#10K Slums
Text
His Love
|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|
Part Twenty-Three
Masterlist of Series
Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.
Author's Note: Hey, besties; sorry for the delay. Everything that could go wrong went wrong. First, one of my coworkers called off (she doesn't even work here anymore because she missed too much), and I had to do two 10-hour shifts. Then my freaking internet went out because some tree trimmers cut the connection line for everyone! And after that, I had a crisis and lost the inspiration and drive to write. This chapter is a two-parter, which I usually wouldn't say I like to do, but it would've been over 10k words. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and as always, thank you for reading!
Chapter Warnings: The reader has severely unresolved trauma, angst, Arryk is a white knight.
"The axe forgets; the tree remembers." - Zimbabwean Proverb from the Shona tribe.
You were still determining your place inside Maegor's Holdfast, unfamiliar with the royal wing layout like you were with the rest of the Keep, having found an abandoned terrace that the court long forgot. Leaves of green ivory crawled up the side of the castle, wrapping around the red rock banister like an unkempt tree in the Godswood.
Your eyes gazed at the iron mote of spikes that protected the Holdfast. They shined wet like a predator's teeth, grinning back at you in misery.
Your body felt full, yet empty, full of swirling emotions and thoughts you had long buried, stirring the formerly clear water into a murky pool. Yet in that same emotion, you felt nothing, the well dried up from a summer's prolonged drought left with dust and sand at the bottom. You were uncertain if the nothingness was a blessing. Conceivably, it was your psyche's way of coping with the trauma of your life's story. You were fearful that if you suddenly felt those surges of memories, thoughts, and regrets, the iron spikes would be dripping with your blood.
Your title was called out from behind you so softly and so tender it was a whisper in the wind, almost causing you to disregard it as a trick of your mind. The sound of armor clanking and fabric rustling told you otherwise.
"Princess, the hour is late. You must get your rest," Ser Arryk expressed, his voice as compassionate as a mother. You refused to answer, the energy to move your lips and tongue long sapped out from crying.
He stepped onto the balcony until he was beside you, his arms stiff behind his back, shoulders tense at the silence. Arryk was conflicted about what to do. He knew he could not order you to sleep. His position was not one to command the eldest daughter of Daemon Targaryen, but he was assigned to be your sworn protector in all matters, whether defending you from a foe or yourself.
"My Lady, you need not speak of what has stolen you from sleep, but let it take no longer. I shall lead you to your bed chambers," the kingsguard offered kindly, leaving no room for rejection.
Finally, your eyes met his blue ones, seeing your black lashes clumped together from tears. Arryk wanted to comfort and embrace you as any good-natured person would but refrained, simply placing an inviting palm on your shoulder. He had seen you at your worst years ago after your brawl with the Septa, knuckles swollen and red with the blood of the older woman, beautiful face pink and glistening with tears down your cheeks.
Otto Hightower, be damned. Damned to the fiery pits of the Seven Hells to burn for all eternity for what he made Arryk do. You were too dear to the knight to betray your trust anymore. Though Ser Arryk never discovered any hurtful information other than the peculiarity of you and the eldest son of the King's relationship. He spent every waking moment inhaling the same air as you, breathing in each exhale like it was his last. How could he ever betray your trust in good conscience?
"Aegon was the one who discovered Lyra's plans to smuggle me out of Kings Landing. He killed them." Your words tore him from his internal struggle with shock.
Arryk's brows scrunched in confusion, trying to recall what you were saying. His face paled when he did, remembering the blotchy grey faces displayed on the battlements of the Red Keep for all to see, for all to see the Hand's justice. May Lord Hightower's death be long and painful for what he did to you, Arryk thought.
"I wish Aegon were dead," you spoke aloud without realizing it.
The knight became worried, suddenly closing the distance between you to make somehow your confession disappear. "Princess. You must be careful what you say here. The walls have ears, and the ears have eyes."
"No, Ser Arryk. Let them hear it," you protested, your nails digging crescents into your palms. "Mayhaps they will understand the agony I have suffered all these years. The mornings and nights I have laid awake in bed, praying to the Old Gods and the New for them to somehow bring her back and make it so nothing happened." You sucked in a ragged breath, hiccuping from the remnants of your tears as your body became too challenging to carry. "I cannot do this anymore. I cannot be here."
The kingsguardmen did not understand your true meaning of how you desired greatly to leave this whole charade behind, to return to Dragonstone and watch little Joffery and the younger Viserys and Aegon grow into their skins, to watch Lucerys become the man you were confident for him to be. Instead, Arryk thought the worst, believing your words to be final and life-ending, as he firmly grabbed your biceps.
He said your name gently yet sternly, causing your glazed eyes to widen. "You must not think like that. I shan't allow it," he commanded. "You are the strongest maiden in the realm. You ride the fiercest dragon, feared by humans and its species. You have endured hardships and trials a girl of your age should never have to, and even when your blood was stolen from you, you did not turn to resentment. You were not bitter to those undeserving."
You attempted to move your face away from Arryk's, unconvinced at his words. He was so close that you could smell the mint leaves on his tongue. "You are stronger than you know, and until then, each moment like this, you will feel as if it is too much, but you will always find yourself emerging on the other side."
No words made their way to your lips, and you suddenly felt the rush of emotions you had thought dried. You stepped away from Arryk, embracing your torso as you faced the opened doors that led inside. You didn't want to feel anything. Not now, nor ever again. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you returned to the silver-armored knight of the Kingsguard.
"I seem to have lost my bearings, Ser Arryk," you whispered into the chill night air. "Will you help me find my way back to the guest wing?"
The request was a peace offering, a silent "thank you" for his unfailing kindness. If he had not dedicated his life in service to the King, he would've made an excellent father and an even better husband.
Ser Arryk nodded stiffly, taking long strides ahead of you until all you could see was his pristine white cape flowing like a field of wheat in the wind.
***
You desperately desired to stay within the confines of your bed, as if laying underneath the thin cotton sheets would protect you from the outside world. It was silly, and you felt childish, but truly, that was all you were—a child disguised as a woman painting a facade of fierceness and maturity on your skin. But the pigments had cracked and bleached from weathering winds, rains, and suns until it revealed the canvas underneath. You wished desperately for the chips to be covered, groping at your flesh to hide them from the world.
But it was too late, for they had seen the peeled paint and what lay beneath—a frightened young girl yearning for acceptance and love.
