still in your grasp.

His eyes flicked down to the sketch pad, before slowly coming back up to meet yours, that look never leaving his face.

“Oh, please.” 

The words fell from his lips with such cool confidence your smile faltered momentarily, eyebrows knotting together.

“You can’t be serious?” He asked, and when you stayed quiet he continued, “that’s nothing.”

Nothing?

From where you were standing, respectfully, it looked like everything.

“What? Like you can do better?” 

Your challenge seemed to light a spark in his eyes and time slowed as he took a step backwards, fingers coming down to grip the hem of his t-shirt.

One swift movement and his shirt was off, muscles rippling under his bronzed skin as he tossed the dark fabric on the floor, his eyes not once straying from yours. 

He kept backing up, step after torturous step, until his legs hit the sofa. The corners of his mouth tugged up in a smirk as he plopped down, arms behind his head, far leg propped up, large wings casually draped over the armrest.

“Draw me then, whiz,” he challenged, using your word from earlier, “let me be your muse.” 

The heat crawling up your neck, scorching the tips of your ears, were not solely from the liquor as you padded over to the opposite sofa. 

No, it was from something very different. Something strikingly sobering, yet oh-so intoxicating. 

You sat down and carefully placed the pad in your lap, flipping through it until you reached a blank page. You moved some hair out of your eyes and tucked it behind your ear, picked up a charcoal and brought it to the parchment – when you felt yourself hesitate. You took your lip between your teeth as you contemplated your next move. The risk. The absurdity. The excitement. 

He was your friend. Your best friend, and yet…

You lifted your gaze to find Azriel’s eyes locked to yours with such focus, such challenge. Like he was sizing up an opponent on the battlefield. 

His eyes flicked down to your hand, if only for a split second, as you gently put down the charcoal. He cocked an eyebrow when his gaze once again found yours. 

“I just,” you took a deep breath, “I just don’t think it’s really fair on Rhys, you know?” The shadow around your wrist flickered, as if sensing what you were about to do. The lines you were about to cross.

You watched as Azriel’s eyebrows drew together, and you fought the twitching of your lips as you continued, “I mean, you are still half clothed.”

With a slight shrug of your shoulders, you watched as your words sank in. How his eyes seemed to darken, the corner of his mouth raised in the smallest of smirks. 

“Is that so?” He mused, and you tried your best to level his stare. To not back down. Not shy away. 

With an incline of your head, you nodded. And watched his hand inch closer to his pants. Down past that dark trail of hair, to the laces tied together at the waistband. Watched as he grabbed a hold of the string… and pulled. 

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t focus on anything other than his hand. How his fingers untied the font of his pants so slowly, so delicately it felt like torture. You were transfixed by his fingers. Loosening the laces, his thumb slipping beneath the waistband…

You snapped your gaze up to his face, to find him still looking at you – studying you. 

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sound of his pants hitting the floor. With your eyes still locked to his, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, you wondered what you had gotten yourself into. Here you were, in front of your fully naked best friend – about to draw him. 

Let me be your muse.

His words from earlier echoed in your mind as you tore your gaze from his face and dragged it lower, and lower, until…

Your head emptied. Your tongue felt about as dry as the beaches you had visited in Summer last year. Because the sight that beheld you was breath-taking. 

The length between his legs, standing aroused and proud, really did make Rhysand’s portrait look like nothing. 

A part of you had almost hoped that Azriel’s confidence had just been for show. That it was just his competitiveness shining through, a feat to best his brother. 

The reality?

Monstruos would have been a fitting word had the sight not compelled you so. Had it not caused you to burn for him. Crave him. 

Delicious seemed to be a better word to describe your friend. Beautiful. Mouth-watering. A thing of art.

Which is why you picked up your discarded charcoal and put it to the parchment. 

You studied the planes of his body, the hard lines, the soft skin. The muscles that could have been carved by the Mother herself. You avoided looking at his face though, instead focusing on the various scars that marred his skin, telling stories of battles and fights. Of brawls with his brothers. 

You felt him looking at you, however. He hadn’t stopped looking at you. Not since the sketch pad came into play.

It made it annoyingly hard to focus. 

The scratching sound of charcoal on paper stopped. 

“How long have we known each other?” Your voice wavered, mouth dry. You cleared your throat and raised your gaze to finally meet his. 

Azriel tipped his head to the side, contemplating, “about 400 years.”

400 years. And never before had you seen him naked. Not like this. Not splayed out like a feast, waiting to be devoured. Not with his gaze so burning you were afraid it was going to singe your clothes to ashes. 

“Right,” you mumbled, eyes flicking back down to your hands. They were smudged with soot, your thumb and index finger blackened, that lone shadow still curiously snaking around your wrist. 

That is a very long time.

Azriel seemed to notice how the little confidence you had faltered, for he straightened somewhat from his leisurely sprawl. 

“You okay?” There was only soft concern enveloping his words, a drastic change from the tension flooding the space between you just seconds before. 

It was a very long time, indeed. So why didn’t this feel wrong? 

You let out a deep breath, “yes, I think so.” 

Your answer apparently didn’t settle his worries though, because he raised from the sofa and rounded the table between you. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him as he stopped in front of where you sat. 

Only when he lowered his hand – fingers coming to rest under your chin, tipping you face up – did you meet his eye. 

The heartbreaking concern written all over his face seized your heart. The soft furrow of his brow. The slight dip at the corners of his pouty lips. The brutal softness swimming in those hazel eyes. 

It took your breath away.

“Are you sure?” He questioned, voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t trust your voice, not with the vulnerable proximity between you. All you managed was a meager nod. A small up and down bob of your head. 

His fingers tugged on your chin, and as if in a trance, you followed the wordless command and rose to your feet. 

“I need you to use your words here, sweetheart,” his voice was soft, but the underlying command was undeniable, “please.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest as you swallowed and managed to breathe out “I’m okay.” 

That seemed enough to ease Azriel’s concern, a breath of relief fanning across your face. 

“Good,” he murmured, almost as if more to himself.

His eyes left yours, and flicked down. To your mouth, you realised, as his thumb moved from your chin up to graze your bottom lip.

That intensity was back in his gaze, that predatory focus – all directed at you. His thumb pulled at your lip before letting go, and the shudder that overtook your body could have made the earth shake.

There couldn’t be more than a foot of space between you. 

So dangerously close.

He was your friend. 

Right? 

“400 years,” you whispered, eyes flicking down to follow the bob of his throat as he swallowed. “400 years of friendship.” 

You felt light headed. 400 years, and all could be thrown away as easy as breathing. All you had to do was take half a step.

“Three,” Azriel’s voice grumbled above you as your eyes trailed down to inspect the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

“Hmm?” Your mumble was absent minded, your thoughts being too preoccupied by the male in front of you. What he would feel like. Taste like. The sounds he would make if you dipped your head and licked up the drops of sweat beading at the center of his chest.

“That’s how long I’ve loved you. Three hundred years.”

You froze. 

The thickness coating Azriel’s voice was not something you were familiar with. Nor were the words he uttered.

Your gaze snapped up to his, scanning his features for any sign that he was, for some reason, making the cruellest joke in all of Pythian’s history. But all you found was open, unguarded truth. 

Azriel loved you?

Azriel loved you. 

The rapid beating of your heart was a stark contrast to just how very safe you felt. How right it seemed to take that half step forward. To cradle his face in your hand, the other coming to rest on that glorious chest – right over his own heart. And as you felt that wild drumming beneath his ribs echo your own, nothing seemed as easy as rising up on the tips of your toes and slotting your mouth against his. 

The kiss was tentative, like the two of you were just dipping your toes in – testing the waters. You moved your lips against his, gently, savouring the feel of his pillowy lips. The feel of his body so close to yours. How the scent of him seemed to envelop you. You savoured how easily he took all of your senses hostage. 

He was everywhere.

The sound of Azriel’s wings rustling behind him, the rapid beating of his heart in his chest, the taste of liquor on his lips – it intoxicated you in a way you didn’t know was possible. 

You stayed like that, gently exploring each other's lips, savouring each other's closeness, until you had no other choice but to break away for air. 

You pulled away only a few inches, rapid breaths fanning your faces. The pounding of your heart didn’t seize, and neither did his. You could feel every rapid beat under the hand still planted on his warm chest. 

“Your heart is beating very fast,” you whispered, voice shaky from your breathlessness. 

He swallowed, “It is.”

“So is mine,” you revealed. 

“Yes, I can hear it.”

Oh. 

“Will you kiss me again?” Your voice was so low, you wouldn’t have known he heard you if not for the strangled sound he let out. 

Or for how he grabbed you by your waist and captured your lips with his. 

This time the kiss was less gentle. This time he pressed your body against his as he devoured you. It was all tongues, and teeth, and needy gasps.

His teeth pulled on your bottom lip and you thanked the Mother he was holding you so tightly, for your knees almost gave out. A throaty groan escaped you as his hand cupped the back of your neck, angling your head upwards and deepening the kiss further.

Your own hands found his hair – and pulled. The deep rumbling in his chest and the way he moaned your name into the kiss was your undoing.

This kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative.

It was claiming.

And so you let him claim you. 

Your clothes were quickly discarded as you laid down on the sofa, Azriel’s body on top of yours. And as you crashed together, entangled limbs and sworn promises, you let those 400 years of friendship, of tension, of longing dictate the start of this new chapter.

A chapter of what would hopefully be 400 years of something more.

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tags: @missus-shadowsinger

#acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #a court of thorns and roses #azriel fluff #azriel fanfic #azriel imagine

[soft-mafia]

Crush [Buggy x Reader] [Part 2]

warnings: female reader, nude drawings

a/n: here’s part 2!! I know a couple of people have been asking for it so I have delivered!! :D

part 1

Buggy sighed, standing in front of Y/n with nothing on but his socks, “Disappointed?” He said with a gruff sigh, “I know I’m not as.. hunky as some of your drawings but.. just try to make it work.”

Y/n looked at Buggy’s naked body with pure adoration in her eyes— he was much more handsome that she ever imagined. She was too enamored with her gawking that she didn’t even listen to what he had said.

He wasn’t going to lie, the way she was looking at him was kind of creeping him out. He detached one hand to wave it over her face, “Y/n? Hello?”

“Oh my god! The one thing I forgot!!” She gasped, Buggy’s hand flew back to his body as he was caught off guard by her sudden burst back to reality, “Your body hair! Your chest hair— that’s what was missing!!”

Buggy’s eyes widened a bit, “Huh?! Eh— aren’t those things that you want to avoid?”

Y/n set her book down and walked over to Buggy, standing closer to admire him even further, “No way! I think it makes you look so much more sexier!” She put her hands over her mouth and giggled as she blushed. Buggy’s entire face went red, he then laughed, feeling flattered and flustered at the same time.

Y/n shuffled closer to him, tracing the outline of his abs with her finger, “I think you are a hunk. I mean, yeah I kind of took a bit of— artistic liberties.. but you’re still sexy.”

“And my- and my dick..” Buggy mumbled under his breath, “Not as big, is it?” He sighed.

“Wellll, it was an educated guess. But I got pretty close.” Y/n shrugged, then looked down at it as it hung between his legs, she bit her lip. It was thick and meaty just like she imagined it. Buggy couldn’t help but smirk, “Yeah, you like what you see, sweetheart?” He grinned, putting his arms behind his neck to flex his muscles a bit.

Y/n squeaked when she noticed she was staring way too much and hid her face, “I-I’ll get back to— drawing you..” she hurried back to the chair across the room, holding her sketch book. Buggy sighed a bit, and here he was thinking he was about to get some action.. oh well.

“You.. wanted to be taller, right?” Y/n said, looking at her book, then back at Buggy.

Buggy put one foot up on a chair, his hands on his hips, “Yeah, and more buffer, maybe.. with a bigger hat or something too. Something that makes me look cool.”

Y/n giggled, rolling her eyes softly as she began to draw. A few minutes passed and she got the base sketch down, she then looked back at Buggy, starting on the actual line art.

“Jeez does it always take you this long?” Buggy grumbled, his leg starting to cramp a little.

“Yeah duh. Art isn’t easy.” Y/n said, biting her lip as she made Buggy’s abs look extra chiseled, and his hair extra long and voluminous. “So.. you don’t mind that I’m drawing you like this? You don’t think I’m creepy or anything?”

“Well..” Buggy started, looking off to the side, “I was.. weirded out at first, but to be honest I look better in your drawings than I do.. yknow, in general.”

“That’s not true!” Y/n looked at him, “I draw you because you already look hot.”

“Ugh.. don’t lie to me.” Buggy sighed, then looked back at Y/n, “Do you think-.. in your little drawing, you could draw me with a, normal nose? Just any kind of nose but not this big red thing.”

Y/n blinked at Buggy, pausing for a moment, “Why? Your nose is the best part about you..” Y/n was wondering how Buggy would react to this.. he always thought everybody was talking smack about his nose(even when they weren’t even talking about him in the first place..) she wondered how he would take a genuine compliment..

“I told you not to fucking lie to me!!” Buggy snapped, “That’s a cruel way to joke to somebody!! Disguising insults as compliments.. you should be ashamed of yourself!!” Buggy growled, then looked at Y/n’s sketch book. He then stormed over to her, making her gasp as he snatched it out of her hands.

“Is this a joke too? All of these drawings, were you purposefully drawing me like this with my nose just to insult me?!” Buggy growled, “Was everybody else on the crew in on this too?!”

“B-Buggy! That- that doesn’t even make sense, I would never do that!!” Y/n tried to reach out to grab her book, “Buggy, I think you’re handsome, really! Your nose is fine!”

“That’s Captain Buggy.” The man growled at Y/n, which quickly made her shut up and freeze in fear. “You know what.. this isn’t working out. Get out of my room.” Buggy growled and turned away from her after giving her book back, shoving it into her chest.

Y/n had tears in her eyes as she felt her heart break. Her mouth opened, lips trembling— she wanted to say something so bad, something to make things right but.. she was too scared. Y/n sniffled a little bit, she hugged her book to her chest while walking out of Buggy’s quarters.

Buggy sighed and slapped a hand over his forehead, he wrapped a towel around his waist before sitting on the edge of the bed and cracking open a bottle of booze, downing it like there was no tomorrow.

A little after midnight, Buggy was in a slightly intoxicated state. He felt awful, he felt ugly. But most of all— he was starting to miss Y/n. She was so sweet, she actually liked him, she liked him enough to obsessively draw him over and over again. And he just pushed her away. Buggy felt like an absolute asshole, and it made him want to drink even more.

He was about to put the bottle back to his lips again before he heard a knock on his door. He growled, “Go away!” He grumbled.

“C-Captain Buggy.. can I come in?” He heard Y/n’s voice from the other side of the door. Buggy’s eyes soften upon hearing her sweet voice, but then he growled again, “I told you to fuck off!!” As much as he wanted to open the door and hug Y/n until her eyes popped out— he was still pissy at her. Because in his mind, there was no way a girl like Y/n could genuinely find somebody like him attractive. She had to be playing with him.. messing with an old man’s emotions; what a cruel little bitch.

“Captain please, it’s important.” Y/n sounded like a dog scratching on its owner’s door wanting to be let inside..

Buggy growled and stumbled off of his bed, stomping over to the door before slinging it open, “Make it quick.” He growled.

Y/n opened her sketch book and flipped to a page, then showed him a drawing— it made Buggy’s gaze soften once more. It was the drawing of him that she was working on hours ago, he was so.. majestic, his hair was long, shiny and looked like it was blowing through the non existent wind. Y/n had made Buggy so handsome that he didn’t even focus on the nose at all. He had his foot up on a rock, waves were crashing behind him while there were some mermaids in the background flipping in the air. And his dick was huge as always(Y/n drew his actual size this time, now that she knew what it looked like)

“Awww.. baby..” Buggy slurred in his drunken state, wiping a tear from his eyes, “You made me so handsome— I-I’m sorry for yelling at you.. and being an asshole.” He sighed, “I should- I should give you a kiss.” Buggy stepped forward.

Y/n giggled and closed the book, holding it at her side, “I dunno Buggy.. why don’t we wait until you’re sober? I don’t really like the taste of- MMFF!” Without warning, Buggy smushed his lips against Y/n’s. She cringed slightly at the taste of his beer, but she decided to just accept her fate and kiss back.

This was all she ever wanted anyway, attention from her handsome captain. Even though he could be a grumpy pain in the ass sometimes, she thought it made him even more handsome and adorable.

Before she knew it, Buggy was dragging her into his room, then slammed the door behind the two of them.

Y/n had unknowingly dropped her sketchbook out in the hall when Buggy dragged her away. Some crew mates stumbled upon the new drawing, and they laughed their asses off about it for the rest of the night.

#one piece #one piece buggy #buggy one piece #buggy x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy the clown #one piece x reader #buggy headcanons #buggy imagines #one piece headcanons #one piece imagines #one piece live action #opla #opla buggy

[victoryverse]

Maybe can you do where konig eats you out on your period? You have bad cramps and stuff? Like he pulls the tampon out with his teeth and it made y/ns cramps start to stop? And he lies her on a towel and drinks the blood? Just a request btw :D

TW: PERIOD SEX, BLOOD.

I’m just going to preface this by saying that period sex is totally normal and nothing to be ashamed of! And as long as both parties are comfortable and consenting, there’s nothing wrong with indulging in some oral pleasure during that time of the month. Enjoy!

. . .

Konig gently stroked your lower abdomen, his fingers tracing soothing circles as you curled up on the bed in agony.

“Fuck, these cramps are killing me,” you groaned, your face buried in a pillow.

“I’m sorry, Liebling,” Konig cooed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

You shook your head, too miserable to even think about moving. But then an idea popped into your head - maybe Konig could help relieve the pain in a different way.

“Actually, there is one thing you could do,” you said, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

Konig raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what would that be?”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the potential embarrassment. “Well, you know how I’m on my period… and you’re so good at… you know…”

Konig’s lips curled into a smirk as he caught onto your meaning. “So you want me to eat you out on your period?”

You blushed, but nodded. “If you’re okay with it… I know it might be gross.”

Konig chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s not gross, Liebling. It’s just a natural part of your body. And if it will make you feel better, I’m more than happy to do it.”

You let out a sigh of relief, grateful for Konig’s open-mindedness and understanding. He leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your lips before moving down your body, his hands trailing down your sides.

Gently, he tugged your panties down your legs, his lips following the fabric until it was discarded on the floor. He spread your legs, exposing your swollen, sensitive clit to his gaze.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh.

You shivered, feeling a jolt of arousal shoot through your body. Despite your cramps, you couldn’t help but feel excited at the thought of Konig pleasuring you.

He leaned in, his hot breath fanning over your clit before he pressed a teasing kiss to it. You moaned, your hands fisting in the sheets as his tongue flicked over your sensitive nub.

Konig’s hands moved to your hips, holding you down as he began to suck and lick at your clit, his tongue swirling around it in slow, languid circles. You couldn’t hold back your cries of pleasure as he worked his magic, your arousal building with each passing second.

But then, you felt something different - Konig’s teeth gently tugging at something inside you. You gasped, your eyes flying open as you realized what he was doing.

“Konig…” you moaned, feeling a rush of embarrassment wash over you.

But Konig didn’t seem to mind, his eyes glinting with desire as he pulled your tampon out with his teeth. You felt a gush of blood as he discarded it on the floor, but the sensation was quickly replaced with a wave of pleasure as Konig’s tongue returned to your clit.

He drank from you, his lips and tongue coated in your blood as he pleasured you. And to your surprise, you found that the cramps had begun to subside, the pleasure of Konig’s mouth overriding the pain in your lower abdomen.

You moaned and writhed as Konig continued to eat you out, his hands roaming over your body as he brought you to the edge of orgasm. You felt your muscles tense, your orgasm building to a peak before finally crashing over you in a wave of pleasure.

You cried out, your body shaking as Konig continued to lick and suck at your clit, drawing out your climax until you were a trembling, sated mess.

He crawled up your body, pressing a kiss to your lips as he settled next to you on the bed. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, your body still buzzing with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“Thank you, Konig,” you said, snuggling into his side.

He smiled, wrapping an arm around you. “Anytime, Liebling. I’m always happy to take care of you.”

You let out a contented sigh, feeling grateful and loved as you drifted off to sleep in Konig’s arms.

#call of duty #call of duty x reader #cod #call of duty smut #cod smut #konig x you #konig x reader smut #cod konig #konig call of duty #konig #konig cod #konig fanfiction #konig modern warfare #konig mw2 #konig smut #konig x reader

[4ttack-ur-heart]

Eren HC’s: Stealing his clothes

Pairing: Eren x fem!reader

Warnings: playful bickering, fluff.

Summary: Wearing Eren’s clothes has started to become a problem since it’s now all you wear.

“Hey, princess~” Eren greets you while walking past in the kitchen. He grabs a water bottle out of the fridge, his grey t shirt was slightly soaked with sweat and his hair was tied up from finishing up his workout in the garage. He stops suddenly and glanced at what you’re wearing. “Is that my sweater?”

You were wearing his long dark grey sweater with the hood on the back. After a pretty rainy week, you just grabbed it out of his closet to keep warm. It worked rather well with your tank top and rather short pair of sleep shorts.

Stirring the large pot filled with soup, you nod with a small smile. “Yeah, it got kinda cold in here earlier with all the rain.”

You held a spoon with some of the broth for him to taste and he graciously took it.

“Damn that’s good.” Eren commented as he took the spoon and went in for another taste. As he finished the second spoonful, he drops the spoon in the sink and stares at your figure, he admired the way your ass poked out under the material. “Your ass looks good.”

You smile at the compliment and gasped rather abruptly when he reaches up to give it a hard slap.

“Dinners gonna be good but desserts gonna be even better.”

———

“Eren, can I wear that longsleeve you have? I just started my period and everything’s too tight.” You frown and sift through your closet.

Eren shuffled around the bed, locking his phone and groaning as his muscles stretched. “Sure, why don’t you just wear my sweater though?”

See, you would- if it wasn’t dirty. Over the past few days of living in it, the sweater needed a good wash. “So that’s a yes?” You ask with a grin and fisted the beige longsleeve in your hand before pulling it off the hanger.

Eren watched, completely amused at your antics as you unclipped your bra and slipped it over your body. The article was soft and the extra fabric hid the uncomfortable bloat of your period perfectly.

You give out a small thank you and climbed into bed with him. It was around 9 pm- ish and usually you two don’t head to bed till much later, but after a long day, turning in early doesn’t sound so bad.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Eren asked and grabbed the remote. The tv made a sound as it powered on and you lay next to him on the bed.

“Nothing too gory, please.” You said quietly and scrunched your face up as a small wave of cramps hit you. Eren noticed the discomfort and pulled you into his arms. You curl up next to him with your back against his chest and his head rested against his hand as he was propped up on one side.

He gave a kiss to your temple and scrolled through the platforms before putting on Legally Blonde.

His hand rests on your abdomen and started to sink down to your lower stomach, just at your uterus. Eren’s large hand stroked at your skin below his shirt, trying to ease the pain you felt.

————

A few days later, you were doing some cleaning around the house to catch up on chores, a paisley bandanna was tied in your hair to keep it from falling in your face.

“(Y/n)!” Eren’s voice echoes through the house, making you jump. The cloth you were dragging against the window fell to the sill in a rush.

Eren marched in the room, eyebrow raised with an annoyed look.

“Are you okay?” You asked, grabbing the rag again and wiping the cleaner from the glass.

“Why are half my shirts missing?” He asked.

Your movement faltered ever so slightly with the rag, but Eren noticed it.

“Uhh, they’re probably in the wash.” You said, trying to ignore the daggers against the back of your skull.

Eren draws out a hum, “Really? That’s funny I don’t remember going through all my shirts in less than a week.”

“Yeah, that’s sure is strange.”

“(Y/n), turn around.” Eren asked suddenly.

The rag halted completely and you bite your lip. “Why?”

“Are you wearing my shirt right now?”

“No.”

“Then turn around.”

“No.”

“Eh, it’s alright, I can see your reflection in the window. Great day to clean, isn’t it?”

Sighing, you cursed yourself and looked at the window. Sure enough, your figure was prominent against the glass. You turned around and watch as Eren skims over the design of his 2Pac t-shirt.

“Mhm,” He nods and trailed back to your shared room.

“Eren, why are you getting so upset?” You called after him.

He steps in front of the closet and shuffled through his shirts, the bare hangers clanging together. “I’m not mad, Princess, but I don’t have anymore clothes.” He then gestured to your very full closet,“I guess you can’t say the same huh?”

“That’s not fair, a lot of the clothes I have are cropped and tight . They aren’t comfortable to wear around the house and your shirts cover me.”

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad.” Eren said and started filtering through your hangers.

“You try wearing a corset top while doing laundry. It’s not fun.” You laughed as he pulled out a white cropped tee with pink trim.

“Then don’t buy this shit.” He smirks and waves the shirt in front on you. “Buy some real clothes.”

A brief pause hung in the air.

“Eren, you’re literally with me 80 percent of the time I go shopping. You always insist I buy stuff like this cause you like it.”

Eren turns around and gawks at you, “Are you saying this is my fault?”

You remain silent, arms crossed and a playful glare on your face.

“Oh yeah, how would you like it if I just wore your clothes then?” He challenged and took the garment off the hanger.

“Eren it’s not gonna fit-” But he didn’t listen. He someone managed to pull the shirt over his body. The shirt was very snug over his shoulders and biceps as he couldn’t even put his arms down. His abs were on full display and the shirt covered just barely past his pecs.

The words ‘Princess’ were printed on the top, the letters stretched out and color fading from the stress.

You burst out laughing at his predicament, clutching your stomach. The white and pink shirt around his large frame was definitely a sight to see.

“Did you prove your point, ‘Princess’?” You tried to say through giggles.

Eren’s face remained in his scowl, “Grab your keys, we’re buying you some t-shirts.” And with that, he started to trek out of the room.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” You call out after him, trying not to laugh again.

“Bring the scissors!”

—————

Hey!! This has been in my drafts for a bit, so I just wanted to post something. I’m taking summer classes and it’s literally killing me so I’m trying to at least draft out fics so I have something to post every now and then. There’s only like two more weeks of the courses, so I’ll definitely be way more active after I finish!! 🩶

Tag list: @cullenswife @sad-darksoul

#aot x reader #aot imagines #attack on titan #aot fluff #aot drabbles #aot headcanons #eren x reader #eren x you #eren jeager x y/n #eren jeager x reader #eren jaeger #eren yeager #eren headcanons #eren fluff #eren aot #eren x fem!reader

[covetyou]

first steps

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist part one ⋆ part two ⋆ part three

pairing: cuck!Joel x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: cuckolding, daddy kink, unprotected PIV, creampie, cuddle!fucking!, kinda premature ejaculation, praise kink, pet names, reader gets a brief foot rub, mention of male OC, ddlg vibes, established relationship. word count: 3.6k summary: You can't get thoughts of him out of your head, and Joel does nothing (or everything?) to help matters.

A/N: this takes place at the start of cuck!Joel's adventures in being cucked. they're on a journey of self discovery here folks. I daresay this is almost sweet and soft. look at me go. I'm growing as a person. follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future work

You're in bed already; teeth brushed, washed up, and those god forsaken shoes off of your aching feet, waiting for Joel and his promised foot rub. It had been a long day, and an even longer evening, made longer still by the ache cramping your toes.

You huff to yourself - patience not being your strong suit when it came to Joel - and throw yourself back into the pillows. You were quite happily getting handsy downstairs, palming his erection through his dress pants when his phone had rang. At 11pm on a Friday. You'd rolled your eyes at him, pulling away as he swatted at your ass. It was a work call he said. He had to take it.

"I'll be up as soon as I can, baby," he called after you, and you had stuck out your tongue at him before disappearing up the stairs, shoes in hand.

It was okay, you figured. You'd spent the best part of the night mildly tormented. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt. From the moment you'd got to Joel's house that evening, he'd been touching you, whispering praise, telling you how beautiful you looked and how he wanted to just take you right there and then but sorry baby, we gotta get goin'. That hadn't stopped him sliding a hand up your thigh and dancing his fingertips across the front of your panties for the entire ride to the venue. By the time you got there, you were dripping and ready to come, but he had simply extracted his hand and got out of the car, leaving you hot and bothered and alone in the passenger seat.

And it hadn't got much better from there. Joel was making his way around the room, introducing you with a look in his eye that made you weak at the knees. You'd never known someone to be so proud to know you, so keen to show you off, before you'd met Joel. His hand would slide protectively up your back, drawing goosebumps across your flesh, or lightly ghost over your ass, whispering promises of later in your ear. He pressed endless kisses to your temple, and more than once you had to fight the supernova in your chest from exploding outward, flinging yourself at him with the force of it, and begging him to take you home as you wept into his mouth.

But then he'd introduced you to him. A contractor who he'd picked up on their latest job. He was shorter than Joel, and well dressed with dark hair and pristine shoes. You remember the shoes well - you'd focused on them for a long time, unable to keep looking at his face for fear of the heat that would spread to yours.

"This is my girl. Told you about her," Joel introduced you, shouting loud over the noise booming from the speakers. He kissed you on the side of the face then, watching you like a hawk as you looked up and smiled sweetly at the beautiful man before you - Andrew, from what you heard Joel say over the music - and choked out a small hello.

Joel took that moment to excuse himself.

"Gonna go get our friend here another drink."

You turned to kissed him square on the mouth before he could stride off, leaving you alone with Andrew, nipples puckering almost painfully beneath the thin material of your dress.