Tears returned to your eyes, a common occurrence over the past fortnight. Your maids had become used to seeing you sniffling in your bed as you were now, covers tucked underneath your nose to hide your sobs. They had tried more than once to find the root of your sadness, but you were a closed door, keeping those who cared for you locked from entering.
Helaena had moved your quarters to the Holdfast as she promised, something you were initially looking forward to. It meant less sneaking around the halls and the corridors of the Keep like a mouse to find Aegon, but that was why precisely you dreaded it now. Though you had scarcely seen him, no doubt drunker than a Bravosi sailor in the pillow houses, the fact that he resided within the same wing made your skin prickle with disgust.
He had yet to return your dagger, small and silver with dragons on the hilt, and you had half a mind to storm inside his chambers for it, but each time you were within eyesight of his door, profound nausea and the sting of tears would stop you.
How could you have lain with the man who bore the blood of two innocents? How could Aegon lay with the kin of the people he sentenced to death? You knew him to be cruel and unusual, but that was something even you could not rightly justify.
Aegon was no matter, you told yourself, rising from your bed at the smell of ham and boiled eggs. All that did was ensuring your Mother's smooth succession. You could achieve it in other manners of not seducing the eldest son of the King. Your presence was something enough to stop them should the Stranger take your Grandsire, and if Queen Alicent and Lord Otto Hightower try to place Aegon on the throne, you would gut her, then her Father, then her beloved first son before the following morn.
You would kill a legion of men before Aegon ever sat upon the Iron Throne, even if it meant your demise.
It's what your Father would want. He would proudly let his daughter lay down her life in service to the crown, just as he would. There would be no nobler of a death.
Jeyne had readied your bath and outfit for the day, a high-collared dress made of black satin. Small silver plates of metal and beads that looked like dragon scales were sewn on the torso in a 'v' shape, accentuating the scandalous low cut of your gown. The sleeves were a long, unsewn style, the stitching keeping them together ending just before the crook of your arm and flowing around you like a cape at your sides. You paired it with an ornate belt, the design of swirling dragons with their teeth bared melted into the steel, matching hammered cuffs on your wrists. Your necklace was a simple chain, needlelike links dripping down your sternum until they looped into your house sigil.
You looked to be in mourning garbs rather than the typical court colors, a common occurrence. Perhaps you were, in a sense, mourning. Mourning a loss you should have accepted years ago, weeping for happiness free of politics and schemes, mourning the connection from someone you tried so hard not to form one with.
The three ladies had learnt not to ask why you made such decisions in your clothes. They would only be met with a lie and a smile that stretched a bit too wide. They understood that something had happened and did their best to tread carefully. You were not cross with them, no matter how hurt, vengeful, or angry. Fiora, Jeyne, and Dyanna were innocent in all this, as Sara was, and you refused to have them involved with any of your personal affairs in fear of what would become of the three women.
You paused momentarily, adjusting the designed belt to rest comfortably on your waist, realizing the littlest maid was not there.
"Where is Dyanna?" you asked calmly, curious but not concerned about where she could be. "Is she unwell?"
"No, Princess," Fiora answered, ushering you to the vanity. "She's been assigned to care for Princess Helaena's children after one of the nursemaids fell ill and had to be sent home."
Your brows scrunched in confusion, frowning at the memory of your time with the young Prince and Princess. You have seen the little ones almost every day since the beginning of the planting season, and you haven't noticed any ailments in their caretaker.
You reasoned that illnesses always had the potential to be a sudden onset of symptoms. You had seen in your childhood on the merchant streets how a vendor was acceptable one day, selling different fruits and vegetables you could never afford, then the next, gone without a trace due to a fever. You hoped Jaehaerys and Jaehaera did not catch whatever it was. The first decade of a child's life was the most precarious, their tiny bodies not used to the dirt and disease the realm had to offer.
You left the thought at that, hoping to see the skittish, fair-skinned girl with them. A grimace made its way to your face, attempting to ignore how the wooden comb snagged on a tangle in your hair. Fiora styled it into a braided updo. Two thick plaits in a 'u' shape lay at your skull's base, a silver three-layered chain with black star sapphires pinning it to your hair. Clasping a pair of fan-shaped earrings in your lobes, you stood, stealing one last boiled egg before bidding your ladies farewell and greeting Ser Arryk at the door.
He followed wordlessly, as any knight should, observing how your hips slightly swayed with each step of your leather slippers. Arryk had tread carefully since that scornful night. Since the night you reeked of sweat, alcohol, and tears. He remembered seeing the stars reflected in your dark eyes, the violet hidden during the hour of the wolf, and he couldn't help but think how things might have been if your Father wasn't a Targaryen.
Perhaps he could've met you before he swore to take no wife and bear no heirs. Possibly still while he was a simple bannermen, living from allowance to allowance. Arryk would not have the luxuries he had now if it happened, but if ever given a chance, he might leave it all behind. It would be a shame to leave the highest rank a knight of lower-born descent could achieve, but he would do it for love, for only if you loved him back.
Your guard had suddenly stopped following behind you, standing idly with a slight wrinkle on his forehead and hand on the pommel of his sword.
"Ser Cargyll?" you questioned without words incredulously, tilting your head to the side.
He was silent for a moment more, seeming to come back from wherever he was inside his mind. It was a dangerous place to be inside one's head for too long. It sent some men mad, some women to despair, and some to where they could never leave. You knew what it was like when one would stay inside too long. It sent you reeling in anger, sadness, and joy. There is too much inside not to get lost in.
"Princess, this is not the way to the Godswood," Ser Arryk stated, the crease on his forehead gone.
"I know, Ser. We are not going to the Godswood today," you answered politely, not elaborating further as you continued walking.
"If you don't mind me asking, your Grace, where are we going?"
You flashed a bright smile at Arryk, glancing behind before coyly turning away. He started at the back of your intricately braided hair, mesmerized by the being that was you. His eyes traced how your ebony strands crossed in on themselves, the way the golden chains bounced with every stride. The knight noiselessly cursed the Maiden and the Mother for making you in their image.
While Ser Arryk did recognize the halls you traveled, he was sure you didn't. Your head twists and turns each way, peering into every door and threshold, searching for something he was unsure of.
"Princess, I may be a knight, but I am your protector. 'Tis my right to know your plans and destinations," he commanded as kindly a man could in hopes of not securing your wrath.
He had seen it once before in the training yard at the hour of ghosts, Prince Aegon standing too close to be considered appropriate, his sworn protector nowhere in sight. Despite Arryk's place on the ramparts above and the sun having long set in the west, he could spot the twitches underneath your eye, barely containing malice on your pursed lips as you pulled your bowstring. The knight hadn't noticed how you did it, but a rock was within the place of the arrow as you shot it at the crown Prince's foot, earning a yelp from the twenty-year-old lecher.
You turned back to him, crossing your arms with an undignified huff. "I am not gallivanting off into the Kingswood, Ser Cargyll. I do not understand your persistence with the matter." Arryk attempted to hide the frown that pulled his lips, but you saw him sighing softly and looking to the floor to think over your words more carefully. "We are visiting Grand Maester Orwyle. He has a collection of history and law books that has peaked my interest."
You stepped towards him, breathing a calming breath through your nose, and dropped your arms. Ser Arryk was a fragile soul, simple almost, only following the linear path of honor and duty with no concern for whether it was right or wrong. If the King said it, he did it. If the Queen said it, he did it. If you said it, he did it. His singular vision of things was almost admirable at times. To blindly follow orders without the moral guilt of your actions was something you hoped for. It would make things easier in this game of thrones and less heavy to bear.
But that wasn't life. That wasn't the fate the Gods intended for those with responsibility, though many attempted. Rhaenyra tried, and if you were her, impending the ever-looming doom of the crown, you too would stay tucked away in the little world where life felt light.
Arryk took your stillness as an invitation to walk alongside you, silently leading you to the Maester's quarters and saving your pride from ignorance. You ordered him to stay outside, and he obeyed without a second thought, dipping his head and muttering, "Princess."
Maester Orwyle was hunched over a large oak desk, tomes scattered across it, pieces of parchment covering most of the surface; peeking between them were lighter patches on the wood worn from centuries of usage. It was a simple room with a cot at the far end of it, large bookcases occupying most of the space. Multiple candles were lit throughout the dim room, the smell of incense burning heavily. Shelves lined the bare walls, glass bottles of liquids, salves, and dried herbs occupying them.
The brown-skinned man looked up from his work upon your entrance, sitting the quill he was writing with inside the inkwell and standing.
"Princess, how can I help you?" he asks sincerely. You could still recall when you first met him, scribbling notes and assisting the former Maester Mellos as he tended to you.
"I was inquiring if I may borrow some books of laws from your collection. I find myself not reading the correct ones in the library to assist my studies."
You weren't lying. You couldn't find the text you were searching for because it was not only laws. It was the death records of prisoners, and only the keeper of those things had access to them in their collection.
"Ah. I see," Orwyle nodded, rising from his desk and clasping his hands behind his canvas robes. He led you across the room, showing you to the section. "May I ask what specificity you require so that I may lead you to the correct tome?"
You planned for him to ask you this, and as you rehearsed a dozen times in your head, you smiled, bobbing politely. "Of course. I am in search of the laws regarding war aid. We have provided some to the Stepstones, and Lord Corlys brought to my attention that they require more. I do not want to make it seem like the Crown is inserting itself into the conflict."
He beamed slightly, a sight you never recalled seeing on the man before as he directed you to the section of law. An entire side of the bookshelf dedicated to just that, tomes of varying shades of green, brown, and black, and you blanched at the sight. What would the records be like if this was only the law section? Would you have time to sort through them all to find the one you need?
"Thank you," you said, concealing the sudden rush of anxiety within your gut. "I realized that your collection was vast, but this is..." you trailed off, gesturing to everything around you, "expansive. How do you ever keep track of them all?"
Orwyle chuckled, seeming to preen under what he took as praise, bowing in gratefulness. "It is not all from me, Princess. Each book has been added with every Maester since they were brought to the Keep. We simply divide each shelf by memory, though we try to keep the subjects together."
"That is..." you couldn't find the right words, truly at a loss for them as you stared at the collection before you, "extraordinary. You must show me everything!"
You took his arm in yours, leading him out of the secluded area like a child with their playmate, giggling like an unwed maiden as you skipped along. Orwyle was surprised by your giddy demeanor, contrasting the dim and almost gloomy atmosphere despite the late morning sun shining through the tall stained glass windows. The Maester was alone within these four walls, writing, studying, and mixing away with the occasional Lord or Lady stopping by. To have such radiant company was a welcomed intrusion to his duty-filled days.
Men are so easy. All you had to do was smile demurely, flutter your lashes, and they would eat shit out of the palm of your hand.
Orwyle guided you, explained how each section was organized, and added his anecdotes. You listened intently, nodding along to every word, no matter how minute it seemed. This endeavor had proven more fruitful than you intended. The Maester had enjoyed your company so much that he invited you back, insisting that you could pick whatever book you wished before he left to return to his work.
And so you did. Traversing to your rooms with six tomes piled high in your limbs before Ser Arryk insisted he carry some, keeping one hidden between the stack within your hold.
Once you reach your chambers, your sworn shield follows you, placing the stacks on a table with neatly stacked parchment, a letter sealed with the Targaryen emblem in black wax resting beside your writing set. You catch Arryk eyeing it for longer than appropriate, and you purposely meet his gaze, a raised brow on your face.
"That is all, Ser Cargyll. I thank you for your assistance." You never fail to detect how he stiffens when you say his title, a quirk you've been unable to comprehend.
As always, he bows and takes his leave, shutting the door noiselessly behind him. When the lock clicks, your hands immediately snatch the letter, knowing who it's from. You lived for the notes from your family; they were the lifeline that kept you afloat in the brackish waters of Kings Landing. It was your only form of communication with them, and you looked ahead to whatever they had to say, no matter how asinine or mundane the contents were.
You ripped the wax seal without care, devouring each word, your eyes moving too fast for your mind to keep up. You could quickly tell it was from your Father, the lines of his letters thicker and more potent than your Mother's, his writing purposeful.
"Daughter,
I hope you find yourself well. Your Mother missed you dearly at Jacaerys' nameday this spring, but she looks forward to seeing you for Luke's later this year. I informed her that you are dealing with matters of importance that require your attention and would be unable to attend. Death comes when we least expect it with crowned heads and ambitious hands."
Tears stinging took you from reading, pursuing your lips to keep them from wetting the document and making the ink illegible. You longed to return to Dragonstone and see your family. Smell the scent of brimstone and salt and feel the damp sea air on your skin as you rode Cannibal high above Dragonmont.
Daemon's reasoning was understandable, but it hurt. It made your heart clench and your chest feel hollow. Resting your forehead on the heel of your palm, the letter in the other, you continued.