Small talk had been awkward all evening, mostly because you hadn't really wanted to be there, but with Andrew it was anything but. He spoke to you like it was the easiest thing in the world, laughing and joking together like you'd known each other for longer than a few minutes. You were transfixed, talking animatedly as you rested a hand on his arm, making a comment that made him laugh, a deep contagious thing that made your core drip with want. All the while, dark eyes from across a room stare at you, and you don't realize for a second that it's taken much longer than a few minutes to grab a drink.

Joel had known, you were sure of it. Maybe it was your wide eyes, or your shuffling feet played off as just the ache in your toes, but talking to Andrew did something to you, and Joel knew. Finding out he was here alone and would be going home to an empty apartment too was more of a thrill than it should have been. Not that you would be. You'd be going home with Joel, but that made the thought of him all the sweeter.

It's a thought that still lingers with you as you lie here in Joel's bed hours later. You sigh, trailing your fingertips softly up your body, willing Joel to hurry up and finish his phonecall so he can relieve the ache from more than just your feet.

And that's just how he finds you a few minutes later. Caressing your own soft flesh beneath crisp sheets, caught in a fantasy of a shapeshifting man.

"Sorry baby, was Tommy. Security called him in for a late delivery, ruined his date." You open your eyes, not realizing you'd even closed them, and look up at him with a soft smile. The shapeshift man is clear as day now, no longer shifting between the men that could be, but staying firmly as one that is right in front of you. Fuck, do you want him.

His back is to you tugging his shirt from his arms, revealing broad shoulders and his soft belly as he turns. He spots your hands moving beneath the sheets you'd tucked yourself into, unable to keep them still even now that he's here.

"Gettin' started without me?" he asks, looking at you with a raised eyebrow.

"You were taking too long," you say, dragging your fingertips across the swell of your breasts and up your neck into a lazy stretch.

Reaching for your outstretched leg, he pulls your foot from its confines, making you yelp and giggle as he tugs you down the bed. He did promise you a foot rub. Strong thumbs push into your arch, rubbing there, making your foot flex, the ache in your sole abating just a little with each slow rotation. You groan, lost in the relief his hands bring, before he's switching to the other foot and doing the same all over again.

You're Jell-o by the time he's finished, kissing all over your calves, knees, thighs, as he crawls up your body.

He nuzzles into the soft front of your panties, still damp or newly damp, you're not quite sure, and breathes you in. He mouths at you over the thin fabric, and you're so desperate for more friction on your clit after hours of waiting that you wiggle, trying to grind yourself against his face.

"I know what you want when you get all wiggly, baby," he says, a knowing smile pulling at his lips. He tickles his fingers across your damp crotch, making you wiggle even more. "You want your daddy, don't you?"

"Yes, Daddy," you say eagerly, reaching down to scratch at the scruff on his face, trying to tug him up to you for a kiss. "I've been a good girl."

He presses a long kiss to your palm, nudging your hand away with his head so he can burrow his face into your mound again. "Mm. You have. Know you didn't wanna stay that long, but you did so good for me." It comes out as nothing more than a mumble, the deep vibrations of his voice shooting straight to your pussy.

The truth was you hadn't expected to like anything about this evening that didn't involve Joel. But you had, and that had made sticking around far more tolerable than it should have been, even with the consistent trickle of want through your core.

"Think we should get these panties off o' you and see what mess we're dealing with. Been worked up all night, huh?" he asks, as if he hadn't been responsible for it.

He peels your underwear from you, tugging them down your legs and throwing them behind him without a care for where they land, before he spreads you open and takes a leisurely lick through your folds. He can never resist, the sight of you so worked up for him from so little always such a temptation. He licks again, looking up at you with a smirk as you melt further into his sheets. The slippery muscle of his tongue pushes into your slick hole and fucks you gently, tasting every drop of desire you'd had for him - and Andrew.

A final peck to your clit and he's groaning, shifting up the bed to slotting in beside you with a heavy sigh, curving his broader frame against yours. You find his mouth, needing to have him close to you in every way you can, and kiss him, holding his head in your hands as his own finds its way between your legs. Large fingers stroke delicately across your pussy. His own spit makes the soft drag of his fingers effortless as he finds your clit with practiced ease, and swipes gently at the swollen nub.

Your own hands roam, drifting from his face, slyly tracing down his body until you're tucking your fingers into his pants. Only, it's not sly at all, and he's holding back his amusement when he whispers into your mouth, unzipping his pants and pulling them down before settling beside you once more. "S'alright, I got you."

Your hand immediately flies to his cock, stroking across his smooth length, wasting no time in working him back up after it had softened since your antics downstairs. When he's stiffened in your palm, standing up and knocking rigidly against his belly when you let go, you trail your fingers down to his balls. You lightly squeeze, massaging them in your palm, rolling your thumb over the soft flesh.

He groans, closing his eyes as he grabs his own dick in his massive fist, long lashes tickling his cheek. "That's it, stroke Daddy's balls. Gotta get ready to go in that pretty pussy of yours baby."

You lightly drag your nails across his sack as his slowly jerks himself, stiffening further the more you play with him. You revel in the shaky breath your nails draw from him, nuzzling into his chest. The velvety scent of his cologne is faint now, but you breathe deep regardless - the smell of his bare skin and a subtle hint of his sweat was better than any bottled fragrance anyway.

He pulls his hand from between your legs to reach over to his bedside table, pulling out a bottle of lube. Both of you know you're slick enough to take him without it, but the slip of his lubed up dick gliding so easily in and out of you without stretching you with his fingers first was too much to resist.

A sound you love to hear, a soft gasp, leaves his lips when he drizzles some of the cold liquid onto the head his engorged cock, letting you spread it over him with your own fist before nudging you onto your side, forcing you to release your grip.

He is everywhere, surrounding you in every sense. A broad arm tucks under your waist, hugging you tight to his chest with a palm pressed flat between your breasts. His lips are on your cheek, tracing wet biting kisses down your neck. You turn to moan into his pillow just as his other hand snakes its way back between your thighs, pushing the plush flesh aside to rub broad circles over your soaked pussy.

"Gonna take me in now baby, open up for me." Arching your back, you expose your cunt to him from behind as his length ruts against you, lube spreading across your thighs. He fucks between the meat of them, grazing your pussy and nudging into your clit and his own palm with each thrust.

"Don't tease, Daddy," you whine, already so far gone you're ready to plead with him to just fuck you already.

"No teasin' baby, you've been so good for me. Gonna give it straight to you. Here it comes," and he feeds the tip of his cock into you, gently fucking you with his thick head. You push your hips back, slipping more of him into your wet heat, delighting in the feeling the stretch in your cunt and his ragged breath on the back of your neck. Slick dribbles out of you, coating him as he pushes in to the hilt.

"Ohhh, f- mm."

He holds you tighter when you moan, his front flush with your back. You're totally cocooned in his arms as he begins sliding his cock in and out of you with minute thrusts of his hips.

Being cuddled and fucked like this was your favorite. His hands could roam freely, stroking your belly, tugging at your nipples, sticking a finger in your mouth for you to suck on, all whilst his hips gently rocked into you, your pussy coating him, dripping wet slick all over him and making a mess between the two of you the longer it went on. And it could go on. Sometimes he would make you lie here for what felt like hours, talking and watching a movie as he painfully slowly fucked you, keeping himself hard for so long you feared it'd do damage. When he eventually came, it'd be an easy thing, a few quicker thrusts pulling him over the edge and spilling his cum inside you, painting you, filling you so full it'd leak out of you where he had you plugged. You loved those days.

This was not one of those days.

He starts snapping his hips quicker, thrusts still shallow as his fingers start to rub deliberate circles over your clit once again. Remembering your manners you stutter out a quick thank you Daddy when his fingers pick up the pace.

"Can't get enough of your daddy's cock, can you? It's all you want."

You make a noise, somewhere between a groan and a negative. After today you couldn't say it was. You'd seen the way he had looked at you, and the way that Joel had looked at you because of it. Whatever that was, you wanted it, and you were pretty sure Joel did too.

"No? You want other dicks in this pussy?"

Biting into the pillow, you nod, stifling another whine. You'd almost be ashamed that you'd been so obvious with it, flirting too brazenly in front of too many people, but you're too far gone to care.

"Fuck yeah, you do. My baby wants to be filled with so many cocks, don't she? Have 'em fuck you and then you come crawling back to me to kiss it better."

And that's it, that's the thing that sends you over.

"Oh fu-Daddy, D-Daddy, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come."

His cock slips further into you, stretching you out and dragging against every part of you as his fingers pull an orgasm from your twitching clit.

"That's it. You come thinking about all those cocks that are going to ruin this pretty little hole."

You do. The arms wrapped around you are Joel's, but you imagine the cock buried in you is anyone but. Faceless strangers, acquaintances, colleagues. You want it so badly that when your orgasm finally wanes, you let out a feeble sob, burying your face into the pillow once more.

He holds you tightly to him, grinding into you slow and deep, your pussy sloshing wetly around him with your release.

"It's okay," he coos as you shudder, crowding over you now to nuzzle into your cheek. "Don't hide from me. You're allowed to have a greedy little pussy baby. Daddy doesn't mind."

He cradles you to him, letting his cock rest inside of you as he strokes you all over, coaxing you down from your orgasm. When you come to, unfurling from the ball you'd tucked yourself into, dried streaks from a few unnoticed errant tears on your face, he starts to rock again, peppering your face with kisses. You let out a small laugh, feeling silly now that his words, those words, could make you come that quickly and that hard. But then he blindsides you with an offer you weren't expecting.

"How 'bout we find you someone to play with when Daddy's not around?"

You'd almost approached it before, the two of you dancing around the idea of there being someone else, another body, shared with you or taken separately. Joel had joked about other men fucking you, watching you suck their cocks, but you never knew if he was serious.

"How 'bout Andrew, huh? Bet you'd like his mouth here," he touches your neck, trailing two rough fingers down your torso, stopping at your breasts to tease and pinch your nipples. "And here."

His hands move lower and you close your eyes, imagining Andrew's mouth. You can practically fucking feel it - whisps of well groomed facial hair scratching at your delicate skin. Andrew had been so handsome - suave, funny, interested. You'd noticed how his eyes had been drawn to you, subtle flicks down your body, taking you in, as he tried to maintain an air of politeness, of respect for his boss and his girl. You wish he respected Joel a little less.

Joel's fingers finally meet your clit and you moan. "Here too."

"I'm- f- I'm so close again daddy," you whine, not ready for another one so soon.

"You gonna come on your daddy's cock thinkin' about Andrew filling you up?" You nod frantically, unable to hold back anything any more as your cunt pulses around his stiff length. "You are? Oh fuck, you are."

He's cuddling you again, holding you tight as he snaps his hips into yours. He's breathless when he next speaks to you, whispering filth into your ear.

"You'd look so pretty creamin' around his cock baby, just like you do for Daddy." The moan that leaves your mouth is something next to a cry, ready to sob at the idea of how good it'd feel to have Andrew touch you, to come back and tell Joel all about it, to snuggle into his arms, safe and warm and used.

You're lost in the daydream as Joel fucks you, talking you through it, pulling you deeper into the fantasy. You can't stop it any more, your entire body convulsing as you come yet again, the imagined flick of Andrew's tongue on your over sensitive clit being the thing that finally sends you flying.

"Uhh-A-Andrew."

"Fuck yeah that's it, say his name."

"Andrew, f-yes. Please, Andrew, please."

Joel tenses behind you, gripping you harder around the middle as he can't hold back, barely moving his hips at all. The thought alone had pushed him so close to the edge he's tumbling over it without warning, spurting heavily into your dripping pussy, coating your walls with his cum. "Oh fuck, shit, fuck I'm coming, ohhh fuck."

He holds you tighter for a long while, his cock throbbing and heavy inside you, breathing deeply as his thumbs gently stroke over your skin, soothing you now that your second orgasm had abated.

"Mm, I'm sorry baby. Looks like Daddy made a mess of you quicker than he expected, huh? You're just such a good girl for me." You preen at his praise. Even now you were his good girl, and you loved how wanting another man to fuck you could make him lose control so easily. It's all a dream, it's got to be.

Your vision is still blurred when he turns your head to face him, brushing his nose softly against yours. "Just love how greedy your pussy is, baby. How much you want her filled up."

"I want it, Daddy," you whine pathetically into his mouth. "Want to be filled up." By Andrew.

You didn't need to say the silent part out loud for Joel to know what you wanted. After all, if you wanted something, it was a sure fire bet that Joel Miller already wanted it too.

"I can ask him. If that's what you want," he says it softly, almost a whisper as he caresses the side of your face. His softening cock slips from you, cum gushing out with the release of pressure, flooding your thighs with a wet mix of lube and Joel's cum and your own release as you think of him again.

Him. Joel would ask him for you - the fantasy could become a reality.

"Are you... are you okay with that?" You search his eyes, trying to find any trace of uncertainty there. There's none, just burning hot fire, a need, that courses straight from him into you and back again.

"Wouldn't be offerin' if I weren't, darlin'. Besides," he grins at you. "Good girls get to go on playdates."

"Joel!"

"What?!"

"A playdate? Really?"

"Well, if you don't want it.."

You hit him, hand slapping playfully against his chest and he's suddenly rolling on top of you, growling as he scratches his beard against your neck. It tickles, and your feeble attempts to fight him off are made even weaker by the laugh bubbling in your belly.

Your face hurts from smiling and holding back laughter when he pulls back from the onslaught on your neck. He's marked you, of that you're sure, and of another thing too.

"I want it."

tag list: @jupiter-soups @wannab-urs @bean-is-reading @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @youandmeand5bucks-blog @bbyanarchist @vickywallace @kamcrazy123 @valkyreally @ashhlsstuff @a-literal-goblin @ariundercovers @iluvurfather @stevie75 @toxicanonymity @thesevi0lentdelights

follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future work

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller #cuck!joel #coveted fics

[uhohwhathaveidone]

Can I request a Sebastian sallow x reader fic that would be about the reader and Sebastian being childhood friends that have feelings for each other the reader and Sebastian both yearn for affection from each other but they are scared that the other doesn’t like them so they both started avoiding each other in hopes the feelings goes away but every situation and class finds them reuniting again the reader secretly holds Sebastian hands during charms class and Sebastian is just shocked (uhhh you can decide what happens after!! My dumbass really hasn’t thought much about it but I can’t wait to see what you do)

You called? I'm here with a gift!

Here With Me (S.S)

I accidently got carried away with this and turned it into a hurt/comfort, i hope you're ok with that! I didn't really put any spoilers. Also I know you didn't specify like what house the reader was in, so I put them in Slytherin! This is also gender neutral, just so we all know. More to come soon, maybe even withing the next few hours, supply and demand, am I right? Anyway, enjoy! (Part 2, Cardigan)

You had been friends with the Sallow twins for as long as you could remember. You were especially close with Sebastian, whom you spent most of your time together with. You remember walking over to Mr. Sallow’s house one day with a small basket of treats made by your mother, who had asked you to walk them over as a gift. Anxiously, you walked along the dirt path, watching as leaves floated past you in the breeze. It was a nice fall day, the apple tarts were still warm, but you had to get to their house quickly to keep them that way, so you were unable to enjoy the day for too long. As you neared the house, you saw a young girl with brown hair playing in the front, a boy about the same age and with brown hair as well sat under a tree with a book in hand. Squinting, you could make out the drawing of a wand on the cover, and you understood why your mother sent you out to Mr. Sallow’s house. The town was mainly a wizard only area, but every now and then a muggle would move in. Some of the neighbors would play pranks on them to try to drive them out, and your mother did the same thing once before to an elderly couple that came to retire. Scared them near to death.

Mr. Sallow usually lived alone, minding himself as he always did, but he never had kids. You slowed your pace, wondering if you had started to walk toward the wrong house, until the girl looked up at you, shouting toward the house as she ran inside. The boy looked up from his book and looked at you curiously. You froze, caught in the act of walking to the wrong house. Wide-eyed, you slowly walked towards the boy. “Um, hello.” You said, quietly. The boy stood a bit taller than you, and had chocolate brown eyes, ones that matched his hair. He smiled, “Hello there, I’m Sebastian. Who are you?” You fiddled with the basket, “My name is-.” The door to the house opened, Mr. Sallow walking out with the girl behind him. “Ah! Hello there, y/n! It’s nice to see you!” He greeted, walking over, and patting your head. Your face brightened, glad that you hadn’t stumbled upon the wrong house. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sallow! My mother made some apple tarts and asked me to bring some over for you.” You handed the basket to him and he grabbed one, taking a bite. “Your mother is a saint. Why don’t you come inside? You haven’t met my niece and nephew yet, no?” You shook your head.

The inside of the house was cozy as always, maybe a little cramped by boxes, no doubt from the two new kids. He introduced you to Sebastian properly, and to his twin sister Anne. They were the same age as you were, as well as magically gifted. He didn’t go into details, but he told you that the twins would be living with him from now on, and that the three of you should get along well. Anne had reached to grab a tart, eyeing it curiously. Mr. Sallow motioned that she could have one, and she took a bite. Her eyes seemed to glow as she hurriedly bit into it again. Sebastian watched his sister as she ate the tart, bits of apple sticking to her lips. It seemed to convince him they were good, as he grabbed one as well and took a bite. “Merlin’s beard! These really are good.” You shuffled your feet as you watched the two devour half the basket in minutes.

“Do tell your mother we appreciate the gift.” Mr. Sallow said, placing the rest of the treat on a plate and handing the basket back to you. You nodded and started out the door, the twins quickly meeting your side. “So, show us where your house is!” Sebastian said happily. Anne walked on your other side as you nodded, walking back in the direction of your home. They asked many questions for such a short walk. “Have you lived here long?” “What’s it like here?” “Do you have any more of those treats?” You smiled and answered their questions, reaching your house and turning around. “This is where I live.” You said, gesturing to your door. Sebastian nodded, “Got it. We’ll be seeing you soon then!” He said, grabbing Anne’s hand as they walked back to their house.

The next couple of days the twins would be at your door, asking if you wanted to go play with them. You agreed, of course, and found that they were lots of fun to be around.  One night, they had invited you over for a sleepover, and while Anne had fallen asleep ten minutes into the activities you had planned, Sebastian was still wide awake. He grabbed a book from one of the shelves and sat next to you in the blanket fort the three of you had made. You had to carefully set a candle in the middle of the fort, so you were able to see the words. Sebastian would read to you until you fell asleep, then he would extinguish the candle and grab the blanket, snuggling up to you and falling asleep as well.

When winter came, the three of you were always outside. Sebastian had wanted to make an igloo one day, and it took you two whole days to even get halfway done. When it was finally done, you didn’t know what else to do. Any blanket you put in there would get very cold, and maybe even freeze, so you decided to deem it as a landmark, and began building other snow structures around the yard, making a small snow town. Anne had made a snow man and said it was going to be the minister of the town, in which Sebastian had to remind her that the Minister didn’t have time to watch over a small town, and that a mayor would be a better fit.

Another time, you had been playing with Anne’s hair, braiding it, and putting it up in all sorts of different styles. You even began to teach Sebastian how to do hair so he could give Anne any hairstyle she wanted, but since you were already practicing on Anne, he could use your hair. That was a mistake, as minutes later Sebastian had tried to braid a section of your hair, only to fail. He swore that he could fix it, and tried to untangle the strands and try again. It resulted in a huge knot that couldn’t be saved, and your mother ended up having to cut your hair. The next day you showed up, Sebastian apologized while Anne could only giggle at the whole ordeal.

When you turned 11, an owl showed up with a letter attached to its leg. You had been invited to Hogwarts, and you ran over to the Sallow’s place in excitement. The twins also got their letters, and your mother offered to take the three of you out to get the supplies required, along with your very own wand. When you made it to Hogwarts, you fiddled with your fingers, anxious about the sorting ceremony. Sebastian tried to sheer you up, stating , ”We’ll all be in the same house, there’s no way we aren’t.” You nodded as you held onto his arm, watching as Anne was called up and the hat was placed on her head. Wide-eyed, you watched as she was sorted into Slytherin, and she smiled at the two of you as she walked over to her new house. Sebastian was next, and he flashed you a smile as he walked up, hat placed on his head as well. The Sorting Hat mumbled to itself before placing him into Slytherin as well, and you clapped as he walked over to his sister. The names were being called out and you stood there, anxiety growing. When you were finally called up, you walked up, shaking. The hat sat upon your head, asking you questions and seemingly just having a conversation with you. Eventually, the hat came to a decision, and you smiled and trotted over to Sebastian and Anne when the hat yelled Slytherin.

Over breaks, the three of you were able to practice together on your magic, and found ways to do things that you had done when you were younger much easier. Reading when you were supposed to be sleeping had become less of a fire hazard and more of a hand cramp activity, finally able to cast Lumos to use as a light to read with. You had also sent owls to your new friend, Ominis, offering to let him stay for a day or so to hang out. Snowball fights had become more like a warzone as you began to learn charms and hexes, able to make the snowballs throw themselves now.

You were sleeping one night during your break back after you finished your third year, excited to wake up in the morning and hang out with your friends. You had gotten up to get a drink sometime in the early morning, the moon was still up and the birds hadn’t begun to sing yet. There was a strange noise outside as you poured a glass of water, but you didn’t seem to notice. More sounds began to emerge, and you made your way upstairs to your mother’s room to ask her about it. Half asleep, your mother brushed it off as some dogs getting into a fight and told you to head back to bed, so you did. When you woke up, you quickly got dressed and grabbed a basket for the fresh apple pie your mother had just finished baking. She looked tired, maybe worried, you noted, but headed out.

As you neared the house, you noticed a lot more people around than normal. There was even a police officer heading towards Mr. Sallow’s house. You picked up your pace as you weaved around your neighbors and made it to the front door. It was a mess, splinters all over the porch and ground, and the windows were broken. You looked around, not seeing Sebastian or Anne, and tried to get into the house. Mr. Sallow sat in a chair at the kitchen table, muttering to the officer and wringing his hands. You looked into the living room, finding Sebastian and Anne sitting on a couch, a medic kneeling down and looking over Anne. You placed the basket on a corner table and slowly walked over, examining the room. The place was a mess, some chairs were overturned, portraits were thrown off the wall. Sebastian sat there, a blank stare as he watched the medic look over Anne. “What happened here?” You asked, standing in front of Sebastian. He looked up at you and jumped off the couch, enveloping you in a hug. He explained that the house had been raided, and that they had done something to Anne. The medic had been checking Anne over for any signs of injury, yet there were none, which didn’t explain the agony she was in. The medic said that he didn’t know what was wrong, and said there was nothing he could really do about it, and he left. Sebastian stood over Anne, cursing the medic under his breath.

Anne was in too much pain to return to Hogwarts, and you and Sebastian sat with Ominis on the train in silence. The whole year, the three of you tried to find a way to help Anne, but to no avail. Sebastian began to keep to himself around you, and you began to feel inside that something was different.

You walked down the hall to your Herbology class, alone. Sebastian had withdrew himself even more, and would sometimes not even look at you. You felt like you did something wrong, but Ominis had assured you it was not your fault. You didn’t believe him, of course, as you watched Sebastian be himself around everyone but you. Your heart hurt to see it, it felt like you were losing your best friend, yet you were partially glad for it. You had no idea when it began, but you had started to harbor feelings for Sebastian, and you had fought those feelings, telling yourself that you were wrong to have such feelings while still unable to find a cure for Anne. You knew Sebastian wanted nothing more than for Anne to be cured, and you knew he would put everything aside until he reached that goal. Sighing to yourself, you walked through the grass to Professor Garlick’s class, adjusting the strap of your bag and moving your hair away from your face. The breeze was soft and warm, fall hadn’t arrived yet and the summer was still in full. The air wasn’t too hot, but you knew that, when you walked into the greenhouse, you would miss the summer breeze, being replaced with humid air and the smell of plants to fill your senses. You walked in and greeted the professor, taking your usual seat.

Sabastian walked with Ominis, talking about his excitement for charms. He heard that they were going to go over some healing spells, and that it would be a big step in helping Anne. Ominis nodded as he walked beside him, mindful of his surroundings. Sebastian had been searching for a whole year for ways to help his sister, alongside you and Ominis. Sebastian knew that you wanted to help Anne just as much as he did, and his mood dropped a bit. Ominis had mentioned to him about your concerns for him, and Sebastian had felt guilty for avoiding you. While you were his best friend, one he had known for years, he couldn’t help the feelings that had begun to grow, and knew that now wasn’t the time to go after them. He was worried you would reject him, telling him that being best friends was enough, or even asking that they no longer be friends. He was also worried that you might scold him for trying to pursue a relationship when he should have been looking for a way to help his sister. Either way, he didn’t see a happy ending if he confessed, and the only way to keep his feelings at bay, he thought, was to avoid you in hopes that they would go away. He was brought out of his thoughts as he neared the greenhouse, and his heart began to beat at a faster pace. All his attempts to lose those feelings he had for you would be broken down each time he walked into class, as he had to take his seat next to you each day. There was a moment where he would be more than glad to have all his classes with you, but when he was trying to get over you? It was torture. He sighed as he walked in and took his seat next to you.

When the time came for Charms, Sebastian had forgotten the whole “Avoid your best friend” mindset and walked happily with you and Ominis, talking about what he was expecting from the class. You smiled as he talked, heart doing backflips every time he looked over to you with that smile. You became excited as well, hopeful that you would find something to help. As you took your seats, you and Sebastian grabbed your books out quickly, turning to the chapter you would be going over. So far, the spells you were reading about were only ones that could heal wounds like broken bones, split lips, etc. Nothing that Anne was experiencing. You had begun to lose hope, until the professor turned the page. “Reprifors is a spell often used to heal other ailments, like those that had been caused by magic itself.” Your eyes widened as you read the page, looking over to Sebastian, who had seemed to freeze. Without even thinking, you grabbed his hand under the desk, your eyes bright as you gave him a wide smile. Sebastian stared at you, still frozen. His mind was going faster than a Hippogriff in flight. This could be what he was looking for, a way to save his sister. If the spell worked, not only would he have his sister back, but maybe even his best friend. He would be able to finally share his feelings with you and you could accept them. He didn’t even realize that you were holding his hand until you gave it a squeeze, and he finally looked down. He felt his cheeks flush, and when you followed his gaze, your face heated up as well. You quickly let go, clearing your throat and returning to your book.

The two of you began to get close again after that, meeting up and practicing the spell, trying to perfect it. “This is it. This spell is clearly what we’re looking for!” You said happily, trying the spell once again. You didn’t really have a way to know if the spell was working at first, so you and Sebastian took turns taking a jinx or hex to the face, and then trying the spell. You had both done it right three times in a row, and had deemed that you were ready. All you had to do now was wait for a chance to make it home.

As you trudged through the snow toward the village, you conversed excitedly with Sebastian. “We’re finally going to do it! Isn’t it exciting?” You asked, taking Sebastian’s hand, walking faster. Sebastian could only nod in response as he felt his cheeks flush once again from you grabbing his hand. You had been extra affectionate to him since the two of you learned the spell. Sebastian even began to think you started to share the feelings he had for you, but part of him kept telling him it was because you were happy to help Anne. On the other hand, you had begun to let go of hiding your feelings, believing that once Anne was okay you would be able to tell Sebastian your feelings, and you slowly began to warm up to the idea.

The cold breeze made your nose cold, and brought back memories of when you were kids, a smile growing on your face. “Come on!” You shouted, beginning to run. The snow crunched under your feet as you dragged Sebastian behind you. Desperate to catch up, Sebastian moved faster, slipping on a patch of ice you somehow managed to dodge. He fell, and you took the moment to turn and laugh. Suddenly, a wave of cold contacts your face, and you wipe away the snow. Sebastian laughed this time, readying another snowball.  You run behind a tree and start to make your own snowballs, launching them in Sebastian’s direction, not caring if they hit or not. A snowball hits you in face, even from behind the tree, no doubt from Sebastian. “That’s cheating!” You shouted as you watched him enchant the snowballs he made. He only shrugged and laughed as they flew towards you, with no sign of stopping. Shrieking, you drop to your knees, covering your face. The snowballs pelted you, and you counted about ten of them. Looking up, you could see Sebastian start making more snowballs, and you took the chance to jump him. You ran after him, jumping a little as you grabbed him, pinning him to the ground. You took his wand and stuffed it into your pocket, smiling in triumph.

Sebastian looked up at you, cheeks red from the cold and closeness. He studies your features, memorizing how your face had droplets of melting snow, and how you breathed heavily after the small battle you just had. He felt as if he was back home, playing in the snow with you a year after meeting you. You had done the same thing, pinning him to the ground, not letting him go until he surrendered, which he always refused to do. If he took too long, you would even grab snow and threaten to smother him, but you weren’t doing that this time. Instead, you sat there, trying to catch your breath. Sebastian watched as you shivered, your nose had gotten extremely red, and took the opportunity to try the move he did when you were kids. Quickly, he grabbed your waist and pulled you down on top of him, wrapping his arms around you and locking you in. Usually, this would end in his rolling over, pinning you to the ground, but instead, he kept you there, sharing the warmth his body was kicking out. He sighs and nuzzles into your shoulder, muttering, “Thank You.” You smiled and raised an eyebrow; one he couldn’t see. “For what?” “For everything.”

You followed behind Sebastian as he stormed out of the house, cursing to himself. You had made it to Anne and told her that you had a spell that would help her. Yet, after trying the spell over five times, she didn’t feel different. Anne was still in pain. Sebastian was distraught, watching his hopes come crashing down into the ground. You ran after him, now, trying to find a reason as to why it didn’t work. He makes it to the tree, where he sat when you first walked to his house, basket in hand. He drops into the snow, throwing his wand in anger. You slowed your pace and watched intently to see what he would do next. His shoulders shook once, and he sniffled. You made your way to stand in front of him, looking down to see his face wet with tears, brows furrowed in anger and annoyance. He looked up at you, his brown eyes seemingly darker than what you’re used to. “Nothing is working how I want it.” He heaved, “Anne is still sick. She’s still in pain.” You knelt down, placing your hand on his shoulder. He continued, “The spell didn’t work, my plan didn’t work.” Your gaze softened, watching as more tears slid down his cheeks. “My plans never work.”

You pull him into a hug, wrapping your arms around him and rubbing his back. He buried his face into your shoulder, muttering. “And I tried to stay away from you, and here you are. You’re being the caring person that’s been by my side.” You listened, your own tears beginning to pool in your eyes. “I thought, if I stayed away from you, my feelings would go away. At least until we helped Anne.” Your grip tightened around him, your tears finally falling as you realized that you had been doing the same thing. You had been protecting each other from your own feelings. More tears spilled from your eyes as you tried to convey your own feelings back, unsure if you would be able to talk. “And my feelings didn’t go away. And you’re still here, even after all this.” You nodded, moving your head from his shoulder and pressing it against his own. “Thank you.” You hummed in response. “Thank you for being here with me.”

#sebastian sallow imagine #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow #slytherin reader #x reader #reader insert #gender neutral reader #harry potter imagine #hogwarts au #hogwarts legacy #fluff #hurt/comfort #slight angst #sebastian sallow fluff #anne sallow #ominis gaunt #Solomon Sallow #hogwarts legacy imagine #harry potter #friends to lovers

[kirimoochi]

cramps galore.

₊˚ ᗢ kazuha x afab!reader.

⤷ it's that time of the month, again.

You let out a few groans as you squeeze your pillow, holding onto it as tightly as you can. You were breathing very carefully, trying not to upset the raging monster that was bleeding profusely. The pain in your abdomen was rather terrible this week. You swore it wasn’t bad last month, but now it feels like your body was out to get you. What did you do? You swore you did nothing wrong! 

It felt like someone was applying pressure onto your stomach, and you were caving in. It was the worst feeling. And what’s worse was that you were supposed to go out today with Kazuha. And yet you’re still in bed, dressed in new pajamas, struggling to get through the pain. You hated that it came in waves. You wished it could just go away once you went to the bathroom, and to spite you, it continued to persist. You pray to the Archons that you don’t sneeze any time this week, otherwise, your pelvis might just explode.

The door creeks open as platinum-hair peeks through, you start to whimper as a figure emerges. Kazuha sits on the side of your bed, brushing aside your hair as he stares at you with concern lacing his eyes. “My sweet goose, what is the matter?”

“Not again with that nickname, Kazuha,” You flip the pillow over to cover your face, “Call me something normal! Babe, baby, darling, honey, all of those would be fine! Why do you have to call me a goose…” 

He chuckles, rubbing his fingers against the side of your body. He draws circles on your slightly exposed skin, sending shivers down your spine. Your breath hitches for a moment when he sinks a little lower. “Sorry, starling, I thought that a nickname like that would be fun to tease you with.” He softens his expression, “What is wrong? Are you feeling discomfort?”

You sigh, “Discomfort would be an understatement.” Burying your face into the pillow you groan, “We’re supposed to go out today… my body thought it would be great to torture me. I’m sorry love, I know you wanted to visit Ritou, but right now I just can’t. I won’t even be able to swim.” 

There was a moment of silence between you. Kazuha uses his other hand to press against the base of his chin, a small hum escaping from the slit of his lips. “I suppose it's that time of the month, no worries. We could always go another time.” 

“Really?”

He nods, gently scooting you over so that you may make room for him. He sinks lower beneath you, his face resting against your chest as he wraps his arms around you. He presses his warm body against your stomach, hoping that the heat could calm your raging abdomen. And to your surprise, it does. 

Perhaps boyfriend treatment was the answer to your problem after all. You smile, bringing your hand to pull away his hair tie, letting his hair sprawl out onto the bed. He mumbles under his breath a short haiku about the softness of your body, to which you rolled your eyes, squeezing him tightly as the two of you took comfort in your bed.

"Thank you," you murmur, "for being there for me. Even if we can't be in Ritou swimming right now."

"As long as I'm with you, starling, I think we'll be just fine."

⤷ a/n: i know i was supposed to post my next small thing on wednesday, but i couldn't help myself to this prompt!

#₊˚ ᗢ kirimoochi #genshin #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #kazuha #kazuha kaedehara #kazuha kaedehara x reader #kazuha x reader #genshin headcanons

[luminlunii]

How long does it take you to make one of your multiple Rocky sketches? What's your workflow/process like?

This is a wonderful question!

First, my workflow consists of me starting to draw the sketches immediately after I eat some dinner. I have at least 4 pages that are always ready for the 'line art' stage. I have a rough outline of each sketch in a chunky brush before using a thinner brush.

I do one full page everyday and after that I like to work on my own art for the rest of the day :)) I also take breaks pretty frequently so I don't burn myself out easily. (Or have my hand cramp up)

Second, I think it takes about 2 hours on each page on average, and I like to listen to something familiar while I'm doing it. I get distracted otherwise lol. Some days it's slow, others it's faster, and I flip flop between that daily.

Oof, I just word vomited. Sorry about that! I'm just very enthusiastic about answering this question :))

This one took about 2 hours for example.

Also baby Rocky definitely crab walked and did like a silly stance just because.

#artists on tumblr #digital art #lackadaisy #lackadaisy rocky #drawing cats #baby rocky #fluffy little guy #so scrunkly #smol bby #his ears are so heart shaped when they're flopped over #whoops #he's such a dramatic crier #also let me know if you're curious about more! #I'd be more than happy to answer any question about my art :)) #lumin sketch

[v3nusxsky]

Fluff. The fluffiest fluff :)

Happiest of birthdays darling ♥️

Darling please | fluff

*Authors note~ this is such a cute idea and inspired by someone dear to my heart so I hope I can do it some justice and bring some comfort to them and you all my doves*

Trigger warnings~ none?

Prompt~ you're not okay! Some comforting fluff where R is on their period and suffering but trying to hide that from her girlfriend written for Abi1468 wattpad

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

Being a women sucks. That was the only conclusion you could draw from your situation. Of course it is something that is very natural but did that make it easier to deal with no? No. This months Mother Nature visit is brutal. Not only did it arrive earlier than you had planned but it also brought the most horrendous cramps. The kind that leave you paralysed, keep you up all night withering around in pain and nothing would ease them. You'd tried everything of course but nothing worked. You'd been up all night now and absolutely exhausted yet you had classes to go to.  No amount of herbal teas, heat pads or painkillers were getting rid of these cramps.  Completely souring your mood and making small tasks almost impossible to complete. Honestly you couldn't even sit up without being in agony, yet you still forced yourself to function through the pain.

It had taken 30 extra minutes to get yourself ready for the day, having to stop and curl into yourself every few minutes was most definitely responsible for that. Now you only had to survive the school day then you could come back and die quietly. Didn't seem to be any reason why you should allow yourself to take a day off for something as silly as this. After all what would you say? Sorry principle weems I need a sub because i started my period? What were you 13? No you would stick this out. And absolutely under no circumstances would you slack off.

You tried to teach your first hour stood up, quickly learning that would be a disaster you switched to sitting as your desk allowing them to work from their books. After all this was a literature class, books, reading, comprehension and writing were a massive chunk of the curriculum. The second hour seemed to worsen the pain. You opted for a silent reading lesson, sitting at your desk attempting to mark some papers, failing miserably as the words continued to swirl together. Sighing you snuck a hand into your desk and took out two shiny pearl and washed them down with your coffee. You attempted to curl up without being noticeable and you thought it was a success. At least no one had made it obvious that they had caught sight of you like this.

Lessons continued as normal and you were hardly holding on by a thread. When lunch arrived you fled back to your room rather than the food hall. You made quick work of refilling the hot water bottle and resting it on your abdomen. You settled back on your bed letting out a hiss of pain. The heat seeming to provide a small bit of relief. Just enough relief for you to curl up into the hot water bottle and to give into your exhaustion.

It was the heavy knocks to your door that woke you from your nap. Groaning, you shifted to stand up and answer the door, until you caught sight of your phone. "FUCK!" You muttered to yourself in a panic. How long had to been asleep? Quickly you made your way to the door in a panic. "I'm sorry I am a little busy can you-" you words dying in your throat when you caught sight of your girlfriend, "Rissa?"

"Darling, can I come in?" She queried looking past you she could spot the messy bed, packet of pills and around your waist you were still sporting a hot water bottle. "I uh yes?" You stuttered out unsure if this was a girlfriend visit or a principle visit. If your honest you want her company, her comfort, her help but you can't seem to justify needing it. After all you had grown up being made to feel as if these were something to be hidden, only to be discussed in private and especially away from any males. Now your girlfriend wasn't male that much was obvious and you knew she got periods too but it's a hard habit to break.

You watched as your girlfriend moved around your room taking everything in. "Darling are you okay? This isn't like you" she murmured coming closer to you hoping to gather you in her arms and care for you. You seemed to flinch away at her words before mumbling "I'm okay Rissa I have a class to get to" in which she quickly interjected that you'd slept through one class already and that would mean you are not okay. "Ive cancelled the rest of your classes today darling." She informed you watching the relief flood through your eyes even if it was just for a second.

"Darling? Are you on your period ?" Her tone was soft and gentle and it caused tears to spring into your eyes as you gave her a small nod. What you were expecting was most definitely not what you got.  "Oh my love, why didn't you tell me you were in pain? I could've helped darling. Do you have everything you need?" Immediately the taller women started to real off all the comfort items you could possibly be craving or in a need of. There was no hint of upset or frustration at all. "Rissa I'm fine honestly you don't have to do this" you mumbled out embarrassed really at the care being shown your way. "Honey, I know I don't have to but I want to. Let me take care of you please? My love you shouldn't have to suffer alone." She reassured you coming to finally embrace you.

You sunk into the embrace and finally allowed yourself to cry. This was just so different and honestly you just felt so emotional you couldn't contain it. Larissa held you and swayed with you in her arms until you calmed down. Your cramps choose that exact moment to strike once more. Such a strong feeling of being stabbed caused you to double over in her arms and a whimper of pain to escape you. "Oh darling shall we get you a bath? Would that help my love? Bath some painkillers and some food?" She suggested and you couldn't help but wonder how you got so lucky. This was more than you believed deserved. True to her word Larissa drew you a bath got you some medicine and your favourite take out before snuggling with you in bed. Her hands wrapped around your lower abdomen rubbing firm slow circles into the flesh there. You couldn't help but let out a little moan at the relief it provided.

She chuckled at the reaction making sure to mentally note down you enjoyed this. "Does that feel good my darling?" You hummed in a response and lent back into her front. You were truly being spoiled with caring comforting actions and it truly made your heart fill with more love for the women. You were so lucky to have her in your life and although that meant learning new things about how you should be treated you couldn't help but be so glad you had the choice.

Word count ~ 1248

#anon answered #fanfic #larissa weems #principal larissa weems #larissa weems x reader #principal larissa weems x reader #larissa x you #larissa x reader #weems x reader #principle weems #anon requested #happy birthday love

[tiredlilguy]

OMG YOUR REQUESTS ARE BAKC OPEN OMGGG HIII

Can I request flags (separately) x artist reader? Like they do paintings and such and maybe they go to art museums with them s/o? Painting the flags or drawing for them too ya know? :DDD

OKAY THATS ALL, HAVE A GREAT DAYYYYY

a/n: hi hi!! >:D (ur lucky u got in the 4 slots that filled up within a day LMFAO) TYSM I HOPE U HAVE A GREAT DAY <333 I hope you enjoy this! I did little scenarios as opposed to what I usually do (which is hc's) because i haven't done small scenarios in a while. also for anyone who's interested: here's the [SB masterlist]

pairing: The Flags (separately) X GN!Reader cw: NA, not proofread desc: the flags with an artist s/o in various different scenarios =w=

Pianoman:

You had been sitting behind sketchbook, a frown on your face as you went through multiple sketches of scenes you saw outside of the window. You were sitting at the windowsill, on a piano bench that you stole from your lover’s piano side. You fiddled with your pencil for a little while, eventually letting out a frustrated sigh and placing your sketchbook on your lap. In that moment, the front door opened revealing Pianoman. You paid no mind to him, lost in your own thoughts as you tried to recall a scene that had just happened right outside so that you could draw it.

“ Hm…? No ‘welcome back’, my dear?,” his voice intruded your thoughts, and you quickly opened your eyes to see Pianoman peering over you.

A blush quickly crept up on your face,” Agh-! You scared me.”

Pianoman chuckled softly behind his hand,” Really lost in your own thoughts there, I see. Well, I’m home, sweet thing.”

“ W-welcome home,” you stuttered out. He only smiled, but before you knew it you were being lifted off the bench you were sitting on and into his arms.

“ H-hey…! What are you doing?,” you asked in protest, though your body seemed to relax in his arms (save for your shoulders and hands that were held close to your chest).

“ Well, I need the piano bench,” he answered simply, placing a kiss on your temple and moving you over to the couch nearby. He placed you down gently with a small huff before walking over to the piano bench.

“ You could’ve just asked me to move, ya know?”

“ I would, but my baby looked so wrapped up in their own world, I didn’t wanna bother you~,” he teased, placing the bench down by the piano and taking a seat. He’d already discarded of his large overcoat and was just wearing his tailored white suit. You leaned over to the arm of the couch, your cheek resting on it as your eyes traveled towards him. Pianoman took off his gloves and placed them on top of the piano before cracking his knuckles and playing a couple cords with his fingers. He let out a satisfied hum at the sound of the notes, but before he was about to play again, he heard you pencil sketching away as you tried to recreate the image in front of you.

“ Don’t lay on the couch like that for so long, dear. You’ll hurt your neck like that.”

Lippmann:

He had been across the kitchen counter, cooking dinner for the both of you while looking over at a script and repeating lines over and over again. Memorization was important, considering that he was an actor, and with how busy his schedule was, he was often practicing in the few breaks he had. Of course, he’d normally be conversing with you, but seeing that you were working on a painting across from him, he decided to do what he did on his own time: vocal practice with lines and cooking up a good meal.

As he was cooking (and talking to himself), you had just finished up playing with acrylic texture on a canvas. However, it started to become too blotty and you had been staring at it wondering how to fix that. Eventually, you thought of using water to help this, and sat up from your stool.

“ O me, what fray was here? Yet tell me not, for I have- Oh dear, hi sunshine,” you interrupted him (more like startled) as you walked in between the cramped way to the cupboard.

“ Hello… sorry to interrupt your cooking. I just need a glass of water,” you walked past him to the cupboard, taking out a glass and walking over to the sink.

“ It’s ok, love,” Lippmann smiled gently, moving to place a kiss on your cheek,” Whatever you need to make art.”

“ Thanks,” you looked over to him with a smile as you turned the faucet off with a glass now full of water.

“ Hey, where’s my kiss?,” Lippmann stopped you, a hand on his hip and the other in your wrist.

“ Oh right.”

You moved to peck his lips before walking off and moving back to your canvas. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was slightly flustered at the gesture.

Iceman:

Whenever he was off work, he usually stayed home. He often rarely went out, but this one time, he decided to come with you to an exhibition at an art museum that you were looking forward to. Iceman didn’t really understand art, but he could hear you talk about it for hours on end, even if it didn’t make sense to him. He tried to memorize every word, and comprehend it in his own way. He sort of guessed it was like how he was when he listened to and studied every note and sound in music.

Currently, you were trailing along, explaining every piece of work you saw. He didn’t say much, only nodded and staring into the picture/sculpture that was there for a couple of seconds. Eventually, you were both lining up to go inside of a room. You’d mentioned something about how it was a room full of hanging lights, with mirrors that were all throughout the interior, making it feel bigger than it really was.

Eventually you both walked in, and he opened his eyes a little wider. This time, you had nothing to say in particular. He raised a brow, asking you if you were going to say anything.

“ Hm… I think we should just enjoy the piece for now. I’m getting a little tired of talking,” you shrugged with a sigh. Taking his hand and intertwining your fingers with his.

It was silent as you both stared at the hanging lights in silence. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you in closer to him.

“ Sorry for talking so much,” you laughed awkwardly, leaning into his side.

“ Don’t apologize,” he quickly told you,” I could hear you talk forever.”

Doc:

He was currently taking a sick day today, but he insisted that he sit on the couch and watch you paint instead (despite all of your protests… he walked his weak body over to the couch with a giant blanket around him before flopping on the couch). At times like these, he usually felt his weakest, as his body couldn’t perform to the aptitude that the average person’s would. Thankfully, you were around at home to take care of him, but even then, he didn’t want you to take care of him, as he felt that he was being a burden when you were so busy working on paintings.

He was currently curled up on the sofa, watching you walk around your canvas with a color palette before walking up to it and switching brushes. He was awfully fascinated by the way you so meticulously made work on a canvas.

“ It’s almost like surgery a little bit,” he spoke up, shifting slightly under his blanket into a more comfortable position.

You turned around,” Think so…?” You placed the palette down on a side table and walked over to him, sitting down on the couch.

“ Guess so,” he answered,” Carefully piecing together parts of it before it comes out into a new final project. It’s different every time.”

“ I hope you don’t do that to people too…,” you shivered, before placing a hand over his forehead, moving the hair away from his face. He hummed lightly, before giggling to himself,” Hm… Maybe. What if we were able to breathe from a kidney instead of a lung.”

“ I doubt that’s humanly possible.”

“ In a world of people with abilities, who knows what’ll happen?”

“ I think what will happen is you getting some rest instead of watching me work, babe.”

Albatross:

“ Are you drawing ME?!,” Albatross took you out of your trance as you were, in fact, drawing him. He’d just gotten back home, and smothered you in a sudden back hug.

“ Hey! You’re not supposed to be home for another couple of hours!,” you yelled back in confusion.

“ I got off early,” he answered before hugging you once again, almost taking you out of your chair this time,” Anyways, you’re drawing meeee~!”

You giggled, hugging him back as you waited for him to finish hugging you. Of course, he took a minute or two… making sure to take in plenty of breathes of you, and rubbing his hair on your shoulder. He would occasionally move you in his arms too, rocking you from side to side.

“ It was supposed to be a surprise, but I guess I’ll make it a practice sketch for now,” you said, as he let you down.

“ Oh!,” his expression went blank, until a small smile went on his face. He pushed his sunglasses back on his eyes, slowly walking down the door,” I didn’t see anything then.”

You laughed to yourself as he slowly closed the door, as well.

Chuuya:

Currently, it seemed that the only thing you were painting was him. You couldn’t get him out of your head, and it was starting to get embarrassing, the more canvases you’d buy just to practice, only to realize you were painting him.

You were now walking him back to your shared home. Though, you’d forgotten one crucial detail as you slowly opened the door… you left all of your canvases out.

“ Actually, let’s not go inside right now,” you quickly shut the door with an awkward smile.

“ What’s wrong,” Chuuya raised a brow,” Is there something in there…?”

“ Well… Uh… Yeah, let’s go get dinner! I’m hungry,” you tried to cover it up, still leaning against the door.

“ What’s behind the door, (Y/N)?”

“ Nothing! Let’s go, c’mon!”

After a while of back and forth, eventually, you gave up with a hardy sigh and opened the door with an embarrassed expression. He walked in, blue eyes widening as he observed the many canvases that were scattered around your apartment.

“ I was gonna wrap them up, but I lost track of time and went to go get you before putting them away.”

“ You… drew me…?’

You nodded shyly, but it was quickly met with a big hug and many a kisses to the face.

“ Thanks, doll.”

[also if you want, please consider getting me a coffee or commissioning me ;) no pressure ofc!!! i understand that we're all in different circumstances/situations, any support of any kind is appreciated <3]

#bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd the flags x reader #the flags x reader #bsd the flags #the flags #pianoman x reader #lippmann x reader #iceman x reader #bsd doc x reader #albatross x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #nakahara chuuya x reader #chuuya x reader #bsd pianoman #bsd lippmann #bsd iceman #bsd doc #bsd albatross #bsd chuuya #chuuya nakahara #nakahara chuuya #mono writes

[snowbaamgyu]

Hi, do you mind writing something about this?

Here it is! Sorry if it isn't that good, also I'm the worst with endings but I hope you like it after all.

A Freezing Burning Feeling

The final months of the year were the busiest in the kpop industry too, all idols having awards, presentations for Christmas or New Year's Eve, seasons greetings and much more, so it isn't a surprise that any of them get sick at some point, specially around those months where it's common for virus to be around.

TXT had to fly to Japan for their MAMA's presentation, all of them having a surprise for the fans there.

It was a busy schedule, and they were feeling tired from everything.

Before they headed to the airport Taehyun noticed the slight discomfort in his stomach after eating lunch, but he payed no attention to it, some sleep could fix it.

"Wanna watch a movie?" Kai offered, Taehyun accepted and it distracted him from his discomfort, they were heading to Japan so the flight didn't take that long.

When they arrived Taehyun felt so exhausted like that plane had taken all his energy to land, even tho he was sitting the whole time.

Some typical procedures at the airport later and they got to their hotel.

"Finally" sighed Beomgyu who was also tired, all of them agreed with him, wanting nothing more than taking a shower, put on some comfy clothes and sleep.

But of course before anything of that could happen Yeonjun said "Wait, let's eat dinner first, I heard there's a buffet tonight and it would be cool if all of us ate together" well, normally each one of them went to their rooms and ate something from room service alone, but this once, they decided it was a good idea. And it was, just Taehyun thought this was unnecessary because all he wanted to do was curl up in bed like a ball.

Halfway through the meal Taehyun's stomach decided it wasn't okay with what he was eating and started to feel queasy, slowly he stopped eating but it was too late, his stomach was now upset, gurgling and making weird noises that he wondered if the rest heard. Without wanting to draw any attention he slipped his hand under his shirt and started to rub it lightly.

"Are you alright?" Kai noticed after a while. Great.

"Yeah, just ate too fast maybe, my stomach is taking its time to process the food" it was more than that but Taehyun didn't want to make everyone concerned about him.

"Why don't you go to your room and rest then? It's kinda late anyway so we should probably go too" God bless Soobin. Without needing to be told twice, Taehyun stood up and wished everyone good night.

Taehyun was taking a much needed long hot shower, helping him relax and forget about his pain for a bit.

Tho at times he had to stifle some burps that tasted just like what he was eating, but in a disgusting way.

He put on his pajamas and turned on the TV, deciding to watch something in the mean time he got sleepy.

But he awoke not too much later, the lights off and the movie he had put on was already over and it automatically played the second part, but what was different was that he felt suffocated.

Everything was burning, it was hard to breathe and his stomach was cramping as if it was trying to squeeze itself.

Taehyun quickly took off the covers and drank some of the water he had left on the nightstand before he layed down.

But it wasn't enough, he was sweating, it was like he had a heater right beside him, and his whole body was hurting, his stomach specially.

He curled up more, embracing his middle as another cramp left him gasping for air, the cramps now turning into some nauseating feeling.

Not sure of what to do he went to the bathroom, not knowing how he made it but at least the cold tiles helped a bit.

His shirt was damp with sweat, and he was sure he was pale, he couldn't look too much to the mirror. Kneeling in front of the toilet, unsure of how long would it take to his very first meal there to re appear, but it was agonizing, and he didn't even have his phone with him at that moment, he could use some help but it's too late to move, with a shaky burp his stomach was finally expelling a its contents.

Taehyun was still trying to regulate his breathing when the second wave came up, much larger and thick than the first one, going through his nose too, he was left coughing and the third one was also the same.

It was like that for a while longer than he would've liked it to be, but for every time he heaved up some more sick, his stomach felt less heavy, though it was still hard to the touch, and was pretty much still vomiting, after a while it stopped. But Taehyun kept on rubbing it, the pain still there, and for the more pressure he applied, more burps kept on coming up and left him dry retching over the toilet. Too nauseous to move and being that exhausted, he finally fell asleep right there on the floor, he flushed the toilet and wiped his mouth, the cold tiles were somehow refreshing him from the burning sensation that made its way through all his body (or making it worse but he didn't care tho)

When Taehyun woke up, he noticed that the nausea had subsided so it was safe to move to his bed, the uncomfortable hot feeling was now replaced by all the contrary, if he fell like burning a while before now he felt like he was freezing.

As quickly as he could Taehyun made his way to his bed, seeking for warmth between the blankets. However, after an hour, his temperature changed again, and so, the cycle kept repeating.

It was a hell of a night, Taehyun had barely slept, not to mention his stomach was still in knots. By now the others must be awake, having breakfast and getting ready for their performance at night, Taehyun decided to call a manager and see what they could do.

"Hello, Taehyun-ssi, good morning"

"Hyung, I'm not feeling well, I had a rough night" Taehyun said with a tired sigh.

"What happened?" the manager was now concerned, if it was necessary they needed to cancel his performance and Kai had to do it alone.

"I don't know, before we got on the plane my stomach was feeling kinda off, I thought it was just the excitement or the nerves about all this, but after trying to sleep I threw up, a lot, and my body was either so hot or so cold and... I'm tired... but I still want to perform".

"Okay, I'll drop by your room with the medical staff, they'll give you something that hopefully will be enough to let you rest for a while and feel better to perform, but I want to let you know that if after that you're still not feeling good then there's nothing we can do, your health comes first, Taehyun-ah".

And Taehyun was aware of that, so when the medical staff arrived to his room and connected him to an IV of vitamins and supplements and a bunch of more stuff that were supposed to make him feel better, he fell asleep, finally relaxing. He didn't know it but all the members came by to check on him from time to time and then left for some individual schedules, Soobin was there when he woke up tho, almost five hours later since he fell asleep, confused about where he was until he remembered.

"Hey, how're you feeling?" Soobin's calm voice, it soothed any of the discomfort that was left —even if there wasn't anything left—.

"Definitely much better than last night" Taehyun yawned, rubbing the sleep off of his face, Soobin stood up when some room service arrived, he put the tray of food on his legs and opened the containers, it was soup, and some other light dishes for his stomach.

"Eat something, at least just a little bit, but have something in you aside from those fluids, if you're feeling completely better manager hyung said you are able to perform, but if you're still feeling bad then you're also able to rest, they have an statement prepared and all".

Okay, Taehyun now was hungry, so he ate slowly until his appetite got bigger and finished almost half of what Soobin had ordered for him, not wanting to risk getting his stomach upset again, and when an hour passed and his body wasn't trying to reject what he ate he told everyone he was perfectly fine to perform, and started getting ready, giving his all on that stage with the support of his members.

#tomorrow x together #txt #emeto tw #txt sickfic #sick!taehyun #kang taehyun #sickfic #choi soobin #choi beomgyu #choi yeonjun #hueningkai #request

[after-nine-at-the-oasis]

something's gone horribly wrong here

I wrote this in a trance last night and then vaguely edited it this morning. it just took over my brain okay <3? enjoy :)

-

“Success!” Grian cries desperately.

Just a few more steps. He runs forward, reaching his hand around his shield-

A wither skull slams into him, sending shockwaves through his entire body. And everything goes black.

“No!” he screams in frustration, and a hint of ironic laughter.

He draws breath to scream again, into the darkness, but it catches in his throat. He pauses. He’s still here.

“Wait- what?” Grian manages to get out. He should’ve respawned by now.

There is silence for a moment. Then-

“WRONG.”

Grian would reach up to cover his ears, if he could. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a body, so he just suffers the grating shout. And then it registers. They’re here. And They want to talk to him.

“No, no, no!” he yells. Block them out until he respawns, that’s what he should do.

Blessedly, the world starts to come back into view. The grass, the torches, the Secret Keeper. But when he tries to stumble back to the battle, away from Them, he realizes two things: no one is around, and he can’t move. Then Grian sees the gray haze hanging over everything, and he wishes desperately to respawn.

But he doesn’t respawn. And they keep talking.

“SHE DIED FIRST.”

“Agh- that wasn’t my fault,” he responds, head aching. If he had a body, every muscle would be tensed to the point of cramping. And every fiber of him wants to Look.

“THE CURSE THINS.”

Grian doesn’t dignify it with a response. He didn’t know why in the moment, but he felt a vicious gladness when Timmy died second. Sure, he brought Lizzie to Red and Mumbo died directly after him (during quite a destructive event), but he lived.

“HE IS LEFT. HE IS WITH HIM. WHERE IS HE.”

His mind aches, it aches, it’s all-consuming–

“HE HIDES FROM OUR WRATH.”

They’re talking about Martyn, he thinks. He made the right choice – ran as soon as the wither showed up, just like Timmy and Mumbo should’ve done.

Timmy and Mumbo. The grief hits him like a wave. There are still so many Greens left, and they’re gone.

“THERE. WHERE THE OTHER IS. WHERE IS HE. WHERE IS HE.”

“I don’t know!” Grian yells angrily. “I don’t know where he is!”

“HIDING AWAY FROM US ALL THE DAY.”

Martyn doesn’t hide, his brain sluggishly supplies. Not all the time. But everything’s starting to feel fuzzy, and he’s not quite sure on the significance of that.

“WHERE IS HE.”

“I don’t know,” mumbles Grian. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know what you want.”

He can feel Them, seething, gnashing Their teeth. They hate this. They hate him. A small grim smile works its way onto what would be his face.