"I know this will upset you, but I trust you'll understand my reasoning. We must make sacrifices until your Mother sits on the throne uncontested. You see the concept of duty and loyalty to your kin. You've always been the one out of my children to unwaver in your will, and that is something I admire.
I received word from Lord Dalton Greyjoy, who has proposed marriage just as you said. Your wit and cunning never cease to amaze me, daughter. I still need to send word regarding my decision. I wanted you to be the one to decide.
Lord Greyjoy is a fine match for you. His fleet of long boats and swords rivals that of the crown itself, but I hold my reservations regarding his intentions with you. I believe you have outdone yourself, for he seems bewitched, intent on making you his Rock Wife, and I am unsure if that is harmful or helpful. I've heard the rumors of his treatment regarding his Salt Wives, and I will not tolerate such things toward my eldest child. Should you accept his proposal, and he does not honor his duty as lord husband, I shall cut off his cock and throw it into the sea as a gift for his Drowned God.
Think over this. I do not expect an answer within a moon. If he truly desires you in such a way, he will wait as long as you deem fit. My daughter is not a shiny coin to be plucked and placed in a crow's nest.
Expect a letter from Lucerys soon. He's been inquiring about your happiness. I believe he misses you more than your Mother and I put together. I await your next raven with patience.
Yours Respectfully, Prince Daemon Of House Targaryen"
You scoffed, throwing the letter haphazardly across the table. You knew the proposal from Lord Dalton would come eventually, as you had corresponded for the past seven moons. It was a gratifying distraction you should have taken seriously, your letters filled with much less pomp than was expected for a woman of your status. Possibly, in your lack of care, you inadvertently wooed him as his last raven was treading the line of inappropriate. You remembered how his words made you, a girl who spent her early years in a whore house, blush.
He would be an excellent match politically, and perhaps you could grow to love him, even better his treatment of his Salt Wives. But you knew better. Lord Dalton Greyjoy only loved two things in this world: bloodshed and women. He would grow tired of you swifter than you would him, and it was not proper for women of the realm to have paramours, hypocrisy be damned.
You didn't want to give the situation more thought. Your Father permitted you to mull; you would gladly take it, opening the records book hidden between the stacks.
The pages were easy enough to navigate. The Masters, if not anything, were thorough, creating an index of years in ascending order to the most recent. Your finger paused on the one you remembered so well. The year in which you were stolen everything that might have been. The year that the Stranger claimed two souls earlier than they should have.
You turned the pages.
The smell of aged leather and parchment wafted into the air, nearly choking on its scent in the back of your throat. They arranged the death records from the first of the year to the end of it, and you searched for the seventh moon. On the fifth day, only two deaths are recorded, that of two prisoners named Lyra Black and Sara Smithe. The cause was beheaded by members of the City Watch.
It did not say the names of who, an intelligent choice on the Maester's part, for if you knew, their deaths would become sooner. They were lucky Mellos or one of the many others had the foresight not to write them down, as other Maesters had, but it only made this all the more exciting. The satisfaction as you plunged your dagger into their necks, slicing through tendons, muscles, and vertebrae, ensuring they felt every bit of suffering, anguish, and fear Lyra and Sara felt.
It would be messy. There were many veins and arteries within one's neck. You needed to bring some water with you to wash before returning to your chambers. It would all be for naught if someone saw you walking the halls with blood dripping from your digits and face.
You wished it would be the dagger Daemon had gifted you for your first name day to cut through their flesh, but Aegon still possessed it.
It was no matter. You had four more from the past, but that one, with its silver handle and roaring dragons engraved on both sides, held a place deep within your heart. And Aegon took it, as he always did with things. Take, take, take without concern about who he stole from. You would get it back, but not now. That would raise too much suspicion, and you would not put it past the eldest Prince to run to his Grandsire or Mother as he has done before.
You tried to recollect that fateful night, searching your memory for any detail you could sounder up, but it was hazy. The years you had blurred the picture of the throne room in your mind's eye. It was too painful to remember. Each time you thought of it, it was flashes, little glimpses of faces and bodies and heads. When you thought of it, all you could see was Lyra's smile, spending her last moments trying to reassure you, the fear behind Sara's eyes within her shackles, Otto Hightower's indifference, and Alicent's inaction in the face of two innocents deaths. You would never forget that, nor ever forgive.
You were scarcely in the Great Hall for a moment, and even then, your attention was elsewhere. You witnessed Ser Criston Cole grabbing you, pulling you back, the Queen turning away, and Lyra's comforting grin. Then, you saw them, gaze following the loops of the metal chain attached to Lyra and Sara, hands gripping at it as if the two women were nothing more than dogs. You met the eyes of two Gold Cloaks. You did not know their names, but you would soon; their countenance now burned into your mind.
Masterlist of Series
I've decided to change my uploading schedule from Sun/Mon to whenever possible. I'll always let you know before I post so you won't have to ask, "when are you going to post?!" I know that's not fun, but it works best for me because I get myself so worked up over updating on time when I'm in control of the situation. Also, I'm going to be getting rid of people in my taglist who haven't interacted with this fi since the list is so big. I want to have it all in one and make room for those who are active. So if you've been in my notifs in the past two months, you'll be fine. Welp, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The chapters are gonna get a little messy from here! xD
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What reality television are the strawhats watching?
Luffy: he doesn’t have a huge attention span for much that isn’t related to his dreams or food. That being said, he’ll let Family Feud run in the background while he’s doing something else and randomly say the #1 answer anytime he pays attention. It’s kind of freaky how he does that
Zoro: normally not one for reality TV, get Zoro a few drinks in and he’ll watch American Ninja Warrior. He laughs when people fall and critiques their form
Nami: she actually went on Price is Right and won! They did, however, “slum dog millionaire” question her about whether or not she was cheating somehow
Sanji: you’d think he’d watch the bachelor and fantasize about it being him, but NOPE. Dating shows make him sad because how could anyone send home such a lovely lady!!! He’ll watch the bachelorette, though, and if you listen to his commentary you might hear him talking about which man he would choose
Ussop: bless his heart, most reality tv shows give him anxiety. Competition??? By choice???? Ummmmm no thanks. Until he sees Lego Masters, which is now his favorite show because it’s fun and the engineering feats he is realizing can be done with legos are incredible
Robin: surprise surprise, she loves Jeopardy. She tried getting on Jeopardy but something about her calm demeanor and unblinking eyes didn’t screen test well…
Chopper: Chopper loves watching the kids baking challenge. Sweets? Yes please. Kind adults? Yes! Adorable kids? Win win win!