“And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

A growling like noise fills the void, but Grian thinks (hopes They don’t have long before he’s back in his body. He hopes They’re not holding onto him too hard. But Their presence grates on his brain, squeezes his lungs, and he wants out, he wants out-

“Ẅ̷̧̳̼̣̫̜̖͈̙̹̹̼̞̲́̍͂̅̾͝H̷͔͖̗̜̳͎̯̻͇͖̜̣̜͖̻̗̩̀̊͑̔̊͌̍̏̾̒͌͐͘̚̕͝͝É̷̡̞͓̫̹͚̱̖̲̬̽̃͋͜͝ͅͅR̷̢̺͇͚̭͖̪͕̞̙̎͌͆́̈͑Ë̷̻͎̦̭̱͉̓͑̑̎͛ ̶̨̛̦̙̲̥̮̥͇̗̖̣͂͗̉͗̈̍̕ͅĮ̸̣̺͖̮̭̠͇̥̩̩̼̦̯͓̈̅̽̄̂͊̽̇̃̇͒̊̇͌͂̕ͅS̷̪̜͈̻̥̈́́̈͠ ̴̢̧̮̠̟̘͚̼̼̖̙̲̜̰̃̑̓̇̓̍͒̏̓̒͆̕͘̚͠͠Ḥ̶̨̢͉̖̙̺̠̩͆̀̊́͂͊̌̎̌̽̕͠Ę̴̛̛͔̪͚͓̰̻̼̫̱̺͍̩̫̼͇̓̿̂́̔̆̒̆̈́͊͘͘͝͠.”

Grian screams. He tries to curl in on himself, tries to get away, but the noise is all around him. Pressing down, pushing the air out of his body. It fades after an indiscernible amount of time, but is replaced with a loud static.

“I don’t know,” he repeats with a gasp. He nearly has to shout over the static, and it only gets louder after he speaks. Another growl joins the crescendo, and the pressure increases and he wants to scream but he can’t, he can’t-

Grian gasps a breath as his feet hit the ground.

Immediately, the sharp stab of wither makes itself known. Before he can regain his breath (it feels like he’s fallen a hundred blocks, like Joel weeks ago, like his soulmate but with no water, like-), he’s moving. Running away from the Secret Keeper, away from the explosions and yelling of the battle. Running away from Them.

“I- wait, what?” he pants. He can feel it. “I’m yellow.”

Etho runs up to him, bleeding from several burn-like marks and covered in dirt.

“Why are you still poisoned?” he calls.

“I- something-,” he tries. “I died as I hit the button and I think it broke, so badly.”

Etho laughs. “Oh, no.”

Grian hit the button, and he can feel his health fluctuating, but after- what was it? After the pause, the break in the battle, he respawned and ran. Something like that. His health should settle soon.

And a few moments later, just after Cleo joins them on the sidelines, before he runs back into battle, it does. Everything’s faded now. He doesn’t remember details of the glitch, so it must have been small.

But somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, there is a scratching echo of a phrase.

Where is he.

#secret life #secret life smp #slsmp #the life series #traffic #trafficblr #oasis's traffic chatter #grian #secret life spoilers #slsmp spoilers #writing #my writing #I haven't posted my own work on tumblr in a while lol #life series smp #the watchers are not happy with him :) #hope y'all enjoy :D #going so insane <33 #zalgo text #I feel like you should know that the doc name for this was EXCUSE ME??? THEY STOLE HIM FR #encompasses my feelings quite well lol

[darkittensniper]

Hellooooooooooo, Mother!🙇‍♀️😌

I am humbly- not so humbly. I’m so thirsty- asking you for that one cassandra x Donna thought we had….because…we starving when it comes to this ship

Please, Mother, feed us feed me! I’m your fav-

I FUOAKIN LOVE your works. But ofc especially Cassandra x Donna🙇‍♀️ because good soup

That…sleeping one…you teased…please. Pretty please? I’ll even leave your vases alone for a day pleaaaaaaase MOTHERRRRRR!🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

The cig break I had to take after writing this should fucking illegal.

Firstly Yes hello yes daughter. MY FAVORITE DAUGHTER. MY ONLY WONDEFUL AMAZING SMART CHILD! I have heard you and have arrived once again to deliver the food. *slams down massive ass plate* Ok so lets start with the basics. I have no right to say I had any control of this one shot once I started writing it. It took me on some twist and turns but I think I got across the what you wanted. (Cass getting touched on by Dark Donna while she is sleeping) My HC's for Dark Donna go wild and i aint sorry. More mutant and multi armed Donna yes pls...

Hope you enjoy it @muffinsin

The teacup fell from frigid fingertips, shattering completely along the polished wood floor. Cassandra’s hand loosened enough for it to have dropped. Porcelain covered in the finely ground root that had been added to this evening’s tea. An unspoken rule between the two women, Donna brewed Cassandra a special tea. Cassie knew it would make her rather sleepy, due to the Golden Pothos leaves that had been added to the lavender tea. The Lord knew Cassandra would have refused to drink the tea if she didn’t want to be taken advantage of while she slept.

Lord Beneviento found much to enjoy when her little doll was like this. She stood just shy of their shared bed; the covers having been removed. Leaving just the black satin sheets. Skin the color of the finest alabaster in stark contrast with the sheets. Dark brown hair lay fanned out underneath the huntress’s head. Her eyes were closed, mouth agape slightly. Revealing small yet deadly top fangs. The Lord reached down and angled her thumb along her lover’s bottom lip. Just light enough to were her eyelids fluttered, but did not open. It drew a shudder from the lithe Lord. The veil over Donna’s face moved ever so gently from her rather labored breathing. Just looking over the smaller women’s sleeping form made Donna’s spine cramp. The lull of her stomach as it rose and fell. The swell of her breast, the giving fat teasing the Lord. The dark patch of hair between her legs, glistening with the start of her arousal. Strong muscle strapped thighs, each as supple as they were thick. One hand dangled over the side of the bed, the one that dropped the cup. The other lay along her stomach, fingers fanned out over the raised muscle of her abs.

The veins in the Lords hands danced along the extensor tendons as she flexed them. Drawing her thumb along Cassandra’s top lip, pulling it back to bare her teeth. A small groan left the Lord as she eased her tall frame down next to her women. Her mourning dress pulled up around her hips as she straddled Cassandra’s naked thighs. A small grunt leaving Cassie’s 

The brown-haired women's abs felt like heaven, just enough brawn to press against black silk panties. Yet enough soft give of fat to make the Lord bite her lip as her hips bucked on their own. Another flutter of Cassandra's eyelids, long beautiful eyelashes kissing the tops of her cheeks. An sharp inhale, taking the scent of her women into her nose. Even through the powerful lull of this induced sleep, the feral part of the hunter’s instincts could never be fully dulled. 

Cassie smelled the finest fragrance of wildflowers and the natural musk of her lover’s arousal.

 Donna, utterly enraptured in the sight before her, the veil opening capturing just enough for her wondering eye to have time to appreciate all she saw. Taking Cassandra's sleeping form in sections, capturing each like a photo still. Imprinted and etched. Burned and seared into her memory. The sweet torture of being able to remember her like this at a whim made a small whimper leave the larger woman. Each detail would never be lost on Lord Beneviento, her obsession for her lover wouldn't allow such a thing. Her spine cramped again, this time the sheer need to have dead cold flesh in her hands, holding more life than anything the Lord had ever beheld. In the ice cold reaches of cream-colored skin Donna found a blazing inferno. 

Nails painted the color of the darkest ichor stood proud along the brawn of Cassandra's neck. Fingers honed and practiced. Long, slim and astoundingly dexterous, each individually pressed right where the Lord wanted. Palms pressed feather light along the smooth column of her lover’s throat. 

The Lord squeezed.

Only along the sides of her lover’s neck, pressure alone. No need to crush her women’s windpipe. She wanted to hear her nightingale sing for her this night. The response was instant, a perfect sleep painted groan left the brown-haired women. Donna's veil fluttered in the still air as a soundless exhale left her. Veins danced along the doll makers hands as she squeezed again, this time taking the blunt end of her nails to the frigid skin under them. Lips, void of their usual bloodily appearance parted as another, be it louder groan left Cassies mouth. Sandstone colored eyes flitted under closed lids, a few flies broke off from her cheek and landed on Donna's hand. Drawing the silver-colored eye away from her prize to land on the insects on her left hand. They were sluggish but intent to make themselves known, mouthparts quickly drawing blood. 

The Lord didn't flinch, watching as a small rivulet of black blood leaked down her hand, wrapping around her wrist only to drop down on Cassandra's collarbone. The air was permeated with the raw copper smell of the Lord’s blood, drawing a sleepy growl from Cassie. Her nose along with her flies had tasted their prize. Yet the effects of the tea were just strong enough to keep the smaller women affected. The Lord’s eye twitched at the reddening skin from where her ladies’ flies had bitten her.

 Had Donna given permission to taste her blood?

Like a switch, the Lord’s was deftly agile when she needed. She less moved, more appeared next to the bed again. A cold patience, one Lord Beneviento always carried around her, had been tested. Tested in a way that needed a swift end. Cassandra’s flies, sensing more than feeling the change of demeanor, flying lazily back to her face and returning to the smooth alabaster of her cheek. The Lord went about positioning her doll on the bed. Invisible, writhing arms coming from Donna’s back. Each strong and just as deadly as the ones who lay clasped in front of her. The red bites along her left hand had stopped bleeding but the actual process of healing them would take time. Having marred the Lord’s perfect skin without her permission.

The indent of the phantom fingers along toned legs made Donna shiver. An extension of herself, she felt every inch of cold supple skin through those hands. They were her hands after all, just unseen. Two spreading her lovers’ legs, two clasping Cassandra’s arms and pulling them above her head. Successfully pining her little doll to the bed. The final set laying claim to her hips, pressing into the cold skin until it bruised the pale skin. Cassie groaned; eyes fliting open for a spilt second from the brazen pain. Donna’s many pairs of arms kept the vice grip on her lover, though her body went ridged next to the bed. The thought of almost waking her sleeping women excited her. Under the flowing black material of the dresses hems lithe well-muscled thighs were clamped together. The friction it caused felt delightful, along with the all the other various stimuli she was getting from the many limbs coming from the Lord’s back. It only added to the itch at Donna brain that could only be scratched by the sleeping form of her lady. The hunter felt the phantom limbs holding her down, the dreamscape she wadded through left much of the sensations fleeting as best. Having to chase down the feeling, only for it to slip from her grasp. Starting the chase all over again. She. Loved. This.

Donna gave Cassie just what she wanted, her body already more than willing to be explored. Hands along the smaller women’s hips, lifting just enough for Donna to see just how Cass had started to leak, slicking clinging to her ever so pretty pussy lips. Using her own hands the Lord removed her veil from her head, the flushed face hidden under bared to the room. Silver colored scar tissue, casting forth a shimmering like that of an iridescent moon. The smile on the Lords face only grew as the scared flesh came alive, leaving room for wickedly sharp teeth and the writhing mass to grow. The right side of the Lord’s face also grew many more teeth than should have been housed inside. The smile splitting her features, what snaked out of her mouth couldn’t be called a tongue. The appendage itself was split right down the middle, making two wiggling tongue like muscles. Each dripping with a very special mix of different fluids.

Donna again, appeared before the foot of the bed, its height only making to just shy of the tops of the Lord’s knees. Towering not only above mattress, but also above Cassandra. If only yellow eyes had opened in that spilt second. Maybe the hunter would have noticed the nefarious glint in the Lord’s eye. The absolutely manic look lurking just under the dead calm awash in her eye.

Unhinged would not even be cutting it close to all the dark thoughts running rampant in the Lord’s mind. All of Cassandra at her mercy. Only madness itself could comprehend the bond these two women shared. Veil dropped from fingers dusted with growing talons of their own. Cassie’s arms flexed, legs much the same. Still chasing sensations in her dreamscape. Body unfolding before her Lord, silently begging. A hunter begging to be turned into the rightful prey she was before Donna Beneviento.

“Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine-mine mine mine.”

The word repeated like a mantra. Echoing from a mouth that should not have been able to produce any. The twin serpent like tongues growing in not only length but girth as well. Intertwining with each other as they each drew closer to the molten heat between Cassandra’s legs. Window frost-like patterns formed and danced over the scar tissue along the left side of the Lord’s face. Painting emotions the Lord could never speak aloud, never find the right words to describe the feeling of unraveling before Cassandra. Letting herself, her true self go forth and devour just what fed this dark fascination.

The keening noise that left Cassies’ mouth was nothing short of the sound of a universe being born. It drew not only a wail wrapped with pleasure, but also the unfounded loss of her dreamscape. Jolted out of the recesses of her subconscious. A subconscious controlled by none other than Donna herself, weaving her very will into it. The same way the glistening twin appendages weaved their way inside of both smaller women’s holes. The Lord could secrete a certain enzyme from the ridge covered glands along the underside of the tongues. Ones that were tailored just for her little doll here. Her own personal aphrodisiac, one that took hold instantly.

 Eyelids snapping open as hazy yellow eyes met the outside world again. Trying to focus on anything long enough. Failing in truly spectacular fashion. Her attention snatched from her very soul as she felt pressure, the sweet ache awarded her whenever her Lord took her like this. Each time somehow more wonderous than the last time. Even with most of the Lords lower jaw having been overtaken by the wriggling fleshy dark matter that made up the mutation. Seeing Donna like this, primal and in her natural form made little else matter to Cassandra. Each thrust driving home just how much Donna owned her. Controlled her. A dogged want to possessive every iota of this women.

The waterwall behind the mist covered manor could not drown out the tortured cries of pleasure as Cassandra was ravaged beyond comprehension. Each time Donna curled the appendages deep inside her women, the skin stretching to accommodate the bulging mass of tongue like flesh deep inside of her womb. Six hands going unseen but most defiantly not unfelt pinning the hunter to the bed, forcing her to only lay there and take it all. Not that Cassandra would want it any other way.

If the power the Lord wielded could dethrone a ‘God’ if she merely willed it, what hope would her precious little doll have against her? Creating beautifully terrifying nightmares, Donna was the specialist. Giving all she knew her women could take, tasting her insides with revere. She would never ger enough to each pitiful beg for mercy, knowing if Cass truly wanted mercy she would swarm. Yet she stayed, a panting sweat covered mess. Voice hoarse and used as the two women stared at each other. The larger of the two still standing as stoic still at the end of the bed, hands clasped in front of her.

Sometimes not even a finger needed to be lifted for the Lord to get ‘just’ what she wanted.

#cassandra dimitrescu #donna beneviento #Dark Donna #My HC for Dark Donna #Yes... yes you counted right #Dark Donna has an additional three sets of arms and hands #I think my Donna is turning into CreepyPasta Donna #Consensual sleepy tea drinking #DonnaXCassandra #one shot #resident evil #re8 village #re8 donna #re8 cassandra

[arting-block]

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 (𝟐) | Eleventh Doctor x MCU!Sorcerer Reader

❝𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵—𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩—𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥?❞

Summary: Recovery and revelations.

Genre: Romance, AU/Crossover

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, PTSD, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of killing, comfort

Words: 26.2K (yes you heard that correctly)

Reader: POC friendly, she/her, 24 y/o.

A/N: i wrote 6 whole drafts of this god-forsaken chapter all of which included more backstory and angst. trust me, this was going to be over 50k but i didn't think tumblr could handle allat.

previous chapter |

[KAMPOT, CAMBODIA  24 YEARS AGO]

The humid air from outside still somehow seeped into the old hut of the village shaman. Dark, moody clouds could still be seen over the night sky. A small abode tucked away from the main roads, separated on all sides by thick foliage and dense forest. 

Therula hated using Eldritch Magic more than anything, but cannot deny the ease of the sling-ring. Cracks of azure light cut through the air in front of the hut. Warmth from the (L/N) estate and its lavish tapestry halted, turning to centuries-old wood and tropical breeze. The door to the hut, covered in red talisman and chicken feet, was left ajar. Yellow candle light came through the crack of the door frame, enticing the young woman inside.  

Bright yellow walls and intricate drawings cover the old shaman’s home. Ink sketches of human bones against mandalas; the hollow sockets where eyes were supposed to be staring back. On the ceiling there was an intricate projection of the night sky. Nebula, stars, and planets floating against the inky black of space, much like the one Therula conjured in her own home. 

It smelled of incense and peppers. A horrid combination that made Therula (L/N) physically ill. Even without the pregnancy hormones, she would still gag at the sharp smell of the home. Silks adorning Therula clung to her clammy skin. Its ornate pattern, coupled with hand-woven lace seemed odd in the humble environment. 

Anxiety crept in her bones slowly. As if to draw out her unease for as long as possible. A dull cramp settled in her gut, making her seeming calmness falter. Therula placed a laced hand above her stomach, exhaling softly to get her mind under control. 

This is for her own good.

A new mantra she often found herself saying. It keeps her focused, reminding herself that sacrifices are worth it. 

Months of sleepless nights are finally catching up to her. No matter how much concealer or color corrector she puts on, there’s still the gaunt look under her eyes. Her skin is losing its usual luster, and her fidgeting increased tenfold. Very improper indeed, but she gave up trying long ago. 

With anxiety came the sudden rise in heat. Therula felt her chest, neck, and face starting to flush. Inch by inch, crawling up her skin until sweat collects at the base of her head. She couldn’t help but mutter a soft prayer, hoping a call to her patron will give her strength, “Planet of oceans and ice, I ask to strengthen my veins with your power.”

She spoke in an ancient tongue, one that no book held record of. A language passed down from mother to child, only spoken within family. 

On cue, the familiar chill of her magic materialized. It took root in her heart and quickly overtook her body. It wasn’t enough to send her teeth chattering, but enough to calm her. Above all, it was a testament of Therula’s bond to her planet. A sign that they were there for her, aiding her through this difficult time. 

Whilst Therula was acclimating, she failed to notice the shaman materialize behind her. She didn't feel the air shift or the feeling of magic crackle through the air. A sign of the old shaman’s abilities than the lack of awareness on Therula.

“Back so soon? And without your husband, no less,” a snide voice said from behind Therula.

Therula whipped around, placing a hand over her startled heart. She silently cursed herself for letting her guard down. 

The shaman is a raggard woman with a hunched posture and a perpetually hoarse voice. Her tan skin was wrinkled heavily, but still had some residual roundness of her youth. The whole of her chest is covered with amulets and thick, circular clusters of peppers which Therula believes contributes to her posture. Bright primary fabrics construct the robe she adorns. 

A stubborn woman and old enough to have seen Pluto’s full orbit thrice. Her bony hands are covered in dainty tattoos and the tips of her fingers are dyed bright red. The old shaman regards Therula with a piercing gaze and her wrinkled lips into an even thinner line.

Therula had only met the old woman once before. Months ago, when she was barely showing her pregnancy. Therula had come with her husband then, seeking arcane advice for something barbaric. Enestor wasn’t keen on seeing a traditionalist, especially if it concerns his wife and unborn daughter, but he knew how much it meant for Therula. 

At that time, the shaman pushed back at Therula’s request. Too risky, especially when the subject has yet to breathe air. 

Now, as her due date grew nearer, Therula acquired new information regarding her family history—around the curse plaguing her unborn daughter. 

Therula rolls her shoulders back, holding her head high, “He doesn’t understand the situation we are in.”

The shaman shuffles closer, the amulets clanging softly against one another. Peppers along her neck are still sharp with capsaicin, making Therula’s nose scrunch. The shaman’s gaze zeroes in on her large stomach. Beneath the extravagant dress and expensive lace, the shaman could feel the pulsing heartbeat of an unborn child. 

A grunt came from the shaman, “You make decision without husband? Something that will not be reversed?”

The same warning, the same displeased look. 

Something in Therula hardens under the gaze, hardening her voice as much as she could, “He’s not part of my practice. This is a matter that concerns me, no one else.” Her tone is final despite the obvious waver. Her hands stuck along the sides of her swollen stomach, both soothing the baby and her own nerves. 

The shaman’s smile is smug, almost proud. She wags a red dyed finger at Therula, “You are bold, I’ll give you that. Many people come to my hut asking for power. None have asked to take it away.”

A warning. Something irreversible that cannot and would not be undone. 

“Will you do it?” Therula asked, her nerves starting to get the better of her. The calm, collected façade chipping away. 

The shaman huffs, “You ask for impossible, I give you impossible. Although I advised against this, it is clear you are stubborn.”

The old crone beckons Therula to the other side of the room. Wood beneath their feet creak and groan under their weight. The small room only takes a few strides to cross. On the other side, a dark wooden door with a large magical seal painted in red. The brushstrokes are precise and delicate, but it looked more haunting than beautiful. As Therula approached closer, she could make out the grooves of a fingerprint along the paint strokes. The sound of keys clanging made Therula watch the old woman shuffle through her belt. 

Keys, small knives, and talisman were bunched up on a single loop of her belt. The shadows swallowed any definition, making it seem like one big mass. It was hard to tell which key started and the talisman ended. 

A few seconds of shuffling until Therula heard the click of the keyring. An old brass key was finally found. Carved by a dark metal with small flourishes. 

It seemed heavy by the looks of it. The shaman’s shaky hands lodged the key into the lock, twisting it with some strain. The door creaked open as the gears of the lock shifted. Therula could see clusters of lit candles of different colors in every corner of the room. Despite the numerous candles, it was much dimmer than the room previously. Ends of the walls were a dark, inky black with no discernible corners.  

Light from the candles gave a blue hue to the contours of their faces. The smell of incense wafted away to a damp, moldy smell. 

Shelves filled with exotic herbs and more peppers sat along the wall. Glowing bottles next to wet specimens. Even a few shrunken heads dangled in the dark corners. All of which were nothing surprising to Therula. An old crone of her caliber is expected to adhere to traditions, no matter how unsavory. 

In the middle of the room was a giant magic seal. Old Khmer script along its edges along with complicated geometric patterns in the same red paint as on the door. Therula found herself transfixed by the seal. It was a dying art in the magical world. With newer mages seeking Eldritch Magic, there was no need for manually hand-drawing seals. Here, in the small hut in Kampot, a piece of this tradition is marked in stone. 

In the dim lighting of the room, the red seemed dark and muddy. Almost like…

Something uneasy was felt in her gut. Therula took a deep breath, caressing her abdomen. The door creaked shut with the sound of a metal lock clicking, making the poor mother jump. The shaman snickers, no doubt trying to make Therula on edge. 

“I fail to understand why you come here. Plenty of other strong, young mages to do your bidding,” the shaman grunts, pouring glowing liquids and peppers into a wooden bowl. Her bony fingers found a stone pestle to grind the ingredients together, “Not that I mind. Rare to see such esteemed witch from powerful family come to old shaman. Many good elders from your clan to take care of your problem. Those who know this curse better than I.”

Therula shifts her weight, feeling a dull ache in her knees, “You’re the only celestial witch old enough to pull this off. Even the most promising witches and warlocks from my clan only have a planet to call upon. Rumor has it that you have a star. A large one at that.”

A planet for guidance is a feat in itself. Talented mages had taken decades of their lives trying to build a connection. Complete devotion wields pure energy to siphon off of. Planets, with their rich mythology and monstrous size, give unparalleled power to their mage. 

But a planet would only take you so far. 

The shaman smiles at the praise, “You need power to match the curse, yes? One that is old and of equal value.” She brings the wooden bowl to Therula, who hesitantly accepts. 

Fluorescent blue liquid sloshes inside the bowl. The sharp sting of peppers hits Therula, forcing her to aggressively blink away tears. The shaman once again took another look at the mother’s stomach. There was no doubt that the unborn child had the gift. A strong current of magic swirling in around the womb despite the soul not taking hold yet. 

A strong vessel, perfect for a powerful witch. 

“I wonder what your ancestors did to warrant such a nasty curse,” the shaman mutters, still loud enough for Therula to hear, “No doubt the caster pulled divine intervention. Your family is protected by the nine planets, yes? But that’s not good enough. Not pure enough.”

Curses, especially ones involving the soul, are notoriously difficult to break. The older the curse, the more it festers and grows. With time comes the destruction of knowledge, including customs and language. Sooner or later there would be no one alive, nor any record preserved, to break the curse. 

The old shaman was born centuries before, older than some of the elders in Therula’s clan. Her magic was cultivated during a time where magic was still abundant in the public mind. A celestial witch with a star as her patron. Pure energy, older than the curse festering in Therula’s child. Energy that is easy to bend and manipulate, especially when it comes to magical seals. 

Therula huffed, a bead of sweat dripping down her temple, “It has to be done. Trust me, I weighed any other possibilities.”

There wasn’t any other choice. Not one that could save both mother and child. 

“Each year fewer of us are being born. Not to mention the sickness that's spreading,” the crone says, still eyeing her stomach, “I’m sure you’re aware of the potential of your daughter—.”

“Potential means nothing when her life is at stake,” Therula snaps, her eyes burning despite placing the bowl away from her face, “Powers or not, she’s my baby. If there’s a chance to give her a better life, then I’m willing to take it.”

Months of stress pouring through each word; no mistaking the raw edge of desperation.  

The shaman’s lips pressed to a thin line, but said nothing. It was clear that Therula was going through with her plan one way or another, even if it meant going to a lesser mage to get the job done. At the very least the old woman could provide a safe, stable spell that won’t harm either the mother or the fetus. 

The shaman reaches within the deep sleeves in her robe, pulling out a small decorative dagger. It was gold, matching the amulets on her chest, and encrusted with blood-red rubies and rich emerald. The blade gleams despite the low lighting, curving down to a sharp point.  

“I need to ensure the seal will last. Blood from me—” the shaman wastes no time slicing her palm. The thin skin broke through, and her darkened blood dripped into the bowl in Therula’s hand. The shaman took the bowl and flipped the handle of the knife to Therula, “ —blood from you. Power from two witches, and their patrons, are better than one.”

Therula’s heart hammered in her chest, but her hand grasped the ornate handle with no hesitation. A slight burn emanated from her hand where the deep cut was made. She clenched her hand, watching the blood pool out of her fingers and into the glowing bowl. Fluorescent liquid bubbled upon contact. 

“You drink this the moment you go into labor.” The shaman decants the liquid into a clear jar. “The soul of your daughter will start to enter her body. This elixir will enter her bloodstream and create a barrier around her spirit. Once child is born, she will be cut off from magic. The older she grows, the stronger the seal. Her soul will attach itself to barrier and create unbreakable bond.”

Therula takes the glowing jar. It’s easily a cup of liquid and no doubt will taste like copper and spice. Her hands tightened their hold. Early victory could easily sour as there were still five weeks left in her pregnancy. Nothing is for certain until the time of her labor. Even then, Therula would still worry and fret over her child. 

“How strong? Nothing is unbreakable, you of all people should know that,” Therula bites.

The small kernel of hope did nothing to mask the skepticism. After many months of mental torture, it seemed too good to be true. 

The shaman smirks, all knowing with her centuries of power, “Not even a star could undo it.”

— — —

[PRESENT]

Sound is a distraction. It dulls your brain and nullifies your other senses. Silence, in the absence of numbing noises, makes the air coil around you. Your body becomes aware of forces beyond your control. 

It wasn't crippling, but always there. 

Vibrations of energy flowing inside your skull, through your bones. It fills space between your atoms, making your body denser. It’s been the background of your existence for so long, that a part of you feels empty. It feels…

Lighter. You feel lighter. 

The Doctor left the room to retrieve his companions: Amy and Rory Pond. Husband and wife who he swept away from their ordinary lives back on Earth. Rather, they became husband and wife during his time with them. Not too long ago, but he seemed unsure. His eyes are always going about from one side to the next. The Doctor then remembered why he went off on a tangent, saying it would only take a few minutes. 

“Get comfortable. Don’t exert yourself.”

It’s been a few minutes. You shuffled back to the meager cot against the far corner of the room. Each step sends an ache in every fiber and joint in your body. 

It’s unnerving. The quiet of the air. No overbearing weight on your chest. There’s space between your thoughts and air into your lungs. 

It’s a new feeling, too new to be comfortable with. 

Sitting on the edge of your bed you let the seconds tick by, hoping to gather your bearings, think things over before the Doctor and his companions arrive. 

Your hands drag against the edge of your wrappings. Numb, damaged fingers find the frayed threads to slowly unravel. Scratching would hurt, so you quell the urge to scrape your nails on your palms. Keeping your fingers occupied so that you can fuel your nervous tick. A habit you couldn’t shake off and one that your mother always disapproved of.

Scattered thoughts pass through your mind. 

Flashes of color. The familiar burn of your magic. The rush of adrenaline—

Your throat closes. You need to keep calm. Focus on the now, figure a way out…

Silence bites your mind. It makes your feelings more apparent and it frightens you. 

You don't know the next step. You always know—should always know. 

A Master of the Mystic Arts, always a step ahead of everyone else. Commander of spells with experience that came with being an apprentice for six years. You had a big role to fill the moment the Ancient One anointed you as her apprentice and you met her expectations step by step. 

You were powerful. Surrounded by heroes and supportive friends alike. 

You were on top of the world. Power imbued in the fibers of your body. All the knowledge the universe had to offer at the tips of your fingers.

So why did you wish to leave? 

Being stuck in space wasn’t the issue. Being stuck in a universe with no discernable way out isn’t what’s plaguing you. 

Why did you leave? Why did your only thought—your dying wish—was to leave the world behind?

You were supposed to be a brave soldier, fighting for the universe itself. You never caved, never wavered in the battlefield. When the blood spills from your teeth or bones break beneath your skin, you always get back up. 

You swore an oath, bound by blood, to serve humanity and in return was bestowed the highest honor a sorcerer can have. 

And yet…you’d wish to give everything up. To leave your family, Peter, the Avengers—even Stephen and Wong. In your dying moments you acted on selfishness. 

The guilt causing tension in your body wasn’t from failing to keep Wanda and Vision safe…

It was because you chose your own life above all others. Above your friends; above the billions of others who no doubt deserved it more than you. 