Franky: Franky likes watching the Great British Bake Off and he cries when the old people get sent home
Brook: he’s watching American Idol, the Masked Singer, and the bachelor (he does not have the same hang ups as Sanji). He likes having the TV on when he’s home alone so it’s easy to watch and keep up with multiple shows.
Together: when they all get together, there are two shows they’ll watch. It’s either Survivor, which everyone thinks they’d be winning, or Say Yes to the Dress. Say Yes to the Dress gets ROWDY. Luffy and Zoro are talking about how garbage the mother in law is , Ussop, Sanji and Nami are talking about if the dress is reaaaaally worth 10k, Robin is psycho analyzing everyone, Chopper is crying because one of the brides is a cancer survivor, Franky is crying because love is so special, and Brook is watching all his friends just happy to be there.
#one piece#roronoa zoro#black leg sanji#nico robin#one piece franky#tony tony chopper#one piece brook#monkey d. luffy#reality television#ussop#you cannot tell me sanji Nami and Ussop aren’t sassy little demons when watching say yes to the dress
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Being a millenial/gen z irish person today is a state of perpetual ambivilence because I fucking hate my country, I hate living in Ireland, its a partitiond miserable rock where the south is a neoliberal hellhole where youre fucked if you dont earn 10k a month and will never own a home, and the North is a still sectarian, backwards shithole where ethnonationalist freaks with mental herpes literally shut down government because they dont have unanimous control over their slum of a "protestant state" anymore and any meaningful discussion to try and move things forward turns into flag shaggers going "BuT sINn FéIn IRa"
But at the same time, getting refreshers like the last few elections and the current public response to events in Palestine and how even hating living in this dump, we can still have a legitmite reason to be proud of our people and culture
Is cac í Éire, is cac é cónaí in éirinn, ach fós tá mé bródúil as a bheith éirreanach
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🖊 😈📝 for the fanfic ask game <3
hello!! <33
🖊 Post a snippet from a current WIP.
this is from what will (hopefully) be the main part of my webgott series so enjoy a couple hundred words of bickering™
“Joe, please. Just go home. Get a ticket back and go home.”
“We’re getting in the car. I’m getting a goddamn drink before I punch you in the face, and then you’re explaining yourself. You’re gonna tell me why I’m in cold fucking New York and we’re gonna go from there,” he puts his cigarette back to his lips once he’s finished. There’s a fire in Web’s eyes and for a fleeting second, there’s the chance he miscalculated how much will was involved here.
Web runs a hand through his hair, sweeping back the wet curls that have fallen over his forehead. His hair is getting longer. Teasing around the length that ends with Joe cutting it for him and pretending not to enjoy it. The idea of some stranger cutting it instead makes it feel like someone’s dropped something heavy onto the middle of his chest.
“I’m staying with my sister,” Web relents and Joe had taken half the train ride to imagine an awful meeting with one of his parents, but never a sibling. It might not be much better if his entire family is how he had pictured it through the brief sneaking looks behind the curtain Web had given him.
“You got a sister?” Joe’s eyebrow shoots up. The longer it goes on the more it feels like one beer won’t be enough.
“Yes, Joe. I have a sister,” Web looks even more exhausted, and there will be time later to pick apart why he’d never mentioned that to Joe.
“Daddy and Mommy Webster didn’t stop trying for rugrats after their golden boy?” Joe asks and Web looks about ten seconds away from beating him to throwing the first punch.
“She’s my older sister, asshole,” Web snears at him. Joe throws his hands up in mock surrender. They’re starting to attract glances from the passengers waiting for the next train to come in. A man in a suit too expensive to be slumming it with everyone else meanders around them with a glance.
😈 Is there anything you enjoy doing that you think your readers hate?
idk if i write it THAT much but- miscommunication and misunderstandings (that's resolved eventuallyyy) is fun but i feel like its a pretty split camp on people loving or hating it
📝 What is one growth area you have for your writing?
writing longer things!! i have a bad habit of deciding The Plot isn't working and consigning anything longer than 10k to collecting dust in my drafts
from these asks :)
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Mephisto somehow went from my most hated character to my 2nd favorite character after W. Maybe I’m just too fickle or emotional or not exposed to enough media with the same character archetype, but idk anymore man chapter 8 got me bawling my eyes out for this little shit.
(Its not like all the hate went poof tbh. I can’t forgive him for the crimes against humanity. The fact that even in Reunion everyone fucking hates him is a testament to his horrid personality. Part of me still wants the bear girls and probably 10k other victims to take turns smacking his smug face. But thinking about him just makes me so sad??)
He had a shit life. His family abused him, other slum kids bullied him, someone shoved a radioactive rock down his throat and gave him arknights cancer. Faust was his only friend and he would do anything to make him happy, even if he was beaten up even worse for it. Even after getting power, his first act of defiance (which is uh. killing his family by mind controlling the slum kids) was prompted by his bestie and not out of his own will. Then they got sent to the mines and almost starved to death. Then the first adult he ever trusted was possessed by some ancient evil guy and encouraged him to kill people, so he did just that. He didn’t even know it’s wrong until Faust basically killed himself. Then he wanted to die but couldn’t because Faust wouldn’t want that, so he turned himself into lugia funniest shit I’ve ever seen tried to wipe his memories to start over. But of course he failed and instead turned into an eldritch abomination that only caused more and more harm.
After everything I can’t even feel mad anymore, just… hopeless. The environment fucked him up so bad he sees no value in anyone’s life except Faust and Talulah. Then he fucked up so bad that everyone he knows is either dead or wants him dead, and who can blame them. At the end the only thing left is one broken kid with no self-worth, no dreams, no will to live, only the blood of thousands on his hands.
I know trauma isn’t an excuse to commit war crimes and other characters also have fucked up backstories but didn’t turn out like him. But I feel like most of them at least had some kind of guidance (through family or education) at some point of their lives. Mephisto’s guidance is terrorism. No surprise his moral compass is so fucked.