The only surefire way to get back is if someone opens a portal and brings you to them. There’s too many variables, too many worlds to slip into. Traversing through the multiverse is like gliding through hot syrup and pure madness. No one in their right mind would suffer the cost just for a ghost. 

There’s no guarantee that even if you manage to survive another trek without magical protection that you could sift through and find your universe. The equivalent of finding a needle in a larger, near infinite pile of identical needles. 

You’re stuck. 

Thump, thump, thump. 

Voices and footsteps echo outside. Growing louder, getting closer.

Your body stiffens, your ears trying to pick up their conversation. Closer and closer they come. You shake away any stray thoughts, focusing on the present.  

Their voices sound clearer. Accents, different from the Doctor’s. Male and female, young, agitated. Arguing about something. They're too far away for you to make heads or tails of their conversation. Their voices come fast, fluctuating between stuttering exasperation (the Doctor most likely) to scathing retorts (Amy, judging from the higher pitch) and a deep groan that oozes annoyance (Rory, process of elimination). 

Voices and footsteps grow louder as the seconds tick by. Jumbled noises smooth into intelligible words. Not enough to piece together their conversation, but enough to know that they were a few paces away. 

Whisper-shouting and rustling of clothing stops the moment they reach your door. 

The ornate brass door knob rattles against the steel door. Side to side, as if it’s stuck. The door creaks open, the voices hushed the moment you see three figures standing outside.

Red hair, plaid shirt with worn jeans, and curious eyes peek through the door frame first. A beautiful woman, with a round face and even rounder eyes. She steps into the space with an air of caution, but there’s no mistaking the piqued curiosity. 

A tall man with sleepy eyes and spiky blond hair follows behind her. He wears a comfy, soft sweatshirt and a pair of dark, crisp denim. He doesn’t appear fearful, but doesn’t look too happy to be here. You notice the squared shoulders and measured steps, reminiscent of those in the military. 

The Doctor comes in last with a mind swarming with unfinished thoughts. His hands sweep around his jacket, trying to fix his appearance before stepping beside the blond man. The tension from your conversation seemed to dissipate, leaving a rather aloof expression on his face.  

The woman—Amy, you assume—stares at you, unblinking as if to not miss any movement. Her husband with cool regard, but has a protective arm around her shoulder. Their eyes take in every bruise and discolored skin, waiting for the Doctor to speak up. 

You can’t help but observe them too. They stood far enough that you could take in the tops of their head and all the way down to the worn converses they both had. Human, but something tells you they’re a bit more than that. 

Everything about her and her husband seemed so…ordinary. Civilians with catalog clothes and that tentative look on their face. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume they would be another faceless civilian out on the streets of whatever city you’re stopping in. The three of them stand in opposition to you. Each with their own perception of you, ranging between caged animal to war-stricken soldier. Pity, confused, and sad. It’s almost suffocating. Beneath the hesitance was an undeniable feeling of sorrow. As if seeing you was a tragedy. 

You don’t like it. Despise it, even. It seems that in every corner, in every face you see, there was an underlying sadness for you. It seems the lingering stares follow you outside of the multiverse and into the green eyes of Amy and the steel blue of Rory. 

The Doctor doesn’t seem to notice his companions’ less-than-enthusiastic mood. He stands beside you, bending slightly to get to your eye level. “These two lovely chaps are my companions: Amy and Rory Pond! Ponds, meet the wonderful—and very much alive—(Y/N)!” He does some jazz hands towards you with a proud smile on his face. 

They each wave to you awkwardly. 

You lick the sharp skin on your lower lip, the tiniest of smiles on your face. “I’m assuming you’re the Nurses?”

Rory and Amy seemed a bit stunned at your poor attempt at a joke. You guessed the contrast of a beaten face and a strained smile was a bit jarring. 

Then, Rory chuckles. Airy and genuine. It seemed the tension between them lifted. Amy’s shoulders relaxed, letting a smile of her own to be seen. 

“That’s a good one, I see what you did there,” Rory says. “Though, for the record, I’m the only certified medical nurse here.”

Your brows pinch, turning towards the Doctor with suspicion. He doesn’t seem to notice your wary looks, simply beaming at you with that smile of his. 

You shift in your spot, “Uh, I should’ve asked this when I woke up. How long, exactly, was I out for? When I blacked out, I didn’t register time passing. At all. Lemme guess, a few months?”

You’re not stupid. Back in the jungle, lying in that ditch, you felt your soul bursting inside your body. If it wasn’t for your unwavering spite, that stubbornness to get up, to keep trying, you would’ve seen the familiar skeletal face of Death herself. 

So far gone, that enough time passed that you are able to walk. You clearly remember struggling to do so; the biting pain still lingers in your knees. 

Something flashes in the Doctor’s eyes. A shift in his cheery demeanor to something serious and foreboding. 

Caution, you thought. 

“Five days.”

You blink. Once. Twice. 

Maybe you shattered your eardrum on the way here. 

“Sorry, I thought you said five days,” you scoff, almost laughing at the ridiculous thought. Sure you may heal cuts and bruises relatively fast, but you were on the brink of death. Bones were broken, no doubt a ton of internal bleeding sprinkled throughout your body.  

A taste of lemon on your tongue, a warm energy above the nerves of your spine.

Truth, your body says. 

You look at the Ponds and see the same look of weariness. Amy gives a slight nod of her head, confirming what the Doctor said. 

Denial grips your mind. Doubt in their words despite the lack of obvious deception. It makes the settling realization hit a lot harder. 

“It doesn’t make any sense. I should be out for weeks—months even,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. “Damage like that, I wouldn’t even bat an eye if it was a year.”

Acceptance creeps up, denial withers and in its place the cold grip of anxiety. You feel the leftover stinging and the scattered numbness from your injuries. You’re still healing and nowhere near full health, but you could walk and think somewhat clearly. 

A distinct memory floats in your mind; the time when you sustained a nasty fall from an eight story building. While some magic had cushioned your descent, you still heard the crack of bone when you landed on your side. Your humerus had deep fissures which took three weeks to fully heal, even with the help of healing magic. Not to mention the physical therapy alongside it.  

No, there’s no way I could’ve healed like that on my own.

You lift your head up towards the Doctor. “Did you give me some sort of medicine? Some technology that could advance human healing?”

“Well, not exactly,” the Doctor says, trailing off at the end. “Most of the machinery here requires blood work and stem cell extraction. However, because your body was retaining so much heat, we quickly realized that it could damage our equipment. Our biggest concern was the amount of blood being kept in your body cavity—a big sign of internal bleeding. And boy did you have a lot!” The Doctor chuckled, but upon seeing the disapproving look of his companions, he immediately smoothed his expression.

Rory rolled his eyes, continuing where the Doctor left off: “When the Doctor initially scanned your body in the jungle, he identified the sources of your internal bleeding. Mostly in your spleen and around your abdomen from blunt force trauma. We thought we would need to take you in for surgery but—” 

“Your body cauterized the wounds,” the Doctor cut in, too eager to let Rory finish. “Initially we thought it was due to the burning you sustained, but upon closer inspection, I realized that the burning was localized to the wounds you had. Tried my luck and decided to nick one of your veins and observed what happened. Sure enough, you sealed it moments after.”

You almost couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Almost. At this point you were willing to believe that you were a long lost moon princess that can transform with a magical compact. Somehow that seemed more believable in your mind than crossing the entire multiverse. 

At your stunned silence, Rory clarified further: “What he means is that your body—somehow—burned off the areas where you were bleeding without damaging surrounding tissue. But that wasn’t the weirdest part.”

“That wasn’t weird?” you ask, wondering how much new information you could take before your mind breaks. “So I now have burnt tissue stuck in my body on top of CMBR? Are my organs constantly boiling?”

The Doctor taps the bridge of your nose, making you jump. “Good, you’re paying attention. Luckily your cognitive functions seem to be working fine. To answer your first question, no. Whatever burnt tissue remained was overtaken by healthy tissues. Your cells were rapidly dividing to fix whatever damage was left behind. Even your bone marrow was working overtime to bring back the blood you lost.”

“What about the second question?” you ask. “You said that I still housed the CMBR—Big Bang CMBR—in the tissues of my body. Correct me if I’m wrong, but shouldn't my insides be cremated by now?”

In a flash, the Doctor’s finger points dangerously close to the middle of your brows. “I’m a bit insulted that you think I forgot.” He retracts his hand and paces in front of you. “To answer your other question, yes and no. The heat is mostly concentrated towards your heart and your blood. After a few days your body returned to normal temperatures and the CMBR was safely stored. For the most part.” 

You can’t help but inwardly wince. Phantom licks of fire tingle around your hands, threatening to swallow you whole once more. 

Amy moves closer, peering at you. Less analyzing, more like gazing over your features. When your eyes met, you were surprised she didn’t falter. She moved one step closer, her hands tense at her side. A bit of fear clung to her skin.  

“You told the Doctor something, before we came in,” Amy prompts. Any caution melted, spurring her curiosity. “You came from another universe, yes?”

“Don’t entertain her,” the Doctor says, though there isn’t malice. He seemed more exasperated that his companions were considering your story despite his opposition. 

Amy ignored the Doctor, focusing her attention on you, eager to what you had to say.

It was hard to pinpoint where you could even start. Bruce crash landing on the foyer of the New York Sanctum or the Battle of New York years prior? 

Events in your mind cloud and blur together. Too fresh of a wound to recount, even though five days have passed. Your body is still tense. The adrenaline has long since faded, but you can’t seem to unwind the taught muscles in your body. It doesn’t help that you’re in a room with strangers and a humming environment that seems alive.

“I was in battle, protecting Earth,” you start, the words scratching your throat. You can clearly remember the panic and animosity on the battlefield. The air was sparked with rage and stank of blood. “An alien named Thanos wanted to kill half of all sentient beings from the universe in order to preserve resources. He managed to collect five out of the six Infinity Stones. Each stone represented a core trait of existence. Infinite power, that when collected together, could bend the entire universe to your every whim. They were remnants of the Big Bang, hence the CMBR in my body.”

Your voice wavers slightly. Tired, scabbed, numb fingers clench the cotton sheets beneath you. 

Guilt swirls, clawing the inside of your chest. Enough to force your words out with anger lacing each syllable. “My friend had the last stone. He was already injured and Thanos’s army had worn through our defenses. I swore that I would protect him. I took an oath to protect humanity, even if it costs me my life. I tried to stop him—I did what I could and it didn’t matter—”

You cut yourself short. Your eyes were trained on the linoleum floor but all you could see was blood. The sound of flesh being torn apart by alien teeth and the screams of Wanda pounding in your head. 

“The stones—my arms—I tried to stop him. I absorbed as much as I could and I wasn’t strong enough. But I didn’t care about the burns, all I wanted at that moment was to save my friend…And it wasn’t enough.”

It didn’t matter that you managed to hold off Thanos long enough for Wanda to break the Mind Stone. Your promise was null and void and perhaps deep down you both knew it. It was better to hope than go into battle with defeat instilled in your mind. 

Forcing your head upwards, you locked eyes with the Doctor.

Something passed through the Doctor’s face; his lips pressed to a thin line and his eyes holding what words would fail to say. 

Understanding. 

The atmosphere of the room was thick with tension. Though your rushed and jumbled recount of events left more questions than answers, the three strangers didn’t pry further. Amy seemed to be the one most visibly upset. 

Feather light steps and a pinched expression on her face, Amy sat down on your bed beside you. Her weight makes the old foam creak, the close proximity makes the emotion pouring out more apparent. Pity and empathy came off of her in waves. If it was anyone else, under any other circumstance, you would recoil at the feeling.

“You’re safe now,” Amy whispered, her hands on your shoulder accompanying the gentle words. “You don’t have to explain yourself. Not unless you’re ready.”

Citrus on your tongue and the waves of sorrow easing the tension in your body. 

You don’t let the tears flow. You scrape together any ounce of energy to let yourself fall apart. Not now. You’re not ready for that. 

Breathe.

A muffled groan leaves you, your shoulders sagging with the weight of…honestly, you don’t know what to call it. Overwhelmed is a vast understatement to what you’re feeling. A throbbing headache threatens to pound against your skull, your body still desperately trying to pull itself together. You were teetering dangerously close to the edge of your sanity; one wrong thought and you’ll plunge into a familiar abyss. 

The three strangers dare not to move, scared that they’ve pushed you too far. The Doctor’s bright, observant eyes watch every movement of your face, trying to gauge your reaction. 

A shuddering breath escapes you, and you force yourself to fill the empty silence. 

“I-I think I need some time…alone.” Your voice is cracked, barely audible to Amy. You lower your gaze to your clenched fists, barely keeping yourself from trembling. You feel too vulnerable, exposed like a raw nerve. You mumble a strained: “Please.”

Amy doesn’t move right away, lingering in her spot beside you. After a few moments, she gives a feather-light squeeze of your shoulder before standing up. 

The Doctor, despite his distance, seemed to hear you just fine. Shoving his hands into his pant pockets, he sends a tentative smile your way. “Of course, we’ll be out of your hair for the time being.”

He walks to the other side of the room, opening a cabinet to reveal a small fridge. He bends slightly, rummaging through the fridge before grabbing a glass pitcher filled with cold water and a mug from an adjacent cabinet. 

Long legs carried the Doctor back towards you, setting down the pitcher and water on a nightstand beside your pillows. Opening the drawer from the nightstand, you hear the sound of rattling before the Doctor retrieves an orange bottle with large, white pills. 

“Some medicine to help you sleep,” the Doctor explains. “Don’t worry, we ran tests for any allergens.”

You make no move from your spot, only giving the man a stiff nod. 

The Ponds observe silently, fearing that any sound could set you off. They wait until the Doctor ushers them to the door to finally move. Amy twists her head, trying to keep you within her sight even as the door was being shut on her. You catch the quiet panic in her voice as she talks to Rory, but they’re retreating away from your room before you could catch what they’re saying. 

The Doctor is the last to cross the threshold, lingering once more. The corner of his mouth twitches to a slight frown, before straightening to a thin line. “Give a shout if you need anything. Don’t try to leave the room, it can get a bit confusing navigating the hallways. I’ll come back in a few hours to change your dressings.”

He didn’t wait to hear your reply, softly shutting the door with a faint click. 

— — —

The second the door closed, Amy wasted no time dragging the Doctor down the corridor and into the console room. The Doctor protests against her harsh tugging, something about expensive wool, but she couldn’t care less. Her grip on his sleeve was like steel, unyielding even when the Doctor tried wiggling out of her grasp. 

When the familiar flight of stairs came to view, Amy shoved the Doctor forwards, causing him to nearly fall down them. His feet miraculously stumbled to place, albeit with little grace to his movements,  saving him from a nasty fall and possible regeneration. The Doctor stumbled the remaining steps before turning back towards Amy. 

“What was that for?” he demands.

Amy descends down the stairs rapidly, stomping towards the man. “You knew she was gonna be awake.” She pointed a finger square in the Doctor’s chest, her accusing tone pinning him in place. “You didn’t want us in the room with her. All week you’ve been dodging questions—hiding something. Why?”

The Doctor scoffs, which only fueled Amy’s anger. “I told you not to worry about it. Besides I was testing, you know how dangerous CMBR is? Dangerous, lethal. Does that not scare you?”

“You said the radiation levels were not a problem! You tell us what’s going on right now because whether you like it or not we are in this mess together. We found that girl together and that means that Rory and I are just as responsible as you are,” she reminded. 

The Doctor leans back, putting distance between Amy’s face and his. He looked to Rory for support but all the blond could offer was an exasperated look. 

The two of them had an inkling that the Doctor was avoiding them only in regards to the comatose patient in the med-bay. Stuttered, whip-fast excuses, and long winded explanations for his continued disappearance. They knew the Doctor tried to work around their sleep schedule, so Amy proposed sleeping shifts to catch him. It never worked and couldn’t confirm their suspicions, but they couldn’t ignore their gut feeling. He deflected questions from Amy and outright refused help from Rory. 

Amy leaned closer to the Doctor so he could see every inch of her displeased face. Rory, who usually let his wife do the scaring, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Amy. Effectively creating a human wall against their Doctor. 

The Doctor raised his hands in surrender. “It was only a hunch—but I immediately went back to you two afterwards.”

Rory rolled his eyes. “Telling us after isn’t the same as letting us know beforehand. What happened to being a part of a team? Why did you feel the need to sneak around? We’re here to help.”

The Doctor heard the faint sound of disappointment from his companion, sending guilt straight to his two hearts. He sighs, running his hand through his hair for the umpteenth time. He hoped to have gotten away with it for longer. Alas, nothing could get past Amy or Rory. A part of him—a large one—was glad they were observant to see through his attempt at secrets.

“You’re right, I was sneaking around,” the Doctor admits sheepishly, though a part of him was unwilling to say it. “I wanted to be sure. This situation is unlike anything I’ve ever dealt with.” 

Amy scoffs, but lets a smile peek through. “Just hack it up already.”

The Doctor’s mood lightens a bit, letting him shift in excitement. “As you know, I’ve been trying to comb through her things, rather, what's left of them. Right when she was stable, I checked the driver’s license number on her ID. Y’know, run it through the New York DMV database to find any matches—”

Amy cuts the Doctor off, “But you didn’t find anything. She didn’t exist with no living relatives. You checked her DNA and knew she was human. You traced her back to around our time. We already know this, just tell us what you found out.”

“There, that’s the problem,” the Doctor states rather unhelpfully. Amy groaned. 

The Doctor pivots around, already ignoring Amy. “Girl crash lands in a jungle and has energy from the Big Bang. Wears clothes of a monk but clearly has defensive wounds meaning she was in battle. Odd, monks in battle. An oxymoron if I ever heard one.” He turns back to his companions but continues to ramble to himself. “Why would a New Yorker wear monk garb? A young one at that? Temples, monks. You don’t find enlightenment on the Statue of Liberty.”

Rory nudged Amy’s side, mouthing something to her: money. 

Amy’s eyes widened in realization, digging into her pocket. 

“Forget crashing, why voluntarily fight if you value all life?” the Doctor mumbled into his hand. 

“Doctor, I think I found some—” 

The Doctor cuts Amy off, not even looking in her general direction. “Stones? Who uses stones? Oh, who am I kidding, stones are cool, stones are sturdy and reliable. If I was the Big Bang I would be a stone too.”

“Doctor would you please—”

“Not now Amy, I’m in the middle of something.” The Doctor tries to maneuver around the console, but Amy grabs him by the shoulders, forcing him to acknowledge her. 

God, sometimes she wants to smack him, possibly knock his brain in the process. 

Amy shook the Doctor, glaring at him with enough heat to make anyone wither. “If you would just listen for once, I could tell you where she became a monk. Goodness, it’s like you get paid to ignore people.”

The Doctor looks to Amy’s hand. In it was a crumpled 20 rupee banknote. 

“National currency of the Federal Democratic Republic of Nepal. Odd currency for someone living in New York, isn’t it?” Amy smirked at seeing the Doctor’s eyes widened. 

The Doctor snatches the rupee, giving it a sniff and inspecting it under the TARDIS lights. It was real all right. He spun back towards his companions, “How come I didn’t see this earlier? Were you hiding this from me?”

“A taste of your own medicine,” Amy quips. “It was in her robes, not her wallet. Found it a few minutes ago when I was inspecting it.”

It was a stroke of luck that Amy managed to see the red bank note in the sea of red fabric. Whoever constructed the robes had a knack for secret pockets and seamless edges. At first glance, the pockets themselves were placed in rather odd places. It seemed as though they were slapped on haphazardly; one of them was adjacent to the armpit, another placed smack in the middle of the back. Most of them were empty, save for an odd post-it note or some receipts from Delmar's Deli-Grocery. The Doctor had already found no matches for the receipts or any deli in New York with a name like that. 

Pride bloomed in the Doctor’s chest. He gives Amy a giddy smile and ruffles her hair, “Oh, Amelia. What would I do without you?”

The red banknotes flips in his hand. Another clue for him to dissect.

“So our soldier-monk went to Nepal to be enlightened,” the Doctor observed. “Somewhere along the way she somehow gets recruited into a big war where monks are part of enlistment. Sounds like an awful system to be living under. Things happen, stones get collected, infinity becomes real, she crash-lands on Rwanda.”

“Think you missed a few steps,” Rory mumbled. 

The Doctor flicked the side of his head. “Plot holes in stories are what gives us clues. If her memories have been tampered there would be glaring problems with her story. Problem is, her story is just a big hole with bits of plot in them. A plot stew if you will. No, that’s not right.”

Amy leans against the console. “Maybe she doesn’t trust us to give the whole story. She didn’t seem like she was lying. Everything felt so…genuine. Besides, what else could cause those injuries if not…stones made from the Big Bang?”

“I’ve come from a whole line of medical professionals,” Rory adds. “Never had I seen burns look like that. The skin only split where her veins were. Any other normal injury would follow the pattern of the fire or lightning, not the pattern of your veins.”

The Doctor had to agree on Rory there. Nothing about this made any sense. Normally that would be a surge of excitement. Few things puzzled the Doctor, especially for days on end. What would usually be something of a game very quickly turned to a massive headache. 

You believed everything you said wholeheartedly, but everything that came out of your mouth seemed to contradict the thing before it. 

The Doctor rounds the console, finding the swiveling monitor, with Amy and Rory trailing behind him. His fingers type out something on the keyboard, the monitor beeping to life. 

Charts, data, and a scan of your body was shown. Text flashes, blocks of letters and numbers that could make anyone’s head spin. Amy had seen this screen many, many times, yet couldn’t make out anything in plain English. Rory’s nursing background gave some leverage, easily spotting medical terms and diagnoses that the Doctor gave. 

“Remember how I said that I couldn’t find a relative traced to her?” the Doctor asked, enlarging the scan of your DNA. Large parts of your genes were highlighted in bright orange and another set of text appeared: NO GENETIC MATCHES FOUND. The Doctor continued: “I checked everything. What diseases she’s immune to, her microbiome, and general physiology. All signs point to her being human, but it’s this that gives me trouble. This specific sequence not only doesn’t belong to any human, but doesn’t relate to any living species on Earth. It’s not spliced, it’s the same genome she was given to the day she was born.”

“So she’s an alien,” Rory said, albeit a bit unsure. 

“As much as she is human, yes,” the Doctor answers, typing more things out. “Monk working as a soldier, New Yorker with Nepali money, human with alien DNA. So alien that the sequence doesn’t match any known species—sentient or not—across the Milky Way. I even sent a sample to the Department of Intergalactic Biologics back in Andromeda. Nothing back yet, but I’ve been told that my case is top priority.”

Amy leans her body against the edge of the console. “Last time you asked them for help they took a month to reply back. If I recall correctly, that case was also top priority. Are you going to keep her here until then?”

“That’s the plan, yes,” the Doctor replied. There was an edge of frustration lined in his words. He hoped his normally erratic behavior covered it well enough. “Even if she did omit elements to her story, I doubt it will clear anything up. However, my reason for keeping her onboard is to monitor her CMBR. Specifically, how her body houses it. Or worse, if it can metabolize it.”

Amy’s lips pursed in thought. “Metabolize? As in eat it?”

“As in convert it to energy,” Rory corrects. He glanced at the Doctor for confirmation, to which the man nodded. 

“And that’s supposed to be a bad thing?” Amy asked. “Shouldn’t that be a good thing? That means that the radiation wouldn’t harm her or us.”

The Doctor shakes his head, his body wrung tight with tension. “You and I see her as who she is, as a sentient being with ambitions and goals. At best she could harness the radiation and be at peak physical performance at all times with little food. But not everyone will see her as such.” 

Amy’s eyes narrowed slightly in confusion at the Doctor’s purposefully vague wording. A part of her regretted trying to prod the alien for information. 

Realization of the Doctor’s word dawned on Rory nearly immediately. “She’ll be a battery.”

The Doctor let out a heavy sigh. “A weapon would be the correct term. That's why I couldn’t let her go to the hospital. Even a human one. At such a vulnerable stage, anyone could try to conjure ways to extract the energy inside of her. If not the staff, then surely any desperate enough group who are willing to get their hands on a stable energy source by any means necessary.” 

As much as your odd words and mysterious origin makes the Doctor’s temple ache, it relieved him that he and the Ponds were the first to find you. With countless wars and fights for resources plaguing galaxies across the universe, there’s no doubt in his mind that you would’ve been picked off and made into something less than. All things good and human would be torn away, and you would be left as a husk whose sole purpose was to give and give until you simply couldn’t. 

If what you said was true, that multiverses do exist, then that reality has already come true. The Doctor didn’t make it in time and the universe would have swallowed you into an unknown path where not even the TARDIS could track you down. So many possibilities sprung from his mind that he nearly forgot he was being watched carefully by the Ponds. 

The Doctor didn’t acknowledge the worried looks of his companions. With a deep breath, the man steadied his mind and straightened his back. Back to his old self. 

He clasped his hands and pivoted towards the Ponds. “Right, no point in worrying about the would have or could have. Focus on the now—the present and what we control. As Amy pointed out, our top priority should be our patient’s health and well-being. I’ll save the testing ‘til she’s in full recovery.”

“And how long would that be? A few days?” Rory asked. At the rate you’ve seemed to recover, it would be a matter of time before you were at your full strength.

“I don’t know,” the Doctor admitted. Arguably a worrying statement coming from someone like him. “Internal bleeding and bruising are healing exceptionally fast, but it’s her arms. Whatever force, power—what have you—had done that damage seemed to alter the way her cells repair themselves. It’s hard to tell why, but it’s not going to heal the same way the rest of her body does. That is a certainty.” 

“But she’ll live, right?” Amy asks, a bit fearful of what the answer would be. 

Rory looked expectantly at the Doctor as well. 

Once again, the Doctor is reminded of why he is so fond of humans and their planet. Why he orbits the Earth and adopted it like it’s his own. 

“The chance is never zero,” the Doctor reminds, but his grin betrays his own bias. “I think she’ll be okay.”

— — —

The medicine the Doctor gave you managed to knock you out for three hours. There was no label to tell you what exactly you were putting in your body, but you knew that the Doctor could’ve easily killed you in the five days that you were in his care. After drinking the entire pitcher of crisp water, you took a single pill. In no time, your body sagged against worn pillows and the warm duvet. 

You would’ve probably slept a lot longer had it not been for Amy desperately trying to wake you. 

“You have to get up,” she whispered, gently shaking your shoulder. When you stir slightly, she raises her voice a bit louder. “Rory says you need to eat. You can go back to bed after, promise.”

Sleep still clung to you, trying to pull you back to the soothing, dreamless state you were before. You had half the mind to ignore her, hoping that she will get the message and leave you be. As you shifted your body away from her hands, you felt a familiar ache in your stomach. A loud, rumbling growl that echoed inside your body. 

That certainly woke you up. 

Amy’s laugh further cemented your embarrassment, but you knew she wasn’t trying to make fun of you. She helped you out of your bed as your arms were incapable of hauling the duvet off of you. Still groggy with sleep, you allowed Amy to hover beside you as you stubbornly limp to the door. 

“The Doctor went out for supplies,” Amy says. “Just going to be me and Rory for the time being. We would’ve let you sleep longer, but Rory realized that the Doctor took out your feeding tube, meaning you haven’t had any food for twelve hours.”

“He knew I was going to be awake?” You had to remind yourself that you weren’t back on Earth with your limited technologies. They probably had your whole genome mapped and analyzed by now. 

Amy let out a frustrated sigh. “He had a hunch, but kept Rory and I in the dark. Turns out he wanted to interrogate you alone. He didn’t piss you off, did he?”

You tried to think back on your initial conversation with the Doctor. The confusion, the whip-fast talking, and the odd words he said. U.N.I.T.…Torchwood…

“The Doctor called me something.” You wracked your brain, trying to push past your sleep-deprived memories. “Spor…Sporgatuu? He got pretty upset, accusing me of trying to get him to join a club?”

Amy stopped in her tracks and gave you a questioning look. “He said that to you?” She gave a scoff and under her breath mumbled: “Unbelievable.”

“What? What did he mean by that?”

“The Doctor calls them a fringe, off-the-wall cult,” Amy starts. “One of the oldest in the universe. What we know is that they want the Doctor to join and they always send a woman to speak with him. I’ve only seen one of them, and I can tell you first hand that they got a few screws loose. They believe in magic and that their gods live in other universes. Don’t worry, I’m sure the Doctor knows by now that you’re not one of them.”

You gave a small chuckle. “He sure seemed pretty convinced back there.”

Amy rolled her eyes. “The Doctor is as stupid as he is smart. His heart is in the right place, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t do questionable things. How about we put away the multiverse talk and think about something else for a change. Like…how do you feel about stew?”

— — —

The kitchen wasn’t too far off from the med bay. You managed the distance without wincing or injuring yourself further. Inside, you could smell the cooking vegetables and feel the steam warming up the room. Rory stood at the stove with a plain black apron and some upbeat jazz in the background. You wanted to keep to yourself, opting to sit on the barstool on the kitchen island. Amy respected your silence, not wanting to further distress you and went to join her husband despite his insistence that he could handle cooking. 

She helped Rory with setting the table and poured you a generous serving. Dinner consisted of veggie stew and mashed potatoes. The steam kissed your cheeks and the plate was warm to the touch.

Rory became sheepish when you rightfully complimented his cooking. The steamed carrots melted on your tongue and the seasoning was a delicate blend of savory with a tiniest splash of sweet. The last meal you remember having was microwaved dim sum and expired fried rice. Between covert missions and temple duties, you didn’t think to restock your fridge or have any spare time to grab a decent meal. 

You learned that Rory was automatically elected to babysit you as the only human medical professional. The Doctor simply handed a communication device should he run into trouble. Amy wanted to stick behind, partially because she wanted Rory’s cooking, but also to see how you were doing. She knew how hard transitioning into TARDIS-life (as she called it), and hoped to make it smoother for you. 

After your first plate was cleared, your stomach still felt hollow and ravenous. By the third time Amy refilled your plate, Rory brought the cast iron pot on the stove to the counter in front of you. Breathing became a suggestion and shoving spoonfuls of stew became your sole priority. 

You didn't realize how much you missed home cooked meals. With missions across time and space, your options for food were limited at best. Slobs of unintelligible meat with exotic plants that could poison you were unfortunately very common. 

It was during the holidays or times where your body was on the verge of collapsing were when you could indulge in simple comforts. 

Warm food, cozy bed, time with your parents and siblings.

The thought makes you pause. Hunger that festered in your stomach for the past hour had evaporated, leaving a sour pain. 

Amy, who was observing you like a hawk, immediately picked up the miniscule change in attitude. “Something wrong?”

You cleared your throat. A scratchy, hoarse sound. You shook your head, “Sorry, just lost in thought. It's just…been so long since I had any good food.”

Just how long has it been? Weeks? Months?

It was better to consume anything remotely edible than be picky. You’d learned that the hard way. That didn’t mean that eating mystery meats and slobs was enjoyable. If anything, it made the juxtaposition of seasoned stew and creamy mashed potatoes all the more jarring. 

The two of them said nothing as you slowly ate the rest of your plate. By the time your spoon scraped the bottom of your bowl and your fork scooped the last bits of mashed potato, Rory had decanted the leftovers into plastic tubs. Amy took over dishwashing duty, thoroughly scrubbing the pans and utensils. 

Slowly, you rose from your chair with your empty plate in hand. Movement was difficult and your full stomach made you feel the beginning stages of sleepiness. Still, you made your way over to the couple and placed your plate beside the sink. 

“Thank you. Seriously, you don’t know how much this means to me,” you say softly.  

Amy seemed surprised at your admission. Then, a wide grin blossomed on her face. You returned with a small one of your own, pained as it was. 

— — —

The first time you wandered through the TARDIS by yourself was downright terrifying. When the Ponds supplied you with their information regarding the space-craft, you realized that you were far too tired to actually hold onto the information. Bits and pieces of the conversation stood out; bigger-on-the-inside, spatial warping, dizziness. Amy advised to call one of them to guide you around as it can be overwhelming to experience the TARDIS alone. 

Three days and some hours have passed since you’ve woken up on the strange ship. You’ve always had a speedy recovery—something you’ve come to loathe—and your altered cells have only increased it. Walking around the room can now be handled without any opioids or morphine (courtesy of Rory). Days were spent glued to the bed, broken by the timely visits by the Ponds or the Doctor. Rory made the executive decision to prescribe bed-rest. A week at least. 

Three days and you’re now starting to lose it. With all the sleep medication and sore limbs, you were practically welded to the mattress. 

You’ve walked down the hallways before, but always accompanied by one of the Ponds and never further than a few doors down to the kitchen. So when you woke up much earlier than anticipated, you made the impulsive decision to wander out. 

The door to the med-bay was a light blue tint over the steel; it silently shut itself behind you when you crossed into the hallway. Other doors were other versions of plain steel. You foolishly thought that if you kept track of the doors you’d see, you eventually make your way back to your squeaky cot until it was time for the Doctor to do his daily checkup. You told yourself that you’ll only be gone five—maybe ten minutes tops. 

Blue steel of the med-bay’s door marked the end of the hallway. You hadn’t walked for thirty seconds before you felt a strange shift in the air. As if something had moved and the air blew in response. Turning around, you expected to see the end of the hallway staring back.

An endless, repeating hallway met you instead. On and on it went that you could see a small vanishing point on the horizon. 

Maybe you were freaked out. A cold sweat overcame you and you started to walk back to where you came from. You twist your neck left and right to try and see the familiar door. All of the doors along the hallway were plain silver steel. 

Air billowed around you, like seconds before. This time, it fluttered your cotton shirt and the cuffs of your loose pants. You turned around, nearly jumping out of your skin. 

Blue steel inches away from your face. You turned back around and saw the same endless hallway. Looking at the reflective surface of the med-bay, your fingers hesitantly felt the metal, shocked that it was solid. 

Now you were more than a little freaked out. Maybe you were a little impressed. Was hallucinating part of the side effects of the drugs you were taking? No magic, so space-warping spells are immediately ruled out. You’d encountered many things, but the warping of space without the aid of some type of magic was perplexing. Scary, even. 

And very intriguing. 

It took some mulling and a lot of overthinking. The best hypothesis you could come up with is that the TARDIS is somehow telekinetic. When you panicked and tried looking for the med-bay, it immediately materialized, just out of your sight. 

So you wandered about away from the med-bay, longer than you had previously. You needed to put as much distance between you and the last known location of the med-bay so there could be no doubt. As you gingerly walked, you took the time to catalog the different doors. Most of this hallway was steel, but now that you’re taking time to observe, you realize the slight variations. Some were inscribed in alien language, others had tacky door knobs that didn’t fit with the aesthetic of the door, each one had a small plaque next to them. Some were numbered and others had plain English. Words like “pool”, “storage”, “1890s Costumes”, and other odd labels. 

Turning around, you see the endless hallway. Turning back, the same was met back. Closing your eyes, you plead:

I want to go to med-bay.

Air in front of your face swooshes away, kissing your eyelids. When you opened, the blue steel flooded your vision. 

You were still freaked out, but curiosity eventually won. 

You told yourself a couple minutes at the most to explore; that the Doctor would be waiting to check up on you.

Five minutes easily slipped to ten. Ten to twenty, and eventually you had been gone for an hour. Instead of the med-bay, you tried to summon different doors. Hell, you even opened a few rooms. 

The pool room (yes, a room full of pools) was huge, easily swallowing the med-bay by a few thousand square-feet. Costume related rooms were mostly a plain white room with racks of period clothing. Sometimes there were a pile of mismatched fabrics in the corner, as if someone haphazardly sifted through them. 

Easily, you’ve been in over fifty different rooms. You’d found the kitchen, which looked straight out of a 60s home magazine. Light green walls, pastel appliances, and a large fridge filled with various leftovers. It was bigger than the ones in New York, but smaller in comparison to the vast rooms of the TARDIS. 

You walked down the hexagonal archways, everything blurring together. You didn't mind the repetition as it made each room seem like a mystery. 

A few rooms stood out the most. Ones that had a name and had painted wood instead of steel. They were spread out from one another, taking you twenty to thirty minutes before seeing another one. 

Their knobs were round brass and when you went to touch it, there was a whisper of warmth. As if someone just held it before you. Some variations of these doors were present. 

“Martha” had grooves and was painted beige. 

“Donna” was a light blue with some flourish on the door knob. 

“Rose”, as the name suggests, was a dusted pink with small, colorful flowers. Each of them was locked shut, so tightly in fact, that the door knob didn’t wiggle no matter how much force was put in them. 

Old companions was the likely answer. People, like Amy and Rory, who were swept away from Earth and into deep space and time. You get the feeling that the Doctor locked them for a reason. 

Eventually, you made your way through the endless hallways, completely forgetting about the Doctor’s timely visit. Your hand glides through the oddly shaped hallway and your feet softly padding down clean floors. You didn’t have a destination in mind, just blindly walking in a straight line. It was repetitive, calming in the way meditation was. You didn’t think about potential meetings with masters, or the Infinity Stones residing inside you. 

Guilt was still there, always lingering in your body. Then again, there was always something weighing you down. Still, you kept walking, completely lost in your own bubble. 

Your body has healed remarkably since your waking. Soreness ebbed to stiffness and the nerves damaged had slowly, but surely, been repaired. Your hands haven't had the same luxury as the rest of your body. Still stitching itself together. Deep lines along your veins that had barely been scabbed over. Even if  weeks passed the Doctor believes it will take a year before your skin will finally close. Until then, gauze will cover them, keeping them safe from further damage. 

You hope your body will pull itself together soon. Residue energy from your universe—though terribly unlikely—could help speed things up. 

Air shifts behind you. 

Confused, you turn to see the med-bay materialize, even though you didn’t summon it. Footsteps were heard behind the door and before you knew it, the door swung open. 

The Doctor hung in the doorway, equally as confused. 

“There’s a lot of doors out here. Gets kind of confusing,” you say, as if it was the perfect explanation to your whereabouts. You slipped past the Doctor and into the room. 

The Doctor followed you, still utterly confused. “You could’ve at least told me you wanted to wander. You could get lost in there.”

“But I didn’t. It’s not that hard to figure out how to find your way back,” you say, plopping down on the squeakiest mattress. “Amy failed to mention how the TARDIS can warp space and is telepathic. Is it sentient? Did someone die here?”

A ghost, an emotional one especially, could explain the weird ship without delving into magic. Still spiritual, but not touching sorcerer territory. 

“Kind of, and no. If you knew your way back, why did you take so long to return? I had to get the Ponds out there looking for you.” The Doctor grabs several rolls of gauze and some ointments. 

You paused for a moment. Then, you answered honestly, “It was repetitive. I could walk for a mile and have the med-bay appear the second I command it.” 

I didn’t feel lost. 

For the first time in weeks—months even, you managed to entertain yourself without interruption. You had time to focus, shift your mind into a peaceful state. Even if it was temporary. You take any victory with stride, no matter how small. 

The Doctor unravels your gauze with surprising carefulness. You don’t see him much on account of your sleeping habits and his tenacity to leave the TARDIS for long periods of time. In the rare glimpses you do see, the Doctor is erratic as much as he is smart. Constantly bumping into corners, fumbling instead of walking, always in motion even when seated. 

It’s only when he engages in his namesake is when the Doctor is gentle and slow. Mumblings are few and his focused gaze is hidden behind his brown, wild hair. 

When the entirety of your right arm is revealed, it’s still as raw and tender as yesterday. Most of your skin seemed to remain intact, save for the deep, exposing gashes along your veins. A burn describes skin that's peeled and blistered. A cut would aptly describe the wounds you have. It’s clean, burrowing deep into muscle like butter. It winds and twists around your arms, only stopping around your bicep. From there, the only damage you see is dark, almost purple markings that extend to the middle of your chest and back. 

“It could be worse,” the Doctor notes, sincere and light-hearted.

A small chuckle escapes, but your words are dull. “It definitely feels worse.”

The Doctor reaches for the ointments, weird smelling pastes, and a saline solution. The saline is bottled in a dark, glass bottle written in a script that barely passes as English. After submerging a cotton round, the Doctor dabs the solution along the open wounds. Cold liquid cascades down, kissing the raw edges of your tissue. Up and up the cotton goes until all sides are discolored with flecks of blood and old ointments. 

You don’t mind the silence this process brings. It’s never awkward or boring. The cleanings don’t burn or sting anymore and the Doctor’s focus allows you to observe him. A habit you’ve gotten since you were young, always cataloging features of the people around you. Doctors, policemen, civilians. 

When the Doctor moves to get the next set of items, your eyes briefly meet. He doesn’t seem alarmed at your staring, even when he catches you often. He commented once how you often look at people more when they face away from you. You suppose he’s referring to the times where the Ponds interact with you. For a moment—perhaps for the first time—you really observed his eyes. A clear, muted green that easily slips into blue. The skin and features surrounding his eyes are young and prominent. It’s easy for his eyes to blend into his face and go unnoticed. But at this distance, you see him for who—what he is. 

“You’re old.” 

It’s a second too late and you realize how terribly you’ve worded your scattered thoughts.  

The Doctor looked startled. He immediately turns to the reflective bottles beside him and twists his head around, capturing his features on all sides. Before you could take back your words and verbalize what you actually meant, he scoffs, never taking his eyes away from his reflection. 

“Old? Me? Humans age, it’s natural, it’s supposed to happen.” You can���t tell if he’s talking to you or just rambling to himself. Then, he turns to you with concern, rubbing his throat. “It’s the neck isn’t it? Amy tells me that it’s the first place that starts to change. Or is it the hair? She tells me it doesn't suit me. Or was that Rory?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, trying to cut in before he misunderstands further. “I mean, sort of—I just mean that you’re older than you appear. You still look young, but you’re for sure older than us, the Ponds and I. You’re immortal. At the very least not human.” 

Now that you’ve verbalized it, everything about the Doctor’s behavior and being makes sense. Apart from the odd clothing and overly loud personality, there’s something off about him. It really shows when the Ponds are also in the same room as him. It’s not scary or uncanny. So subtle that most wouldn’t be able to tell. But you’re not most.

It’s the misplaced, dated slang. The sense that he knows too much and isn’t afraid to show it. How he constantly refers to the Ponds as “people” but sometimes slips into “you humans”. It seems he catalogs every sensory input, from the subtle change in the air to the pumping of his heart, because his brain has the capacity to do so. 

The sheer happiness radiating off the Doctor is infectious. His wide grin and twinkling eyes, joyous that you’ve caught on. 

“What gave it away?” he wonders, an echo of childlike curiosity. He tilts his head, leans ever-so-slightly towards you. 

It’s clearer now. The weight of centuries lingering in the depths of his iris. How could you have not noticed sooner? It’s familiar. Being an apprentice of the Ancient One; having spent countless months—maybe years—traveling between worlds where time is merely another dimension for you to alter. You’ve met and befriended a god whose age transcends the thousands and more so deities who have made you their sworn enemy. 

You remember the first time you’ve met Rocket. How despite his appearance as a normal mammal, you could immediately spot his wisdom before he uttered a snarky question. The way the Collector carries himself and how his brother regards you as less than. But time always manifests. Maybe not in the grooves of one's skin or the white strands of hair, but in the eyes. Always. 

“I’ve seen enough to know. You hide it better than most.” 

The Doctor’s smile doesn’t fade. He still has your wrist in his hand, a gentle but firm grasp. When he squeezes it subconsciously, he finally remembers why he’s there with you. 

Something crosses his face. A thought that makes his brow twitch and his focus falter. “And what are you?”

It shouldn’t surprise you that he asks. You survived a shock of radiation that would’ve no doubt vaporized any other being. Your body heals at an accelerated rate to the point where it takes less than a week for you to walk again. 

It shouldn’t surprise you, but you’re caught off-guard nonetheless. 

Your throat tightens, your tongue feeling like paper in your mouth. “I’m a person. With thoughts and feelings.”

The Doctor stares a moment longer. His lips settle into a more neutral state, and he thinks over your response. You wait for a response, but he turns away. He then grabs a tube of blue paste, the one that smells like burnt rice, and resumes his care. 

You watch as his fingers glide over your hand. Starting with the middle of your palm and working his way out. To the lengths of your fingers, then the tops of your hand and up your forearm. The paste is dense and hard to manipulate. The tips of his finger catch on the sharp, dry flakes of skin and it stings. 

His response is delayed, so much that you’ve returned to watching his work on your arm in deep thought. When the Doctor speaks in a calm, observant voice, it glides through the silence. “You used the word ‘person’. Not ‘human’ or some snide comment that humans normally respond to when asked. Your first thought was to make me emphasize, to humanize yourself without saying it.”

The Doctor’s analysis cuts straight through you, pinning you in place. The way he says it is so matter-of-fact, as if reading from a book that is lying in front of him. 

To have the observation made by someone you know little about—

Your answer is rushed, almost shamed. “It’s just that…some people seem to forget. They’re more concerned about what I can do for them, feelings are second.”

You couldn’t blame the masters for doing so. You often took the hardest jobs, throwing away your childhood one mission at a time. Perhaps it was easier to treat you as a powerful soldier, pushing you to your absolute limits, because it’s easier than acknowledging that they’re enabling your suffering.

The Doctor doesn’t comment or try to analyze the words you say. Fresh gauze winds itself securely back onto your wounds. Your left arm was cleaned and wrapped at the fraction of the time it took your right. At the speed he was going, the Doctor still made sure to not harm you further. 

You don’t say anything when he piles the glass bottles into a drawer next to the sink. Nor do you acknowledge him when he goes towards the door. You feel his heavy stare and the questions that hang in the air. 

You don’t move from your spot until long after his footsteps fade away. 

— — —

In your travels you’ve come to know two things. One: you do exist in other universes. Two: none of them are sorcerers. None of them get their magic. They all seem to live ordinary lives, plagued with little threat, and return to their homes safe and sound. Sometimes there’s trouble in the form of being late to appointments or the forgetting of pants. It’s a break from fighting demons in realms without time. Perhaps you offer alternate versions of yourself fantastical dreams. In return you get to live out a life where you chose differently.

You’ve come to treasure these dreams. It was a break from the norm. So when you start to lie down and the TARDIS lights dim, it wasn’t dreams you were experiencing.

Instead of the normal dreams, ones where you live vicariously through the various alternate lives that you have, you have memories. Exact recreations. No autonomy; nothing you can do but simply watch.

— — —

Guilt festers. It grows and grows until you can do nothing but wallow in your anger. Anger is new. What used to be bottomless sadness that leaves you heavy has now been replaced by bubbling rage. 

You’re glad no one on board shares your gift of sensing energy. Behind every neutral look, every small grin, every dry-humored joke were storms of emotion. It hurts, physically pains you that you allow your grief to evolve. 

You deserve it. All of it. 

There was a point in time where the voice in your head sounded like yours. Then your mother’s. 

Wanda now whispers, her voice echoing in your ear like nails on a chalkboard. 

— — —

There’s a pattern to the dreams—memories, rather. 

If one night you experience a pleasant, mundane sliver of your life, the next will be filled with agony. Sometimes you’re lucky, and get a dreamless rest. But those are few and far between.

You’re not in bed, lying on a dingy cot that squeaks with any miniscule movement. Glowing orange walls are replaced with light green paint and white trim. Disinfectant morphs to a sweet, ambery vanilla from the candles your mother collects. 

The air is warm with the bristling of energy, and sunlight caresses every surface in the living room. 

You shouldn’t be here. 

“Are you okay?” 

A childish voice, one that rings through the air, in the silence of your thoughts. 

Snapping your head down, you meet the scrutinous gaze of your younger brother. Younger than you remember when you’d seen him last. He sits on the old Persian carpet your father loves dearly. No one is allowed to play on the good carpets, lest they ruin the intricate design underneath. Elio sits with his trucks and action figures scattered around him.

But your parents are away and you let him play as long as you’re watching. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m just tired from traveling. Probably be even more tired when I go back to the Sanctum.” 

“You’re leaving again.”

You feel his pain before his face betrays him. He knows it, hiding his eyes as he stares at the dozens of toys lying around him. Too many for one boy to play with. 

You were gone for three months, trapped in a universe that is comparable to Hell on Earth. Nearly missed your father’s birthday and Master Hamir’s annual potluck; the latter you don’t really care as much. 

No matter how sore your body is or how much work awaits you at your office, you make it a point to see your family after each mission. Always. 

“Not for a few hours at least. Seems like you’re stuck with me.”

For someone who’s age hasn’t passed the double digits, Elio doesn’t let his emotions show. You don’t blame him. Since you’ve gotten promoted, your visits have gotten shorter and shorter. Soon, you’re going to be regarded as just another adult in his life. 

No. You already are. The Elio in front of you is not the one you’d left behind once more. 

The floorboards creak, signaling the arrival of another member of the family. A pink ball of energy, with a fury that rivals your own.

“Elio! I told you not to take my stuff!” 

Lene’s shrill, whiny voice is almost jarring against the silence of the estate. Her puffy cheeks and wrinkled princess gown makes it known that she had just woken up. 

Elio doesn’t bother to look up from his toys. He responds in a calmer manner than his younger sister, “(Y/N) said I could play with your toys as long as you were still asleep.”

At the mention of your name, Lene freezes. Her face was so full of surprise that her eyes bulged out of her head. 

You’re situated on a couch right beside the entrance of the living room, yet Lene’s face morphs into shock at you. As if she’s seeing you for the first time. 

“I thought you left already,” she mumbles, her gaze wide and unmoving. 

You stare back, unsure of how she would react. 

And react she did. Not a second later, her nose scrunches up and tears begin to form. “Does…Does that mean—”

Lene couldn’t finish her sentence before a sob escaped her. Tears that are almost comically big started to bead off her eyes in droplets. Her shrill voice got louder with each cry. Immediately, you scrambled on the floor to embrace the small girl. Her tiny hands wrapped around you and you feel your shirt getting damp. 

“I’m not leaving for a while, okay?” you cooed softly in her ear. Scooping her up in your arms, you start to rock her, holding her tightly. “(Y/N) is gonna leave tomorrow morning, so that means you have the rest of the day with me!”

Your words did nothing but make your sister sob even harder into your chest. You can barely make out her words between each hiccup. “I-I already sl-slept all d-day!”

Glancing up at the window, you can see the sun making its descent. 

Not again.

“I’m gonna visit again soon, you’ll see me again,” you promised, trying to speak over her wails. Still, it feels empty when you say it. “Mommy and Daddy will come home soon and you can ask them to visit me in Nepal. Or what about New York? Don’t you wanna see New York?”

If it wasn’t for the fact that Lene is burying her face in your shirt to muffle her cries, you would for sure lose hearing in one ear. She shakes her head violently, gripping onto you tighter. 

You rock and bounce, still remembering the motions when she was just a small baby. You still see her as such, even now that she’s bigger than most kids her age. 

Her cries mellow into loud hiccups and her pudgy fingers grip onto your crisp shirt like a vice. You feel the wet patch where her tears fell, but you continue to rock her in your arms. 

“Are you really gonna leave tomorrow?”

You almost didn’t catch what Elio said. His voice sounded so small. Far away. His face is downcast, picking at the fibers of the rug beneath him. 

“He misses you a lot, you know. Looks up to you, more than anyone else.”

Your father’s disappointment hits you hard. As stoic as Elio always seems to be, you know how much you mean to him. How much he means to you. How you fight tooth and nail to make it home for the holidays, birthdays, and everything in between. 

To the world you’re Seraph. The Burning One. Master of the Mystic Arts. 

It’s hard to see yourself as anything other than that.

It was difficult to maneuver on the floor with a crying child in your arms, but you managed to lie down on your back next to your brother. Lene’s cries dwindled to violent hiccups as she curled up on your side. You turn your head towards your brother who avoids your stare. Stubborn. You pat the empty space next to you. 

Elio hesitates. For a moment, he stays rooted in his spot, contemplating. At this angle, you can clearly see the hurt on his face. Can feel the hurt. A constant stream of deep longing that pours and weaves between the space of spiritual and physical. Between dream and reality. 

With the wobble of his lip, Elio scoots to your empty side and hugs you tightly. The river of emotions is more intense, almost washing over you. It didn’t take long for his tears to follow. It's a silent cry, one that shakes his body but no noise escapes.

His grip is tighter, his hold on your bruising. The lack of outward passion and vigor doesn't diminish the intensity of his feelings. More so than the normal person. 

It's why he doesn't run to greet you at the door anymore. Why he tends to play next to you rather than with you. 

You don't know whether he naturally keeps his emotions to himself, or if it's something he learned from you. 

“They don't want a hero,” your mother once snarled at you. Her wrinkled eyes would pierce through you, full of hurt. “You're their sister. Act like it.”

You don’t remember how long you stayed on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Your shirt was drenched with tears, spit, and snot but you didn’t move or push them away. If anything, you pulled them tighter against you. 

You didn’t cry. Your chest didn’t ache nor did your stomach cramp from the guilt. You can’t allow yourself to. If you keep crying helplessly whenever you leave, it will only hurt you more. 

By the time the sun dipped past the horizon, your two siblings had long exhausted themselves. You wait an hour more before gently carrying them up to their rooms. With a help of some magic, you managed to tuck them in their beds without so much as a single stir. 

A buzz came from your phone, along with it a sense of dread. 

Master Rokda: The Elders request a debrief of your mission on Earth 75-C. Do not keep them waiting.

When you meet your parents at the front door, they don’t comment on the fact that you’ve put on your sorcerer attire. You promised to be gone for an hour and be back for dinner. 

You pretend not to notice the crestfallen expression of your father or the lack of emotion from your mother. 

— — —

Energy still fires in your blood. Taunting you. 

You should try. The very least you could do is try to harness the power you absorbed.

It’s easier to move now that most of your body has healed. Sleep is now in tune with your circadian rhythm meaning you can stay awake for longer. Your hands are still tightly bound with gauze with only your fingers being exposed. The Doctor replaces the wrappings everyday so you can clean and examine the progress. 

The Doctor had warned you that your arms wouldn’t heal the same, even with the technology he possessed. 

You shake your head, clearing unnecessary thoughts. 

Try. That’s all you have to do. 

Taking a deep breath, you perform some basic maneuvers that maximize the flow of energy throughout your body. Stiffness in your legs and arms are expected, but the strain is difficult to push through. Your muscles still remember the placement of your arms, the amount of force with each step, the way your lungs expand in your chest. 

Your body is used to taking. Greedily absorbing any energy you come into contact with. It’s hard to reverse what you’re used to. To release rather than to hoard. 

The power of the stones sits stubbornly in your body and around your soul. Once frenzied and bubbled, the energy slowly settled as the days passed. Burrowing deeper, melting into any space between your cells. 

You feel your body warm up. Heartbeats quicken and your breathing gets deeper. Your tempo doesn’t change, only the force behind each punch and step. Again. Again. Again. You focus on precision. Every valve of your heart, every cell moving in your body. The way your nerves spark and burn around your arms, down your spine, surrounding you. 

Again. 

Again.

Again.

It’s slow at first. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. A flow of heat blooming from your soul, bleeding into your physical body. Streams of static curl alongside the blood flowing, and it creates a strain against your movements. 

As if something’s holding you back. 

Fluid movements slow. Muscles start tightening as the stones’ power solidifies. No longer a scalding plasma, but a physical force that locks your body. 

Again.

Muscles beneath your skin grow taut. Sweat accumulates, forming a film around you. 

Again.

It’s starting to hurt. The fluid precision is slowly morphing to choppy, erratic motions. 

Aga—

The tension wins out against your body, locking you in place. You drop to the floor, gasping as your knees knock painfully on the floor. All at once you cease movement; not even able to twist your neck or limbs. 

You’re trapped. 

You can’t move. You can’t move. You can’t move.

All at once, the orange walls turn into the familiar grasslands of Wakanda. It’s hot. It hurts.

A scent that is so sickeningly sweet and leathery that hangs in the air like thick smoke. It mingles with the ash on your clothes and you can’t breathe. 

Screaming. You hear it in front of you. Around you. 

Breathe breathe breathe—

You can feel it—God you can taste it. Your own flesh searing off. It’s in your mouth, all over your body. You can’t breathe. Why can’t you breathe? Why can’t you move? 

You don't see the old creaky cot you’ve been sleeping in or the mirror next to the porcelain sink. You’re still on the field—no in the jungle. It hurts, it burns, everything is killing you. 

I want to leave. I want to leave. I want to leave—

The air hums with energy. The floor rattles and shakes. Someone’s—something’s panicking. 

Your body caves in on itself and your cheek smashes against cold flooring. 

You feel the strong pulses of energy flowing beneath you. It’s erratic. Alive. Your body tries to siphon it off. No, that’s not right. 

The energy is coming to you. It’s warm. Your hand reaches out, trying to meet it halfway. 

You see the door slam open, a rush of voices, and a burst of emotions mingling with the warmth. 

“You’re not meant for this.”

A voice. Familiar. It’s angry, bleeding with disdain and hurt. 

“Can’t you see this is killing you?”

Your mother’s voice sounds so clear. You miss her. Even if most of the words you spare to each other are angry. 

“Give up. Give up everything. This life isn’t meant for you.”

No. No it wasn’t. 

Only when you closed your eyes, and your consciousness slipped away, is when the taste of your flesh finally leaves your mouth. 

— — —

When you finally came to, it had only been a few hours since the Doctor had found you on the floor. 

He had parked the TARDIS beside the Ponds’ house, hoping to pick them up from their family reunion. The moment the three of them entered the console room did the TARDIS suddenly start acting up. Lights around the room started to flicker and the room seemed to pulsate with urgency. 

It wasn’t long before the med-bay materialized and the Doctor found you lying on the ground. 

There was a dazed look in your eyes, as if you were caught in a dream-like trance. Only when the Doctor came did the TARDIS return to normal. 

A quick scan of your body revealed nothing out of the ordinary. A temporary paralysis brought out by excessive movement. Or so the Doctor says based on what you told him. 

You were trying to gain movement back and became engrossed in your exercise. Not an outright lie, but you didn’t want to remember what transpired. 

You’re tired and you make it known. 

Thankfully, no dreams come to haunt you. Or the night after that. 

— — —

A full week has passed. At least, according to Rory. It certainly felt longer. 

You’re glad they respected your space and need to grieve silently. 

You reap what you sow. 

Today the voice is the sweet, gentle cadence of your mentor. Late mentor. 

Yesterday the memory was of an afternoon brunch with Stephen and Wong. Warm pasta with the side of your favorite juice. A rare day when the three of you forgo the sorcerer attire and wear something casual. Of course, you and Stephen transmutate your robes into jeans and a sweatshirt. Wong tends to spend his limited paycheck on “real clothing”.  

It’s only fitting that tonight’s memory is a violent contrast to yesterday’s serene moment. 

You knew it wasn’t real. All of this. The blood, the panic, the body, was all just a cocktail of chemicals made by your brain. 

You’re fine. You’re in bed, you’re safe.

The Ancient One lies a few feet from you. Her golden robes slowly turned a dark crimson from the gaping wound in her stomach. 