Tldr arknights got me depressed over the smug war criminal I’m deleting this fucking game >:’(
#dont wanna go ‘nooo he just a bby leave him alone’ but seriously at the end thats all he is#a broken and misguided kid with no future#i just want them to be happy#i would normally read fanworks or discussion threads to cheer myself up#but fandom reception towards mephisto is. fierce to say the least#at least on reddit where the cishet men who want to skewer his ass and give him the most miserable death reside#and the other side is cn/jpn artists who are terrifying for a different reason#god I wish my arknights blorbo was someone cool like silverash or ch’en or skadi#instead of this 13 year old terrorist who makes me sad everytime I think about him
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Dying constantly. Chapter 2 is at a solid 5K. Not done yet, hoping to at least get to 7K before release, we get to see Shelley this chapter. Brief glimpse of the child. Upcoming chapters (specifically The Mosswater Incident, maybe the Victoria chapter and the Slums moment) will hopefully be longer and average maybe 9-10K if words go well.
#we might see Corey too but I’m unsure if the situation calls for me to pull the Mr molinar card#I feel like maaaaybe. but I’m iffy on the details#⦻ RebornSP
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Can we have a little of that delicious sw fic you're cooking? As a little treat? May we?
SCREAMINGM when I saw this ask I admittedly got a little teary bc omg ! people are interested in my other projects ! im kissing u uwu
context: I've been stewing on a star wars maul/oc fic outline for years but only just started officially reworking it/ taking writing it seriously. this shit spans canonical decades. it's insane. it's my baby fr
further context: the [self insert] oc's name is Ermine; she is an ex-Jedi from the Outer Rim planet Ezoria (original creation... so much lore). The beginning of the story finds her homeless in the slums of the underbelly of Coruscant after being expelled from the Jedi Temple, stealing and bartering to survive. She is full of resentment and longing for an escape.
Narrowing down an appropriate excerpt is a little hard considering all 10k words of what I've successfully written so far is basically expositional (like I said, this is a WHOPPER of an idea), but I tried to get a good snippet that gives a feel for Ermine and the ~vibes~
Ezoria is a distant memory, yet it is still so vivid in her mind. The tiny Outer Rim planet is unknown to most and by design, with its secretive people and sacred worship of the forests and their giant insectoid inhabitants. The culture and personhood of its human inhabitants is intrinsically tied to the planet, which makes it all the more difficult to be severed from it. Being separated from her native planet leaves a gaping hole in Ermine, which is unfillable in all regards. Something is missing from her life, and it was torn away from her. Her deep-seated resentment festers more with each day— the ironic twist of fate which resulted in her expulsion from the Jedi Temple four achingly long cycles ago. If she had never been taken from her home, perhaps her emotions could’ve been reined in. Perhaps she could’ve been a good, obedient Jedi. But now she is exiled to the streets of lower Coruscant, with a hole in her soul and a pulsing resentment towards those who took her and those who so willingly gave her away.
Therein lies the young woman’s dilemma: she wants to return home, but cannot. She cannot because, for one, she cannot pay a travel fare. And perhaps even worse, she would certainly not be welcomed back into her village if they found out who she is. They gave her away. An innocent little girl, lost to the whims of her inexplicable powers, and they gave her away to the robed travelers with their glowing swords. They said she was cursed by the elder forest to be a burden and a danger to the village— a witch, a beacon for the holy insectoids to come and ravage their crops and homes.
Ermine catches her train of thought before she can publicly spiral. She’s learned to keep her wits when others are around, lest the tables turn and she herself become the one at risk of being taken advantage of by the apathy and cruelty of strangers. She schools a neutral countenance and stills her roiling mind. She finishes her plate of soggy mush and pushes it towards Janna’s side of the counter, then calls her goodbyes and departs the stand. He knows she will pay him his dues at the end of the week, like usual.
Finally back in her hideaway for the remainder of the night, Ermine can shed the layers of her rough persona and relax. Well, as much as is possible when the bustling noise of lower Coruscant still persists outside the tin and fabric walls of her hovel. She slowly follows her nightly routine, folding her well-worn outer garments to put aside and out of the way. She unlatches her wide hide belt and unhooks the sabers from either side, reverently placing them beside her bent leg. The interior of her hut is dark, but her eyes have adjusted well to the years of heavy darkness below the surface level of the ecumenopolis.
#this is one of those fics I have where the self insert & storyline is so special to me that it's inseparable from my actual personhood#goldfinch writes#anon ask
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tune into no love for ned on wlur tonight from 8pm until midnight!
i've been informed that the automation system at wlur has a couple years of old no love for ned episodes queued up to air every night between midnight and 4am to offer the solace of strange sounds to all those lonely overnight souls.
for the rest of the world- you can check out last week's show on mixcloud whenever you'd like. i'm trying to get the rest of 2023 up there and then we'll see about getting 2022 and further back!
no love for ned on wlur – october 20th, 2023 from 8-10pm
artist // track // album // label
luna // ihop // pup tent // elektra
winten // waving to my girl // waving to my girl // (self-released)
rat columns // virtual sweden // babydoll // tough love
jungle breed // simpatico // wynona, paloma, papilloma // blossom rot
ducks limited // the main thing // harm's way // carpark
the vovos // go die in the woods // little gubben // blossom rot
the bug club // marriage // rare birds: hour of song // we are busy bodies
brontez purnell // forgive me, philip // white boy music ep // post present medium
the exbats // to all the mothers that i’d like to forgive // song machine // goner
porpoise spit // people like me // don't quit // psychic hysteria
chris corsano and bill orcutt // part one // play at duke // palilalia
monocot // crumpled green // leave to cool // astral editions
mike nock, bennie maupin, cecil mcbee and eddie marshall // symbiosis // spiritual jazz volume fourteen- private compilation // jazzman
caroline davis and alula // the promise i made (for joyce ann brown) // captivity // ropeadope
kibrom birhane // mender // here and there // flying carpet
kamaal williams featuring brian hargrove and sharay reed // the guvna // stings // black focus
dawn richard // bubblegum // the architect ep // merge
shanin blake // bad bitch energy // bad bitch energy digital single // (self-released)
mike featuring taka // they don't stop in the rain // burning desire // 10k
maxo // another. land // debbie's son // smile for me
meernaa // another dimension // so far so good // keeled scales
moondaddy // helicopter // poet lies // volar
the reds, pinks and purples // what will heaven be like? // murder, oral sex and cigarettes ep // (self-released)
the particles // observations // 1980's bubblegum // chapter music
symbol soup // overdressed // slow puncture // sad club
the siddeleys // what went wrong this time // slum clearance // matinée
the proctors // fun sunday // everlasting light // shelflife
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Episode 6 of Kek EarWaves with Mike (10k)
GG Wav x 10K
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(MIKE)
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LETS FUCKING GO
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home is where the hearts are (and my hearts are a universe away)
summary:
No one truly knows home until they lose it.