You’re screaming. The air cuts your throat, your lungs burn with the force you exert. An ear-splitting screech that pulls your entire body with it. 

Everything feels sluggish as you desperately try to crawl towards her. Your hand tries to stop the bleeding but the wound cuts through her whole body. The blood is cold, gushing around your trembling hands. You can’t stop shaking. 

Something in the air crackles. A twisting feeling in your chest.

“Does it pain you?” Kaecilius asked, bent down to the other side of the Ancient One’s body. In his hand was a bloodied time shard.

You can’t force a word out. Pitiful sobs leave you; tears slide onto the sickly skin of the Ancient One’s forehead. Every shuddering breath makes it harder to control your body. The Ancient One’s skin is cold, infecting your skin with chills. Why is it so hard to breathe? 

It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s—

Kaecilius hovers above you while the other Zealots stand by awaiting orders. 

No other master is around to help you. They’re guarding the Sanctums while the Ancient One tracked her former student. 

Except they knew you were coming. They knew that the Ancient One would try to fight Kaecilius one-on-one. 

She made you wait with the other Masters in the Hong Kong Sanctum, but something in your gut told you something was wrong. A cold feeling that spreads all over your body. 

It was too late. 

Kaecilius knew you would come. He aimed the very shard in his hand towards you. 

He knew the Ancient One would come to block it.

Your hand trembles in a way that makes you angry—boiling with rage. 

“I’ve heard many stories about you. How the Ancient One sends you away on long, grueling missions into the multiverse. How she makes you take powers from dimensions above without indulging the true secrets to her powers.” Kaecilius gently raises your chin upwards, forcing your eyes to lock. “You can be something greater. Join us and together we could bring Dormammu to Earth. He is a savior. Our savior against time. Against death.”

At this distance, you can see the flecks of brown in his light blue eyes. No regret whatsoever for the deaths and damage caused by his selfish actions.

There’s a sharp sting where your nails dig into your palms. Suddenly, everything hushed. The crushing despair and endless anger swirl in your chest.  

“What are you going to do about it, Seraph?” Kaecilius taunts.

Your body jerks awake, chest still struggling to inhale. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Glancing at the metal plating of the ceiling, you reminded yourself of where you were. Not in one of the Sanctums, or your lush room in Kamar Taj, or your room in your parent’s house. You’re a very long way away. 

You throw the blankets off your clammy skin. It’s cold, unbearably so. Every hair along your body stands and your skin rises with it. 

Forcing your body upright was a feat in itself. Your limbs are still numb with sleep and your head throbbed in pain. Bringing your hands to your temples, you tried to stop the panic rising or spreading to your head. The last thing you need is to lose focus. 

He’s gone. 

Dead, along with the others. You made sure of that.

You took a long, deep breath. The stitches along your ribs throbbed as your skin stretched. You let the breath go with a shudder. Repeating the process again, this time with less resistance. Again, again, again until you can stop the shaking. 

Control yourself.

Fear would only make you vulnerable. Others could die by your inability to control it so you smother the fear, the panic, the guilt until there’s only an ache left behind. A cavernous hole in your chest that weighs you down. 

The room is suffocating, the walls are too close, you can still smell the blood—

You need air. Real air. Not the recycled stuff coming out of the vents. Rising out of bed, you try to find some way out.

In your unrest you always find yourself wandering down the corridors of the living machine. Endless halls, geometric interiors. An almost sentient being confined in a box of wires and metal. 

Although you are in the depths of space, the TARDIS tries to mimic night on Earth with its lack of lighting. 

Your vision is hazy and grainy, greatly increasing the risk of your tripping over. Placing your hand on the wall, you let the worn pads of your finger feel the traces of the TARDIS circuitry. Energy, old and powerful, dances beneath the wires and metal. As if to sense your apprehension, the walls slowly glowed a soft orange. 

“Thank you,” a hoarse whisper of appreciation. Your throat is still dry and swollen.

Warmth envelops your spine and the rhythmic pulsing of energy beneath your fingers. A thanks back. 

With each step you take, the more your body seems to wake. Keeping your fingers on the wall, you let the TARDIS be your guide. There’s no words communicated between you, just instinct and feeling. 

The hallway is short, only one soft turn at the other end. You can hear a faint clattering of metal just beyond.

It takes you a long while before you reach the entrance of the console room. A wide room with various lights, colorful wires, meta, and glass. At the center of it all, a large contraption with a mix-match of levers, knobs, and buttons. It was unlike any spacecraft you’d ever encountered, and you’d seen many. You were sure Rocket would curse at the lack of standardized spacecraft mechanisms. 

Beside the entrance of the room—the front door to the TARDIS—was a large hole filled with more wires and more circuitry. You try to stay as quiet as you can so as to not disturb whoever was tinkering. As you approached the hole, to your surprise there was no one inside. 

The air shifted behind you.

“Can’t sleep?”

Spinning around you were face to face with the Doctor; in his hands a wrench and some alien-looking parts. 

“You scared the fuck out of me,” you grit, loud enough for the Doctor to hear. 

“Hey, what did I tell you about that, hm? No cursing. My box, my rules.” The Doctor passed you and tentatively stepped into the abyss of wires. The hole was only chest deep, but he bent down so he could fully disappear.

You followed him to the edge, but didn’t step inside. 

Sensing your staring, the Doctor turns slightly towards you, locking eyes for a moment. Turning back around, he unscrews a few bolts. “Are your arms bothering you again? I have some medicine stocked up in the back of the cabinet next to the sink.” 

Sitting down, bringing your knees to your chin. Phantom pains still come and go, especially after a rough night of sleep. No doubt the Doctor put two and two together. 

You pick at the exposed wires jutting out. The rubber casing rolling between your thumb and pointer. Bright red. The color of your robes, the color of blood. “You’re right, can’t sleep. I should be too old for nightmares and yet, here I am.”

The Doctor stops his tinkering, standing upright so he can peek up at you. Pity clearly displayed. You try not to scowl.

“No one’s too old for them. Dreams are a reflection of your life. Nightmares, as much as we hate them, do have their purpose.”

You grunt, half agreeing. Because to him, dreams are nothing more than a cocktail of bad memories and hyper-active imagination. Nothing you say will change that. 

So you wipe away the discomfort, the guilt that bleeds into anger. You remember why you left your room in the first place.

“I’ve been walking on my own for a while now. A week at least.” You continue to roll the wires and pick at the copper sticking out. You feel the Doctor’s eyes on you, but you don’t mind him. 

The Doctor catches on to what you’re implying. “You want to go outside. On Earth?”

You shake your head. Because what good would it do to bring you to an empty imitation of the real thing? “I don’t mind going on a different planet. I just…I’m starting to go a bit crazy walking down the maze outside my room.”

“Thought you liked walking aimlessly for hours on end,” the Doctor says, leaning against the edge. His voice balances along the edge of teasing. “I have a box that travels through space and time. Anything you want—anywhere you want, I can take you. Any historical figure, any future figure. We can go to the first pizza shop, y’know because you’re from New York.”

A breath of a laugh escapes. “Very observant of you Doctor. Truth be told, I don’t want to get back to Earth. Not for a while at least.”

You try not to think about what you left behind. 

They’re resilient, you often have to remind yourself, They will survive. They have to. 

The Doctor, either choosing to ignore your sullen words or just happy to have the chance to show you something new and fun, immediately gets out of the man-made hole with a broad smile. His hand, warm and inviting, takes yours and sweeps you off your feet. Giddy and mischievous, the Doctor tugs you along to the convoluted and intricate console. 

You’ve peered at it a few times, often when you perched yourself atop the staircase or in passing when walking through the TARDIS. Never this close. 

Knobs, dials, metal, plastic, glass, and other random items welded or bolted together. Either true engineering feat or complete nightmare, you don’t know. The way the Doctor immediately goes to press buttons and pull levers at such a speed to where there’s a gentle breeze when he zips past you is fascinating to see. The more you look, the more puzzling the mechanisms. Do your eyes deceive you or are you looking at a rotary phone that is bolted to the side of the console?

“Time and space, all within our grasp.” The Doctor rushes to your side and whips out a swiveling monitor and a mechanical keyboard. “Since it’s your first time traveling, I do have to lay down a few ground rules. Firstly, do not wander off no matter how many times Amy encourages you to.” 

The Doctor types out something on his keyboard, the monitor displaying characters in some alien language. Pictures of a planet and charts of data appear along with some notes. 

“Two, never ever drink what’s being offered. More often than not it’s going to make you puke and have an aneurysm.” The Doctor spins around to smack and pull whatever’s in front of him. All of which is nonsense in your eyes. When he turns back to you, his gaze is serious and his finger points between your eyes. “Third, the most important. Always have fun!”

A lever with a cherry red handle is pulled down and the room shakes with energy. The TARDIS pulses, sings with power that flows and ebbs in the air. 

Your hands clumsily find purchase on the edge of the console, bracing as the shaking worsens. The sparks of energy lap at your skin and trickle into your flesh. Warm, tantalizing energy that makes you feel rather than empower. 

The TARDIS is alive. 

As if reading your jumbled thoughts, the energy pools toward you. Caressing your shaking body, enveloping you in a comforting hug. It doesn’t seep into your body and get absorbed by you, but simply hovers. 

When the shaking ceased, only then did the energy rippled in the air, settling to a stillness once more. 

— — —

The door to the outside opens, and the bright light from a foreign sun momentarily stuns you. First, you feel the crisp air kissing your face. Next come the smells of dirt, ocean, and salt. Shouts of street vendors, ships docking in the bay, and children laughing. 

You open your eyes and the light settles. Colors bloom into your vision with colorful signs, exotic tapestry, and anything that could possibly be eaten or made being sold in crowded huts. Clear, open blue sky and buildings that remind you of the bustling coast of Greece. Vendors of varying species, colors, and size all hustle anyone walking in hopes to purchase their goods. An entire city, alive and thriving off the coast of a foreign land on a planet across the Milky-Way. 

“The Veskarla Markets from the planet Tresh,” the Doctor says with pure delight, “Haven’t been here in centuries. Met their queen once, she was a very nice lady. Though, she would later put a nasty bounty on me. It’s not my fault that I didn’t know chickens were seen as a declaration of war.”

Amy steps in next to him, observing the scene in front of her. “You really start cracking open history books before going to places. Would save us from all the trouble you keep bringing.”

The Doctor sniffs, fixing his tie. “Reading history is not my style. No, I would much rather experience history rather than think about it from a dingy old book. It’s good for you.”

You ignore the chatter, focusing on securing the black leather gloves you nabbed from one of the costume closets. The cloak you adorn is light with breathable cotton and slightly bigger on you. The color of the midnight sky, swallowing you from head to toe. A stark contrast to the lively colors that surround you. 

Taking in a deep inhale, you relish in the soothing the air gives your lungs. The stuffy ventilation from the TARDIS is slowly leaving your body. 

“Now remember,” the Doctor warns, pointing between the Ponds. “Stick together. We have fresh meat here with us and I don’t want to get into another nasty skirmish with Treshian royalty. No adventures today. Just simple, fun leisure.”

Rory scoffs, “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

Amy skips over to you and links up your arms. “You boys get more food and supplies. We’ll venture in the markets.”

The two men nod and scurry away into the depths of the city. The Doctor excitedly mouths off any fact he can remember about Treshian wildlife while Rory tries to read off a supplies list. It took only a few seconds before a current of people swept them out of your sight. 

You look back at the tall blue box that is parked in a very obvious area. It sat snugly beside two open restaurants facing the main road. 

“Wouldn’t someone notice the TARDIS there?” you ask, pointing at the very conspicuous timecraft. 

Amy waves her hand dismissively. “Trust me, the Doctor left it parked outside Buckingham Palace when Queen Victoria first ascended the throne. If no one on the streets of London cared, I think we’re safe here.”

That was another thing you were getting used to. The jarring recounts of time-travel that slip into every conversation. A part of you still doesn’t believe their stories or the figures they’ve met. You’re glad that the Doctor decided to simply travel through space rather than time; the mere idea of time-travel feels taboo to even think about.  

Weaving through the sea of people is difficult when Amy is speed walking effortlessly, practically tugging you by the arm. Your steps, whether it be from the lack of exercise or grogginess, are far less graceful. A few times your boot hits a stay cobblestone or your shoulder roughly hits a pedestrian. Somehow, you manage to stay linked with Amy. 

“Two fish! Great price, the best in the galaxy!”

A vendor with purple hyde and jagged yellow teeth shove two fish in your vision. His many eyes on his face stare expectantly. You peek around the cramped shop, eyeing the walls of fishing rods and weathered nets. Clear basins filled with various marine life are tucked beside the vendor. All the colorful fish were clearly displayed, while the ordinary ones were stored in the depths of the shop. 

Before you could utter a reply, Amy manages to haul your body down the block. You force your stiff legs to carry you faster until you’re walking in tandem. 

“That vendor—Did he speak English? How come I can read the signs posted?” Your eyes follow the cluttered wooden huts and their weathered signs. On a different planet with various species that no doubt immigrated here, there should be shouting in different languages and tongues.

Amy laughs, bumping her shoulder with yours. “The Doctor didn’t explain? Typical. I can’t explain in detail, but the TARDIS can go into your brain and translate everything for you. Words, shouts, anything really.”

Everything you learn about the TARDIS, both from your own observation and tidbits of what others tell you, makes your decades of knowledge of the arcane feel rudimentary. Science that borders on sorcery would be revolutionary back home. A strange universe indeed.

The two of you continue down the single street along the edge of the city. Vendors continue to shout and shove. There seemed to be an endless, unbreaking street with hoards of people acting as a current to pull you through. The worn shoes you hastily put on were not ideal for walking. The tough soles of your boots feel more stone than rubber. You don’t complain, having needed the exercise after essentially being a human vegetable for a week. 

You quickly realized that Amy was looking to do more personal shopping rather than gather items from the Doctor’s supply list. Each shop you stopped inside was ornate and featured odd trinkets. While Amy converses with the vendors, you tend to hover behind like a shadow. 

For an intergalactic merchant hub, Veskarla lacked any shops for weapons or machinery. From the hundreds of shops you’ve passed through, there only seemed to be fish, jewelry, or clothes for sale. Any knives being showcased were for decoration only, often using shells for the blade and gold plated wood. Perhaps there was a different district that handled metal and tools. 

After passing by a myriad of fish sellers and net makers, Amy finally stops by a large shop. It’s lavish with teal paint and gold trim around the frames of the large glass windows. Large, chunky pearl necklaces the color of iridescent snow enticed your eyes. 

Amy lets out a low whistle, taking in the shiny entrance. “It doesn’t hurt to take a peek, right?” 

Amy’s sight has caught a beautiful bracelet made from pearls and gold. In fact, the entirety of the shop is dripping with dazzling gems and shiny trinkets. What made the pearls and gold special is that it lets out a twinkling sound whenever there is a breeze passing by. You seemed to have entered a more wealthy part of the markets as now the crowd has dwindled to about half than it was before. The people around you have more intricate clothing with gems and pearls sewn into them. Vesklara is a city of seafood and jewels, judging from how even the lower income district of the town seemed to also carry these goods, albeit at a lower quality. 

Immersed in the distinctions between Orthalian gold or Treshian silver, Amy doesn’t notice your wandering gaze. While the crowd had certainly diminished, it doesn’t mean there wasn’t a myriad of beings still pushing their way through the markets. Very little seemed to interest you. Most of the items sold were nothing you haven’t seen before. 

After taking a glance around the store, you ended up going back outside. A warm breeze brushed over you, carrying the smell of the sea with it. 

You were glad to have a change in scenery. The nightmare that befell you hours before is now at the back of your mind. Being grounded, tethered to a living, thriving city with people and stone to stand on brings an ease back to your body. It doesn’t replace the electric hum of the atmosphere back home, but it does allow you to feel connected to the space around you. You feel the rush of excitement, the displeased customers, the swell of pride for a city that is the crowned jewel of Tresh. So caught up in your musing, you almost failed to hear the stall across from you, across the sea of beings. 

A boy, whose back faces you is pleading with a grumpy vendor. His clothes are dirty and ragged with spindly limbs and matted hair. You peer over to Amy, to see her still obsessing over the bracelets. 

Without a second thought, you cross between the crowds of people. Limbs and pointed joints shove into your body, but you force yourself through. When you exit out of it, you find yourself next to the small boy. You can see just how frayed the edges of his shirt are. How the deep blue skin in his legs and arms are smeared with dirt and scrapes. His long black braid has leaves sticking out of it. 

“Please sir. Just let me try once,” the boy, who looked no older than ten, asks pitfully. “I’ve been saving for a while now and—”

The vendor grunts out, slamming his fist against the wooden counter. “How many times do I have to tell you boy? We don’t serve your kind here.” 

You see how the boy’s face crumpled. His shoulders cave and his lip wobbled. “Please…just once. If I lose, then you will never hear from me again.”

The vendor laughs at that. Cruel and full of teeth. You step back to see what the man is selling—or rather promoting. 

Proto’s Festivities! Try Your Luck or Buy Trying!

Three red targets are parched behind the counter, similar to ones in amusement parks. There’s scratches and indents, but more so on the wall behind them. When you look to the side, you see a stack of daggers hanging from the wall, blunt from repeated use. What really caught your attention was the ornate items dangling from the ceiling. Pearl necklaces, polished leather shoes, and laced fabrics encased in gold. 

“Can I help you lady?” 

Your attention snaps to the large alien who stands behind the counter. His face looked like an unholy union between a pig and a snake; reptilian eyes and mouth with a large snout placed in between. The collar of his shirt is stained with grease and the purplish hue of his skin glistened with sweat. 

Proto towers above you with a questioning gaze. 

“Do you serve humans?” you ask, sharper than you realized. 

Proto’s beady yellow eyes scan you from head to toe. A noise, something akin to a snarl, emits from his throat. Scratching at his chin, he answers, “Not my preferred customer. But I suppose money is money.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Then let me play in place of the boy.” 

The child’s eyes widened, mouth agape. He takes a small step towards you, a small look of hope graces his features. “Y-You would do that?”

Proto lets out another laugh, louder than the first. It drones on for a few seconds longer than necessary, and he goes to wipe his eye with a pudgy finger. He wheezes, “You—ha—You’re gonna play for him, yeah? You and your tiny human form? Is this a joke?”

You reach out your hand towards the boy expectantly. His hold on the gold coins in his hands tightens, just for a moment. Then, he relinquishes his hold, placing the heavy currency on your palm. The leather in your gloves squeaks when you close your hand. 

Slamming the coins down on the counter, you cease the light-hearted attitude of Proto. “The goal is to hit the targets, correct? Money is money. Let me play.” 

Proto’s eyes narrow at you in suspicion. Picking up one of the three coins, he holds it up to his face, inspecting every groove minted on the metal. Once he deems the coins genuine, he looks at you with wickedness on his face. A grin that shows the rows of teeth caked in plaque. 

His hand reaches for the knives hanging on the wall, picking off the shortest and dullest ones from the set. His face inches towards yours with a condescending grin. “Yes, you simply hit the targets and your efforts will be rewarded. Simple as that.”

There’s a concerning amount of insincerity dripping from his voice; glee and dishonesty practically oozing from every word. Proto slides the knives to you whilst pulling the coins towards him with his other hand. 

You take in one of the knives, flipping it in your hand experimentally. There seemed to be no weird center of gravity or any odd characteristics that might give away foul play. You can make do with the dull edge. Looking at the targets ahead, you can easily make the throw blindfolded. You move to raise the knife, but Proto stops you. 

His finger wags in your face. “Ah, ah, ah. I didn’t say we could start yet.” 

You hear the click of a button, then the whirr of machinery. 

The red targets seemed to jerk and slide, the machine beneath them creaking and groaning from overuse. Red circles move from side to side. There’s no pattern to the speed or direction of the targets’ movements. 

Your lips curl to a snarl, at which Proto starts laughing once again. 

“Oh! Is the tiny human regretting her choices already?” Proto slaps his leg as he wheezes out another belly laugh. “Look at that face! You’re practically seething! Ha!”

This son of a bitch.

You ignore the howling mass of scum behind the counter, focusing on the blurring vision of red targets. Gripping the tip of the knife, you steady your breathing, bracing your knees. A lingering, dull throb still haunts you, but you ignore it. Focus. 

Twisting the knife in your hands, you try to find the target with the slowest movement. Judging by the choppy movements and run-down shop, Proto might’ve never had any repairs. You can make out the large patches of rust and hear how the gears catch onto one another. A harsh, screeching sound that barely makes the targets falter. Click, click, click. You stand still, counting the gap between each miniscule falter of the machine. 

Ten seconds exactly. 

Proto’s laugh continues. He grins, wider this time. “Is the tiny human having second thoughts? I forgot to mention this before, but no refunds. Ha!”

You quell the urge to dig the blade into the gummy flesh in his thick neck. It might take some hacking, but it would be worth it to shut him up.

The squeaks of the machine snap your focus back. You take a steady inhale, clearing your mind of murderous thoughts. This wasn’t about you. 

Focus. 

Metal scrapes against metal in an awful pitch. The targets blur, and the laughing continues. 

You hear the familiar click, click, click. 

Inhale. One. Two. Three.

Quick as a whip, your body snaps in motion and the blade lodges cleanly into one of the targets. 

A gasp comes from the boy beside you. Proto’s howls of laughter cease. 

Another knife finds its way in your hand and you repeat the motions. You eye a target, trying to predict its motion. Whatever force you exerted on the first target had altered the motion of the machine. It was slower and the falter in of the targets’ movements were longer. 

Click, click, click. In another flash, the knife lands clean in the middle of another target. 

You hear the shuffle of feet and the whispers of passersby.

“There’s no way she would make that shot.”

“Isn’t that Proto? I thought he was still in jail.”

“Come on! Shoot it already!”

A crowd has formed behind you, but your sole focus is the last of the shuffling targets. 

Its movements are faster than the last two. Almost a blur of red that dances between one side of the stall to the next. Your body tenses, being still longer than previous tries. Your brows furrow, your muscles flexing beneath your skin. 

Proto seethes in his corner, nostril flaring like an animal. The crowd draws nearer, trying to get a better look at what you’re doing. 

Excitement buzzes in the air. Fueling you. 

The scrape against metal, and the tune of click, click, click. 

One.

Two. 

Three.

The knife whistles in the air, the crowd goes still. Wood snaps and buckles, caving under the pressure of your throw. 

For a split second, your heart stops. Then, a wild cheer erupts behind you. 

Under the sheer power of your throw, the target snapped backward, nearly breaking off the machine entirely. Still, your knife sits lodged in the wood, swinging erratically with the rest of the set. The machine lets out one last howl before the rust and age finally forces it to stop. The metal groans and creaks in protest before succumbing to its fate. 

Proto’s jaw unhinges, gaping at the sight. 

The boy with deep blue skin and rags for clothes is beaming. Tears prick his eyes and he’s jumping up and down in sheer joy. Before you could say anything, the boy leaps into you, giving you a bone-crushing hug. Maybe you were lucky that you heal fast. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” the boy squeals, pressing his face against your stomach. He releases you and points to an item hanging off the rack inside the stall. “That one! I want that one please!”

You follow his finger, trying to find what the boy wanted so bad. 

Red robes sewn with a delicate lacing of pearls and gold. Decadent craftsmanship that no doubt took months—maybe even years to create. You dare say more intricate than the attire you’ve seen around the whole market. 

You couldn’t fight the smug grin even if you tried. Proto looked furious. “You heard the boy. Give him the robe.” 

Proto huffed, looking monstrous and wrathful. If there weren't so many watchful eyes, you were sure that he would try to skin you alive with one of your dull knives. Begrudgingly, Proto marched up to the robes and snatched it off its hook. With a nose-flaring glare, he tosses it to the gleeful boy beside you. 

Above the cheers of the small crowd, you hear the familiar shouts of your group. 

Amy is jumping up and down, similar to how the boy was moments before. Rory hollers with the crowd, waving his hands in the air. 

The Doctor comes barreling towards you, clasping his hands on your shoulders. He shakes you with a big smile on his face. “Bra-vo! Splendid, that was absolutely—positively—brilliant! Well done!” 

Hands from the mass of people shake and prod you. Praise and cheer ring hollow in your ears.

When you turn to look at the boy, his toothy grin is aimed right at you. Only for you. Tears flow in rivers down his face, curving around his smile. “Thank you!”

Sincerity, joy, relief. It flows from the boy and straight to your chest.

Only for him do you smile. It’s small and beaten around the edges, but a no less genuine thing. Something warms the hollow in your chest. A crack in your armor, one that makes the pain erode away. Ever so slightly. 

— — —

“How on Earth did you manage that? I thought you would be stiff from sleeping all week.”

You take a bite out of your dessert, taking a moment to ponder Rory’s question. “One of the first things I learned when I started training. Knives were much easier to handle when you’re twelve.” 

The sky is turning a hazy orange and the shops along the coast of the busy town are still alive. The small café tucked away in an alley deep in the city where their hours of operation start when the sun lowers in the sky. 

After destroying Proto’s machine, you walk the boy to his family who live in a small house at the edge of town. Only when you arrived at his front door did he give you his name: Rivolo. His parents were both equally shocked at what the boy delivered and were eternally thankful for what you did. You were simply glad to give the boy a chance to have new clothes to wear. Though, the strain of your body lingers, especially in your upper back. 

For the first time, the four of you collect around with food and drinks, talking. It started with little stories about the last few hours when you departed. Rory bought a new weighted blanket with fabric that behaved like water. The Doctor tried bargaining with a seamstress for a new jacket and ended up being kicked out of the establishment. Supply runs and odd occurrences transitioned to earlier adventures. Mostly the Doctor talking about famous historical figures with such clarity it might as well have happened yesterday. 

“I did have a knife throwing contest whilst traveling during the Ottoman Empire.” The Doctor takes another heapful of shaved ice and condensed milk. His mouth is full when he speaks: “I still technically have another date set up. You’re going to come with me.”

“Is that a threat?” you muse, picking at your own bowl. 

“Most definitely.”

Streetlights that dot along the pier were the first to alight. Then the ones along the edge of town, until the cobblestone streets are bathed in warm light. Stars are beginning to twinkle in the sky and the ocean breeze makes the air drop significantly. It doesn’t stop the people who journeyed here from crowding around bars and enjoying the dusk. 

Rory is the first to groan out, stretching his arms over his head. He rubs his stomach, his eyes pinching close. “I think I ate enough for three. God, it feels like my stomach is about to burst.” 

Surrounding him were piles of fish bones and dessert bowls. At least he had the courtesy to stack them. Amy and the Doctor lean against one another, the former sharing her husband’s discomfort. You had the foresight to order enough to quell your hunger, not enough to inhibit movement. 

“I’ll clear these up, you guys get back to the TARDIS.” You take the hefty load of plates and bowls into your hands with little effort. “I can find my way back. Go before it gets too dark.”

The three of them huff and groan, slowly rising out of their seats as if it pains them to do so. 

Amy pats your shoulder with a grimace. “You’re an angel, thank you.”

Rory gives the Doctor his shoulder to lean on as Amy trails behind them. You couldn’t help but watch them stagger down the street. 

A family. A unit. Whatever the three hold runs deeper than friendship and would be an understatement to say so. 

Walking down the alley, you try to locate the front of the café. With the crowds of people blocking the entrances of any open building made it all the more challenging. You walk in slow, measured steps, careful to not trip over any wobbly stone that pokes out. When you do manage to slip into the right café, the sun has more than set. The chill in the air turns into a cold breeze that flutters your cloak and makes the hairs on your body stand on edge. 

You don’t feel safe. If you had the thunderous power of the multiverse behind you, then you wouldn’t feel so paranoid walking through the narrow alley. No weapons adorn your legs, no phone to call for help. You cursed under your breath. 

Pulling on your hood, you let the dark fabric cover you completely. You keep towards the edge of buildings, always scanning ahead for any activity. Find a crowd, blend in. Easy enough when the entirety of the marketplace is still buzzing. 

It’s hard to pin down exactly where you are. Your eyes squint in the low light, trying to find any landmarks to help you journey back. You don’t realize how lost you are until the crowds slowly disappates and the lamps along the streets get fewer and fewer. 

Shit.

You should’ve swiped the knives from Proto. A dull blade is better than no weapon at all. 

Straining for any signs of life, you try to backtrack your steps. Maybe if you make your way back to the café, then you could wait for the Doctor to come get you. 

Your foot was already pivoting before you caught a faint glimmer of red fabric out of the corner of your eye. 

Turning around, you see a familiar cloak with pearls and gold stitched along its side. 

Rivolo!

What better way around the city than the boy who lived here? With newfound determination, you follow the trail of red down another alley. Your legs are loose from walking, already catching up to the fleeting figure. 

Your feet soundlessly trek the uneven streets, bobbing and weaving through tight corners and miscellaneous boxes lying around. Rivolo seems to dash just out of reach, always dodging out of sight whenever you cross another street. 

“Rivolo!” you call out, trying to keep the fabric in your sight. The boy is a few ways ahead, delving deeper into the city. You quicken your pace. 

In a matter of seconds, you’ve managed to close the gap between you two. The boy is fast but you have a decade or so of running through the boroughs of New York under your belt. You push through the burn in your muscles. Your hand stretches outward and you catch the scruff of the hood. 

With a twist, you reel the boy back and spin his small body around. 

Your chest heaves, putting your hands on your knees. “I’m so sorry, I tried calling you but you were too far away. I need some he—”

You freeze, the blood in your body running cold. 

The person you’ve tracked down wasn’t the innocent boy with a long braid and toothy grin. In the low light, you can clearly see the robe this stranger adorns. The intricate stitching, the same glimmering pearls that twinkle under the light. You reel back, as if the sight of it offends you. 