The Doctor has never truly known home until he lost his.
And as he continues on, living day after day, with his new companion Martha Jones by his side, he is forced to confront the home he has lost time and time again.
That home?
Not Gallifrey, with her flaming skies and silver-touched trees, but instead a woman.
A woman called Rose.
OR: 10K words-worth of the Doctor being and angsty mess (as usual) with Martha along for the ride.
home is where the hearts are (and my hearts are a universe away)
“Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside your ribcage.” – E.E. Cummings
---
Martha Jones is a singularly brilliant woman. She is gutsy and earnest and has potential in spades – just like any good human, any good companion should have; after all, why else would the Doctor choose them above the rest?
But Martha Jones is also simply Martha. She’s brilliantly astute and outstandingly capable and simply a Doctor (well, in training) – she’s unparalleled in her need to look past the symptoms, unparalleled in her knowledge that she needs to find the source if she is to fix, or at least stop and relieve, the pain and the wasting away of her patient.
The Doctor is no patient of hers. He's spectacularly dazzling and informative in his knowledge of the unknown and yet frustratingly elusive regarding the information of himself. Martha can count what she knows about him on one hand whilst she walks along, shivering, in the rundown slums of New New (and many more New’s) New York:
One, he’s alien. Brilliantly, stupidly alien — he’s not got a clue about her interest and it stings just a bit (truthfully, it’s more than a bit. But, she’s Martha – Doctor-in-training-Martha Jones – and she won’t revolve around one man – one alien – she won't! – and yet, as she watches him run his hands through his hair, she can't help herself. )
Two, Martha Jones knows that there is no Doctor without the TARDIS, and that there is no TARDIS without the Doctor; it's a fact, a solid, undeniable, unequivocal fact. She knows that her presence as a guest, as simply someone to be carted off and dropped at the Doctor's fancy, will not change that fact of the Universe – so, question this, why does the missing presence of Rose change it?
Rose, who was probably brilliant but left the Doctor all the same, why does she change the game? Why does Rose (my friend Rose would know what to do –) leave such a longing, yearning, heartbreaking look on his face and pleading in his voice?
(Why does it leave a hole in his heart?)
And despite it, despite all that she doesn’t know about The Doctor, she (brilliant, brimming - with - potential Martha Jones) is determined to find out.
“What did he mean, the Face of Boe? When he said you’re not alone?” Martha asks, red leather clinging to her frame as she stands million of years ahead of her time, under a different sky and with a different dirt underneath her feet.
The Doctor turns, a musing and honest smile on his face as he throws away a “I don’t know.” It shouldn’t surprise her, but it does – to know that he doesn’t know what she might;
She swallows, stepping forward, a reassurance (a question) on the tip of her tongue, “You’ve got me. Is that what he meant?”
(“There’s me.” she had said, and back then, he believed her – how could he not? She had captured his hearts.)
She watches as the Doctor’s whimsical smile disappears, a burdened, hard, look entering his eyes; it doesn’t take much to know that she’s just reminded him of Rose.
The smile disappears from her face before he’s even said anything.
“I don’t think so.”
He looks down at his shoes, battered and beaten.
He looks up, open-eyed and trembling.
(and her heart cries out –)
“Sorry.”
So she pulls up a chair (quite literally), and plants herself in it; The Doctor thrives off of twisting answers and exploring the unknown, and yet, he never lets himself be examined; Never lets Martha get any answers, and that’s going to change.
“You staying, then?” He asks, looking around the slums in that infuriating way, as if it tells him more than it’ll ever tell her.
“Yes,” because right now, Martha Jones needs to make a stand. She has to find the source – and if not that, even a morsel of the truth would be enough; “I’m staying, Doctor, until you tell me what The Face of Boe meant. He said “Last of your Kind”! What does that mean, Doctor? Because I’m not moving until you tell me what he meant – your planet? Your people? Where’s your home, Doctor?”
And really, what could the Doctor say?
How could he tell her about his home?
How could the Doctor tell her about the great chasm missing in his delicate, delicate, hearts?
Because, despite it all, Gallifrey was never home – a place to stay, yes.
A place to return to when they called him despite his transgressions? Of course.
But home?
A place where he was loved and not seen as a defect, an anomaly – but as someone that truly mattered?
Home, to him, was a person; a pink and yellow person, with the brightest of smiles, the most dazzling of heart, and the kindest, most compassionate person he knew (knows. she’s alive, so alive – but she’s a universe away, away from him — ) She was not sophisticated, nor traditionally accomplished when he first met her (she had no publicly celebrated accolade to her name nor a superior achievement) – but to him?
She brightened his days after the darkness, she healed him with her compassion and challenged him to let go of his past, to understand that there is a world, a whole universe, beyond the shadows of his past. Rose Tyler, he thought, was the only home he had ever had – she welcomed him into her world, into her family, and she captured his hearts.
And now?
Now, he has no home.
Now, he only has himself and the TARDIS and an empty space in hearts meant for someone called ‘Rose’.
“My home is...so, so, far away. I can’t reach it, Martha Jones, no matter how hard I try.”
He swallows.
He doesn’t sit by her, no, he just lets the voices of the city’s choir let him drift. How long had it been since he simply listened?
Listened to the silence and the echoes of people and memories forgotten, listened to those haunted memories and thoughts he wilfully ignored and repressed.
“My home, my planet...they’re so far away.” Because of me, he wants to say, all because of me. But he doesn’t. He looks at Martha, with her brown eyes and creased eyebrows and forges ahead with his tale.
And what a tragic tale it is.
(But what he knows not, is that it is not a tragedy. No, it is destiny.)
“There was a war. The Time War. A battle for the Universe, my people against the Dalek race...We all lost, in the end. No hero or saviour, no great enemy defeated.” He looks, now, at her.
He wants to laugh, and what a laugh it would be: cruel and pathetic and desperate.
Simply, undeniably, desperate.
“My planet’s gone, Martha. Gallifrey, the old planet was called.” He closes his eyes, reminiscing of that beautiful, beautiful, planet with the most terrible, terrible, people. “My people, Gallifreyans and Time Lords alike, and the Daleks, dead. There’s no one left, except me. My friends, my family – all gone. The sky, with its two suns, both rising from the South and the East...The silver leaves, shining as the suns hit just right. The peaks of Mount. Caddon, where I grew up...All of it, everything, every animal and child and adult and plant – gone.”
Martha looks at him, and opens her mouth.