Whatever you caught looked almost human. Its flesh was a ghostly pale that looked sickly under the streetlights. Gaunt face with a long nose and bulging eyes. His iris looks like a small pinprick, wild and focused on you. No hair on his head or on his face. When you observe longer, you see the imprint of scales along his skin. 

You narrow your gaze, your voice an echo in the silent alley as a deadly whisper. “Where did you get that cloak?”

The alien eyes you up and down, tilting his head to the side. His words are impish, almost nasally in tone. “Hm? Who are you? You don’t seem related to that Ikrallian boy.”

“I’ll ask you again.” Your hands shoot out, gripping the color of the red cloak. The alien falters at your harsh movements. “Where did you get this cloak? A boy named Rivolo had it earlier.”

He didn’t seem frightened by your tone. Boredom is set in his features, as if you’re inconveniencing him. He ponders for a moment, only for his features to light up in mock realization. “Oh, that’s his name. Did he have blue skin and freakish hair? Y'know, introductions never came up. I could barely hear my own thoughts because of his screaming.”

Pure delight drips from his mouth. The thing in your hands snickers as if he’s letting you in on some inside joke. 

Your heart pounds in your ears. 

Something poked your ribs, and the man’s mouth curled to a sneer. “Now, now. Usually I don’t like fighting women. Gets too messy and there’s always so much crying. If you just walk away, go back to where you came from, I won’t have to gut you in this alley.”

The familiar heat of rage bubbled in your chest. Tension in your body cramps your muscles, threatening to snap.The knife the man holds starts dragging up towards your ribs, teasing the soft flesh there. The thing chuckles, his breath fanning your face. 

“Maybe I should. ‘Cause then you can see your friend…what’s his name again?” He tilts his head up, pretending to think. “Ah, Rivolo. He probably bled out by now. Oh—where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself. The name’s Beetle—”

Your fist connected to his jaw with a sickening crack. 

Beetle’s body flies out, landing into the ground in a heap. You take lungfuls of air, trying to cool down. The alien twitches before rolling back to his feet. Blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, but his grin still remains. 

Wiping his chin, he hunches down, the knife in his hand gleaming in the moonlight. His nasally, gruff voice cuts through the still air. “Just my luck, a lady who can fight. Now I won’t feel so bad when I drain you on the street.”

His body caves in before he launches himself. 

You stagger to the side before you twist around, dodging his slashes. When he gets too close, trying to aim for the spot where your heart lies, you grab his arm and pull him across your body. Using your leg and stiff muscles, you use his momentum against him and slam him to the ground with his arm twisted behind him. In the quick second that he’s off-guard, you stomp on his hand, forcing him to let go of his knife. The knife, you realized, had dark substance caking it. 

Blood. 

You hear something crack before Beetle’s body rotates beneath you. Dislodging his arm out of his socket allowed him to sweep your body off balance and bounce back up. You land on the ground, your jaw connecting to stone with a pained groan. The stitches under your clothes throb painfully. 

Beetle swings his dislocated arm back, forcing it in the socket once more. He laughs at the face you make. 

A dull cramp locks your joints. Cold air and strained tissue squeeze your nerves, sending pain throughout your body. You try to brace yourself on your forearms, but a heavy foot stomps on your back, forcing your back down. Your chin collides with stone and your teeth rattle in your mouth. 

“I’m starting to like you like this.” He raised his foot from your back momentarily before slamming it down. Air is forced to leave your chest as you cough beneath him. His other foot is planted just beside your head, the other digging between your shoulder blades. “Maybe I’ll let you go just so I can chase you down the street. I’ll let the fear settle in, then delight in your screams when I finally catch you—”

You put every ounce of strength into maneuvering over to his ankle and bite. Your teeth sink into skin, catching the tendons of his foot. Warm liquid gushes in your mouth, spilling between your teeth. A shrill howl of pain and the weight lifts off your back. Beetle falls, desperately grasping his ankle. Blood seeps, coloring the pavement beneath him. 

“You fucking cunt!”

You roll to your side, hacking out the bitter blood into the cobblestone. With a grunt, you rise to your full height, swaying slightly.

A mouthful of iron is on your tongue. It mingles with the ocean breeze and sours in your mouth. Your steps are silent and methodical. Half limping, half striding to your target. 

The red cloak Beetle wears beckons you closer. Your heaving comes from the barely hidden wrath that bubbles. You reckon you looked more like a rabid animal than a human. When you approach Beetle, you grasp the back of the hood and yank it. His smaller, stout frame unraveled from the flowing cloak and you held it tightly against yourself. 

Something warm trickles down your abdomen. Bringing your hand to the bottom of your rib, you feel the cotton of your shirt being soaked. Your stitches torn and the thin skin broken. All the energy you had gained this past week has been sapped, leaving you trembling. 

You spare the alien a cold, withering stare. Your bloodied mouth is twisting to a snarl. “Thank every single star under this sky that I am not in full health. If I see your wretched face ever again, I will not hesitate to rip you apart. Bone by bone.”

Kill him, leave nothing behind.

Your voice sounds unfamiliar in your own head. A monotone, apathetic edge, almost clinical in nature. 

Another voice rings over. Young, still full of life. 

Don’t be the monster everyone expects you to be.

Peter did not understand the beaten path you’ve forged for yourself. Nor did he understand the continuous nature between black and white; to him, good deeds and bad ones are objective without nuance. 

Beetle is hunched, body held taut with caution. Gauging to see what you’ll do next. 

No matter how much you want to wring his neck like a stubborn piece of cloth, you can bring yourself to spare mercy. Just this once. You will alert the proper authorities and hope that Beetle is injured enough to not stray too far. 

Karma will see to it, sparing you of the role of judge, jury, and executioner. 

“(Y/N)? Is that you?”

A voice, accented and childlike. 

You back straightened, whipping around to the entrance of the alley. A shallow breath escapes your throat and relief washes over you. 

“Rivolo, y-you’re safe.” Your voice is raw around the edges, and you catch the unease in his face. You stagger towards the boy, bleeding and hurt. When you grasp his narrow shoulders, you utter a rushed, “What happened?”

The boy maneuvers to your side, pulling your arm over his shoulder. “I went to get food for my family. I was trying to get back home before a strange man tried taking my food. He stabbed me, but it didn’t matter. My species don’t bleed out easily.” 

At the sound of his voice, Beetle thrashes around. His head jerked and his mouth frothed in fury. 

“Of course you survived. Of course! Even after I went after your heart—just my fucking luck!”

Beetle rolled to his stomach with a murderous gaze. His teeth bared and his back hunched like a prowling animal. 

So much for mercy.

You hurriedly unlatched yourself from Rivolo and shoved his cloak in his arms. “Go find the Doctor and the Ponds. Run as fast as you can from here and whatever you do, don’t look back.”

Sounds of bones cracking turns your attention to the heaving alien. Beetle’s finger is shoved in his ankle, forcing his bony finger into his Achilles tendon. Blood gushed out more, spilling over his leg and arm. With a strained growl, Beetle rearranges the fiber in the back of his ankle.

Anger and determination pulse in the air. A warning.

“Go, go, go!” You shove Rivolo into the open street. He scampers away, and you see him retreat out of sight. 

You couldn’t anticipate the speed at which Beetle came at you. Without warning, Beetle sent a punch straight towards your stomach. As if his punch was a singularity, your body caved inward, warping around his balled fist. You slam against the wall, not even a moment to think before another punch lands squarely on your cheek. Whipping your head to the side, you feel your skull throb painfully and the vessels inside your face break. 

Beetle’s hand wraps around your throat and slams your head into the stone wall behind you. His hold constricts, closing your windpipe as he kneed you in the abdomen. Once. Twice. You try to squirm out of his way, blocking his repeated attack with your hands but you’re losing strength.  

You’re getting lightheaded. Everything hurts. Bile tries to climb its way up your body, but Beetle’s hand prevents anything from getting in your body or getting out. 

The sickly creature looms over your face. His earlier grin and playful façade completely wiped clean. “Do you know what I hate more than cunts who fight dirty? Hm?”

Another kick. Your organs contort inside your body, trying to accommodate the point of Beetle’s knee. If choking you out won’t kill you, internal bleeding certainly will. You try to muster a cough, only to choke on your own mucus. 

His face draws closer, into your ear as you desperately gasp and thrash in his hand. His words sliding across your skin like sandpaper. “An ugly, bleeding woman. No matter where I stab, you’ll always look gross and disgusting when you die. I suppose it isn’t such a loss though. I do enjoy watching your life get snuffed out. And once I dump your body on the street, I’m tracking your little friend next.” 

You don’t stop writhing, even when he keeps slamming your head against the wall. Even when he sends another punch to your face, bursting your lip open. Even when the next one lands in the middle of your face and you feel blood gushing out. It hurts, your lungs burn. Your soul rams against the confines of your body, trying to break itself free. 

His laugh is cold, void of any real humor. 

“What are you going to do about it?”

The words cut through your mind like an arrow. Everything stills, and for a moment Beetle's eyes morphed into a light, steely blue. 

Glass and stone contort, fractals that dance in the background with magic humming in the air. A blade made of air and crystal that drips crimson blood, the markings of Dormammu's power etched in your mind forever. 

“What are you going to do about it, Seraph?”

The hush of the world around you. A moment where nothing exists but the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your head. 

A goal carved its way to the forefront of your mind, silencing all other thoughts, wants, needs. 

Make him bleed. Make him suffer— 

The heat came first. A thunderous roar that synced with your heart, it flooded your body with a burn. Energy that lights up your cells and singes the ends of your nerves. 

Grasping the thin, pale wrist of your attacker, you focus the energy that’s building. It lights up your body with a crack. Beetle’s smug face falters. The bones in Beetle’s wrist snap and crumble. You feel the fragments ripple beneath his skin and his tendons bunching as your grip gets tighter and tighter. 

A blood curdling scream rips through Beetle as he jerks away from you. With his weight finally off your throat, you collapse against the wall trying to catch your breath. Releasing the hold on Beetle’s wrist, you stagger to your feet. Every ragged inhale sends shocks of pain from your midsection. Using the wall for support, you lift yourself up. Everything feels numb, your legs and arms feel like static. 

You watch as Beedle clutches his swollen hand. When he jerks his body, his hand rotates dramatically, detached from the forearm entirely. You give no warning, no ounce of preparation. Before Beetle had a chance to blink, you were already towering over him.

The first punch made Beetle’s head turn so sharply that you thought you’d broken it. A loud, thunderous sound came, echoing in the narrow back alleys. The sounds of Beetle’s ragged breathing and heartbeat were the only indications that he still lived. The next hit was just as hard, with no time to react. Each blow you deliver slices the space between you, turning his skin to paper and bones to glass. A precision that comes with years dealing with the worst outcome possible. A lingering notion that each blow you deal is fatal. 

Sometimes the flesh caves and splits where you hit. Blood splatters on your gloves, making it increasingly difficult to continually land punches. When the blood in his face makes your fist slide off his skin is when you move to kicking his body. Over. And Over. Wherever your foot lands, his body jerks accordingly. Again and again.   

Only when you stop your onslaught do you manage to get your heartbeat to steady and your breathing to even. 

Your body is a furnace. It trembles trying to keep whatever power lies in your veins. When you move, it feels distorted in a way. Your mind is still hazy from the oxygen deprivation, near floaty in feeling. One foot in front of the other, you move through the stagnant air. The thrashing, bleeding alien tries to crawl away from you. Your hands shoot out from your robes, catching his ankle and dragging him close to you. 

Mixing in with the salty ocean air and the blood coating your teeth is a taste you’ve come to hunt for. It’s sweet, addictive and delights you so. 

Beetle’s fear is palpable. As he lays shaking below you, he doesn’t tear his gaze from yours. 

“You hurt my friend.” Beneath the soft whisper of your words, an undeniable edge of wrath can be felt. “I gave you a chance to run and you used that as an opportunity to attack me. You’ve made your decision and I have no choice but to see it through.” 

The scum twisting and groaning doesn’t get a chance to fix his mouth before your foot connects with his sternum. Not enough to break it completely, but enough to knock all of the wind out. You can’t move effectively without the entirety of your midsection erupting in pain. You crept your foot up Beetle’s chest, seeing the realization hit him.

A barbaric move. But it’s clear that Beetle has already done more, if not worse, on innocents. When your foot meets the middle of Beetle’s neck, you ignore the spark of delight at the sight of his terror. You slowly apply more of your weight as thin hands try to wrap around your shoe. 

His feet kick wildly trying to land a hit but his strength is weaning. You offer him no taunting words, no remorse for what you’re doing. Beetle was trying to kill you from the start and it would be dangerous to let him wander. 

You didn’t want to spill blood on your first day out, but you’re too worked up to care. What’s another death to you? 

Beetle squirms, trying desperately to throw you off. Murderous intent swallowing his eyes, directed only at you. Whatever good he managed to do, it will never balance the harm he confessed to doing. He would be better off as fertilizer, the only way his existence would ever be a net positive. You wouldn’t mind if his dying breath lingers in your dreams. 

You don’t find it in yourself to care. 

Movement dwindles and the fiery passion is slowly dying the longer your foot lingers. Copper and sugar invade your nose in harmony. 

Beetle spasms and gargles. His already pale skin gets impossibly more stark.

Just a bit more—

You feel the air shift, a presence just beside you. But you felt it a second too late. 

A blur of black and a crackle of light is all you see before a powerful punch sends you flying backwards. Your body tumbles down further into the alley, rocks and sharp debris awaiting you with each hit. Your momentum finally stops when you collide into a stack of wooden crates, splintering the wood upon impact. You let out a pained hiss through your teeth, trying to move.  

Moonlight scatters where the streetlamps fail to illuminate. Shadows bend and warp most of your vision, but you spot the imposing figure easily. It’s tall, whatever it is. Humanoid in shape, covered head to toe in fabric. You’re too far away to see any clear details, only a vague, smokey outline where light manages to hit. 

Something else invades the charged air. For a moment, the pent up anger and murderous intent evaporates leaving behind something primal. 

Hairs on your body stand on end. Dread suffocates you. It surrounds the cloaked figure and you wonder how it managed to sneak up on you. 

Your body trembles, nearly collapsing down into the pile of broken wood again. The energy you’ve mustered up has already started to disperse. 

Beetle gasps loudly, wheezing with such ferocity you think his heart would climb up his throat. The pungent smell of blood and sweat hangs in the air, encasing him. 

The imposing figure doesn’t spare him a single glance or word. No mask or identifiable features could be seen, but you feel the weight of his gaze. An inhuman, powerful energy accompanies it. Grasping the leftover wood that surrounds your body, you force your weakened body to get up. To fight, to stand your ground. 

Beetle hacks and coughs. “You were there the whole time?” His voice is raw, his words barely intelligible. “Why didn’t you come sooner?” 

The figure offers no words or acknowledgement, never turning its head away from you. Your skin prickles and a dull instinct makes your hand twitch. 

Beetle turns his head, ready to mouth off to his companion. When he sees the figure’s hard gaze fixated on you, Beetle’s face morphs to a furious sneer. 

“You’re my assignment! Are you kidding me? What about the Ikrallian boy?” 

Your ears perk up, your body on high alert. They wanted you here. Beetle may not have realized, but he wasn’t just a simple passerby. Assignment…had they…planned this? 

Then it clicked. Maybe it was your proximity to the Doctor, perhaps they believe they could kidnap you to have leverage over him. You did spend a good few hours with him and the Ponds, traveling around the market. Why would they target him? For the TARDIS perhaps? Amy did say that it was the last of its kind. A powerful machine that could travel anywhere would be a target for any criminal worth their salt. 

But why Rivolo? Why target him? Cruelty for cruelty’s sake?

“(Y/N)!” A startling loud echo of your name, one that seems to have a series of footsteps that follow. It was behind you. “(Y/N) are you there?” 

Before you even had the chance to turn your head to the direction of the voice, you hear the thundering steps halt behind you. 

The Ponds are out of breath; Amy grabbing onto your shoulder for support while Rory has his hands on his knees. Their skin glistened with a mixture of sweat and humid air, their chests heaving with exhaustion. 

“We…Rivolo…help…” Amy could barely muster up the words, her head hanging low, trying to even her breathing. Whatever relief she had when find you was wiped clean when she got a look at your face. No doubt the blood from your nose had already crusted on the lower half of your face. “What the hell?”

Rory was already tensed beside you two, staring at the two figures in the alley. He cleared his throat, gesturing towards Beetle. “Is this why you couldn’t find your way back?”

You move out of Amy’s concerned hold, putting yourself in front of them. “You shouldn’t be here. Go find the Doctor—”

“There you guys are!” 

As if the mere mention of his name summons him, the Doctor rounded the corner also out of breath with the familiar blue alien boy behind him. The Doctor’s arms flail as he forces his feet to stop. “How many times do I have to have the talk with you two? Hm? No wandering! No running off in foreign lands! It’s rule number one when traveling. I don’t expect much from (Y/N)—”

His tangent stopped when his mind finally caught up with the present. His face frozen, looking over your newly battered face. Rivolo cowers behind him, clutching his jacket in a tight fist. 

You cursed under your breath. It’s one thing to have to fight, it’s another to look after four individuals who don’t seem capable of fighting. You’d barely healed enough to walk properly and now you could look forward to another week of mindless wandering in the sterile hallways of the TARDIS. Great. So much for a first day outside. 

Beetle hauled up his shaking body, his two legs appearing as though they might snap under his own weight. Hunched and heaving, Beetle clutches the midnight fabric that encases the figure. Even from this distance, you can clearly see the pure hatred plastered on his face. “Why wasn’t I made aware of this? I thought the boy was the target!”

It was then that the dark figure finally directed its eye-less gaze to the trembling alien beside him. Beetle doesn’t falter, instead gripping tighter on the fabric to stabilize himself. 

When the figure spoke, it was a deep, rumbling sound. Smooth and unhurried. It carried through the salty breeze as if they were speaking right next to you. “Target the young Ikrallian and remain in the city thereafter. Your duty has been fulfilled.”

There was something in the tone of his voice. Such finality, a sureness that everything that has happened was meant to be. Dominos falling into place. 

“Target the Ikrallian boy…” you thought, everything rushing in your head at once. I was their target. By attacking Rivolo, it would guarantee that I would try to follow him. Why me? They don’t know who I am. 

The eye-less figure slides his head in your direction. You feel its glaze stripping you, peering through skin and muscle. It shakes off Beetle’s grip like he’s nothing more than a speck of dust, stepping towards you. Feather-light steps with only the sound of plated armor clinking together being heard, its glaze holding yours. 

You force yourself into a defensive position, trying to lock into every movement. The figure stops a few feet away from you and you can make out the reflective surface of armor underneath a billowing cloak. There’s enough light to show the texture of the cloak and the buckles along its waist, but the place where a face should be is pure darkness. No curve of a nose, or sockets where eyes would be, nor a mouth to speak from. A smooth, glossy surface that reflects your bruised face. 

“Who the hell are you?” you hissed. Your warped reflection moves, highlighting the swollen jaw and caked blood across your face. “Did you purposefully lure me out here? Am I some unlucky passerby you just so happen to choose for your sick little game?”

The figure takes a few, slow steps towards you. The way his body moves seems streamlined; no unnecessary sway of his arms when he stands still nor any miniscule movement of his chest to indicate that he’s breathing. 

When he speaks, it’s calm, barely passing a whisper. Still, you hear it loud and clear. “We know what you are. Where you are from. What you will become. You will come to shape my past; I too shall shape yours. You will fight me, here in this city. It would mark the beginning of the end.”

“End of what?” you demand. You try to shake off the way his tone makes the hair at the back of your neck raise. The total resolve of his voice, as if whatever you do will make no difference. 

“The end of everything.”

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#fic: siasl #fic: stranger in a strange land #eleventh doctor x y/n #doctor who #doctor x reader #doctor x you #doctor x y/n #the doctor x reader #the doctor x you #the doctor x y/n #11th doctor x reader #11th doctor x you #11th doctor x y/n #eleventh doctor #bbc doctor who #mcu crossover #mcu imagine #marvel x reader #mcu x reader #mcu x y/n #mcu x you #marvel x y/n #marvel x you

[aching-tummies]

Manual Stimulation response.

First of all I just wanna say that I love love looove this prompt and I can't wait to read everything that's gonna come from it. Seeing that it's something I enjoy I figured I could try and contribute as well.

Even though I'm at work we text every once in a while so you've already informed me of your issue. I suggested drinking some tea or milk or eating something that generally helps with digestion like prunes. But all of that has only made matters worse as none of it has digested and is now just a pile of food waiting to properly processed.

My shift has finally ended and I come home and find you curled up on the couch with your tummy in your hands, softly cradling the sensitive ball of trouble. You plead for my aid as you can no longer withstand the pain and tendernes of your poor tummy. I get to work as quick as possible and soon enough I manage to jump start the digestion process. This however comes with it's own price. Your gut is now overwhelmed by the amount of food and it starts contracting and trying to pace the incoming wave of food which gives you some horrid cramps. Because of this I have to sink my hands deeper and try to fight those cramps. This goes on for quite a while, a fight between me and your digestion until you finally process it all.

Thank you so, so much for this! A response to this post.

Sorry this took so long. Life got busy and left me no time to write anything. On top of that, I really, really, really wanted to write something worthy of this response.

Your phone pings, signalling a message. You duck into an empty room. It's a slow shift tonight. You're on-rotation and hoping that the hospital doesn't get too busy. A blush manifests on your face as you see what it is that I have sent you.

It's an image of my usually-trim belly with just a barely-there bulging curve to it. It's captioned “4 hours and counting -_-”.

A sound from somewhere down the hall tears your attention away from the phone, but you still type a quick response as you try to school your blush. You hurriedly tell me to drink some tea or something to settle my stomach. There's an incident with a patient at the end of the hall and you rush there, thoughts about me and about our conversation forgotten as you get to work.

I see the hurried message about tea and sigh, gently nursing the ball of indigestion that is my belly. I feel the contents churning in my stomach, rolling around between my palms. Unfortunately, that's about all it does. Very little has actually passed into my intestines despite dinner having been hours ago. We've been together long enough for the novelty of waiting up for each other to fade. When you draw night-shift I usually get a head-start with sleep and you do your best not to disturb me when you make it home. Unfortunately, dinner isn't settling well in my tummy tonight and sleep eluded me because of it.

Biting back a moan, I steel myself and stand up, both arms cradling my achy belly as I do so. I feel my stomach cramp and gurgle as the glut of food shifts inside of it. Taking a few seconds, I rub over my taut belly, kneading gently to try and manually break up what feels like a dense mass of food in my tummy. I can't help the groans and whimpers as I sluggishly move to the kitchen, setting the kettle up and rummaging around the cupboards for some tea. Of course, the peppermint just has to be on the top shelf. My stomach cramps painfully as I stretch to reach the box of tea leaves. Cosidering how we rely on peppermint tea as a stomach soother, we really should be keeping it on a lower shelf, somewhere easier to reach when either of us is doubled up with stomach pain (usually me).

My stomach burbles angrily within me as I watch the kettle come to a boil. I try my best to sooth it, even pressing my belly against the counter-top to try and get any sort of relief. It never comes.

Two hours since my last message and you've finally hit a lull at work. You duck into another quiet room and pull out your phone. Surely I've gone to bed by now, but you decide to check if there are any updates about the state of my stomach.

'(11:43P) Made tea. Need to stop putting peppermint out-of-reach.'

'(12:14A) Didn't help. Dinner is bobbing around in my stomach. Feels weird. Need your hands, babe.'

A short audio file has been sent after that text and you blush scarlet as you tap on it and hear a sickly, wet grumble from a clearly-distressed belly. When one thinks 'indigestion'--that's the kind of sound they think of—wet, thick, sickly, and troubled.

You quickly type out a response.

'(1:40AM) You damned tease.'

Your phone reads 4:07AM when you finally reach the door to our apartment and fumble quietly with the keys. You do your best to minimize any noise, thinking that I'd have gone to sleep by now.

Quietly entering our apartment, your gaze follows the faint glow coming from the living room. I left the standing lamp on, it seems. What surprises you is that I'm under the lamp, leaning on the far side of the couch with my knees up and my arms sandwiched against my belly.

“Sweetie? What are you still doing up?” You whisper, quietly padding over to the couch.

“Nnngh....w-welcome home.” I mutter passed a groan. I whimper as you settle on the couch next to me, the action jostling me and sending shockwaves through my sickly tummy. A shaky rumble squeezes out from behind my arms as you settle.

“Oh? Is your belly still upset?” You're surprised—even more so when I nod and cuddle up to you. I grab your arms as I settle against your chest, quickly placing your hand over my belly as I uncurl slightly from the tense ball I've been in for hours. My legs protest the change in position but I ignore the cramps, trying to focus on the feeling of your hands on my belly and waiting for the relief I hope you'll bring.

My belly has a bit more of a curve to it compared to the photo I sent you hours ago. The curve surprises you as you had expected the bloating to subside after all these hours. The idea of me having spent hours with such a visibly uncomfortable belly stirs both pity and lust in your mind.

Audible, wet grumbles resound with every knead of your palms on my belly. You palpitate my abdomen, exploring it. There's a large mug on the coffee table, about 1/3 full of the remnants of peppermint tea. Three tea-bags rest at the bottom of the mug. Knowing my tea-drinking habits, you quickly calculate and decide that it means a little over five and a half mugs of tea have made their way into my bowels.

My intestines are bloated with the sheer amount of tea that I managed to consume. It didn't really help and only served to make my guts really sloshy. The stubborn mass of dinner sits heavily in my stomach, refusing to be broken down no matter how much my stomach clenches around it and my stomach has basically given up at this point. Hours of futile churning haven't managed to dislodge the sticky mass. My stomach is sore from trying, and failing, to digest for so many hours. I'm exhausted from being kept up waaaay passed my normal sleeping hours with this unrelenting indigestion.

Your kneading hands get to work on my stomach, deftly mapping out the situation in my guts and working accordingly. You are very familiar with this process as I suffer from indigestion fairly frequently. We find ourselves in similar situations, though on a lesser scale, at least three times a week.

A well-placed pinch to the left side of my abdomen, in tandem with three of your fingers pushing deeply and stimulating a loop of intestine on my right side results in a sickly rumble. I gasp as I feel a chunk of the sticky mass in my belly break off and get passed the sphincter at the base of my stomach.

“Ooooh...fuckin' finally!” I moan as peristalsis rolls in waves through my bloated intestines, seeking out the bit of food that managed to enter after hours and hours of indigestion.

#tummy kink #indigestion #upset stomach #RP-Ask #Tummy ache kink #belly rubs

[mossymandibles]

can you tell me about gen?

Sorry this took me so long, sometimes I forget to go back and check my inbox. Here’s a somehwat ‘official’ bio for her, under the cut. It has some more random stuff about her as well.

(I can’t seem to find what I’ve already answered for her, the organization here is balls and it gives me more incentive to make a separate space for character info)

She’s a child that Kraw has taken upon himself to look after ever since he found her aboard his fishing trawler while he was making a delivery run. She was scuttling about half wasted away by sun, starvation and other mysterious means.

As far as the more mundane stuff goes; Gen enjoys doodling, tagging any surface she can get her hands on, beach visits, creepy crawlers, and spicy, pungent food. She also enjoys taking apart stuff to see how it works, she’s very much a tactile learner.

Kraw notices that she seems to have a slight case of agoraphobia.

When he first had her aboard, she would often sleep in the engine room of the boat because the cramped spaces and sounds were comforting to her, probably reminding her of the city.

She also often has stomach problems, due to nerves. Kraw usually keeps saltine crackers or ginger ale on hand for her.

She has a knack for animals too, often trying to keep pets despite Kraw’s protests. This interest helped her get used to staying with Sylvaine at times whenever Kraw had to make longer trips and wouldn’t take her along at first, since Sylvaine has plenty of interesting creatures around. Gen would rather spend time learning about them rather than on her usual homework. This interest grows when she starts helping Kraw out with fishing more, seeing all the different creatures of the ocean and all.

Despite her having rambunctious, trouble-making tendencies, she shows high intelligence and fast learning capabilities, not that she enjoys sitting and exercising that ability very often. Kraw would notice her quickly getting a good grasp on the boat engine’s inner workings whenever she has to help with such things, since he can’t really fit in the engine room. She has her own names for the parts and jstuff that she made up.

The growth taking up the right half of her face was thought to be a fungus of some sort, assuming that she was a ‘Myce’ or of a fungal fae type race. It turned out she was a newer generation of human. The growth was an inexplicable calcification that Gen said she woke up with after “seeing the eye”. Kraw and Sylvaine were able to gather that she was originally from Piranesi’s Fever; a huge, industrial type city which was built outside the citadel surrounding the impact site of the celestial body. Gen seems to have little to say, or refuses to say, much about it.

She appears to be about 7 or 8 when Kraw finds her (although sometimes I draw her around 11) but nothing is really known about the newer generations of humans born under the Ladder’s jurisdiction. They are thought to be more affected by the isolated biome created by the rotting celestial body. There’s lots of speculation about what Gen is capable of exactly. Despite Sylvaine’s burning curiosity, Kraw refuses to let her run any tests since he’s taken Gen under his wing. He doesn’t want her to feel like a science experiment and he thinks she seems to be doing fine and wants to believe the growth is just a cosmetic thing. He’s kind of in denial, even with obvious signs from Gen’s occasional strange temper outbursts.

Here’s a wip of her from a comic I got in the works. Before her eye was mangled :0

#asks #gen #gen asks #character lore #i guess I don’t use tags right or something but my archive seemed confusing as well so idk