She swallows and stands, coming to stand in front of him.
“Your home, Doctor...It wasn’t Gallifrey, was it?”
He could lie.
He could, and she wouldn’t know any better.
But that would be a disservice to Rose; that would be a disservice to himself.
How could he lie, about something so precious?
“No.”
(That is the moment she realises she will never capture his hearts, for they will always be in the hands of another – and how it hurts, how it hurts so!)
He turns his back on her, looking over his shoulder.
“No, it wasn’t. My home was infinitely more precious than the planet of Gallifrey. My home was warm. Gallifrey and her people were only ever cold to the likes of me.”
He walks away now, leaving her amidst the songs of foolish hope, in the slums of a newly awakened planet.
Perhaps he is cruel, but whenever was he not?
He’s shared enough.
He’s shared more than enough, so now let him be.
Let him be.
(let him revel in his pain, let him ignore what must be remembered – let him hold those memories close, of better, happier, times without tainting them with the days and people and realities of the present.)
---
“And it didn’t even occur to him? Falling in love?”
Martha doesn’t know what to tell him. How could she explain everything The Doctor was – is? His past and present and his importance, when John Smith is so simple minded and selfish and, and –
“What kind of man do you want me to turn into, Martha? He has no family, nor friends – no one to call his own! You would – would condemn me to that existence? He has no hearth, no home!”
And she can’t stand it anymore.
Because that – that statement, is such an abominable lie!
He does have it – have a home, that is. Maybe Martha can never be his home, his comfort (and she is realising this, however painfully) but...he has one.
A home.
He may never say it, never utter her name because it pains his (ever-so-fragile) hearts, but he does.
And he loves her, adores her, so much. She may never have a face to Martha, never even a voice, but her presence in the TARDIS, in the Doctor's mind and hearts, is so palpable and real and simply there it hurts beyond comprehension sometimes.
“He does, though!” she bursts out, reaching forwards, grabbing his hands and looking imploringly into his eyes.
She is sincere and genuine and, and – and it hurts, hurts so fucking much.
“The Doctor, his people, his planet...they’re gone, all gone. But his home,” She looks now, at him, so hopeful and earnest, “She’s alive. So alive . She’s not there, not now, but her ...she’s his home. They’re separated, and I don’t know how...I don’t know why, even. But, John Smith, please believe me, that woman...even if The Doctor doesn’t say, even if it pains him to even utter her name…”
She stares up at him, eyes imploring and heart in her throat and desperate, bursting hope in her chest.
“You love her, so, so, much. And it hurts so much, because I love that man to bits, I really do, and he doesn’t even look at me. Not a glance,” she chuckles, and it breaks John’s heart.
“But…that woman, she makes The Doctor better, far more than he is with me. I’m here because he needs someone, anyone – I’m here because he’s lonely. But to help him? To cure him, to make him better? He needs her. Not Joan, not me – not the TARDIS or the running or even the adventure.”
“His only condition, despite his superior biology, despite his two hearts and his brilliant mind and unfathomable knowledge and brimming intellect – despite everything, despite every inane detail and brilliant self – his only condition…is heartbreak. And I...I need him. I need him to save us and stop The Family. I need him to stop running away and just listen . Listen to me, listen to his own self. I need – I need him to be brave.”
There is so much he could ask – about her adventures and if she's delusional. He could ask of her presumptuous nature and her self-sacrificing one. He could ask of the woman in gold, with space and time in her eyes, in her veins, and the daughter he lost (did, will, would – ). He could ask so many things (about the woman in his dreams, about the companions of his past, of the troubles of his future – )
He could ask was John Smith not a person too? He could ask if he would've ever lived a normal life, with the shadow of The Doctor always nearby, always plaguing him.
But he only has one question.
A question that sends his heart - hearts? - ablaze like Joan never could. It sends his heart tumbling and flying and simply yearning.
“Her name...the one this Doctor-fellow loved. Pray tell me...What was it? What was her name?”
Martha blinks; once, twice.
She could say she doesn’t know.
She could lie. She really could.
She could save him (and her) the heartache.
She could lie, about not knowing the name, her name, and John Smith wouldn’t know any better.
Except she, Doctor-in-Training Martha Jones, would know.
She would know, and knowing and not telling when she could cure him of this desperation – this madness, even when temporarily human…she would betray herself and her oath to always care for those who required it.
She whimpers inside and rasps it out, that wonderful, horrible, name.
“Her name was Rose, John.”
She blinks and looks pleading.
“Rose.”
And there it is, the name that means so much and yet so little.
“That’s all he ever told me, apart from the fact that she was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”
“Rose?”
(“I’m The Doctor, by the way. What’s your name?” And he, John, no, The Doctor, looks at her – breathless and bright-eyed and fresh faced. She’s pink and yellow and, and – so, so, beautiful. She’s wonderful and simply enchanting and –
“Rose. M’name’s Rose.”
And – is this what falling under an enchantment (falling in love –) must feel like?)
Rose.
Rose. Rose. ROSE!)
He clenches that wretched pendant in his hands, stroking its exterior so gently, ever so gently.
He speaks now, tentative and questioning.
“Rose Tyler and John Smith? No, that’s not right…”
He looks at Martha, forgetting Joan and the way his life (feeble and only pretend) has been upturned; he looks at her and sees not his maid, but perhaps someone he travelled with. Someone he cared for not in the way she wanted, but the way he needed to.
(There, in the recesses of his faux-memory – two hands held, intertwined with each other like roots, tentative, burning love exchanged like butterflies and passionate, warming friendship turned to something far more in the span of only a few days –)
“No, no, it’s… I –”
He gasps, clutching the left side of his chest, feeling a burning, a yearning, deep inside. He cradles it, yet still feels the phantom pain on the right side of his chest. A heart missing, Martha says.
“Rose Tyler and The Doctor, in The TARDIS, forever.”
(Was it her? Was it Rose Tyler that was missing, that left him only one, empty, yearning, heart?)
Martha doesn’t know what that means. Perhaps she never will, but if John Smith, so shallow and simple-minded and so, so, stupid, remembers, then – then it must, absolutely must, mean something to him: to The Doctor.
“Exactly. Not John and Joan, or you and me. The Doctor…and Rose Tyler. More than me, she - Rose - needs him. Not John, the human willing to let the village burn for a false life and a bigoted woman, but The Doctor, who is kind enough to hide in order to spare The Family of Blood and cowardly enough to run away to escape his memories.”
He strokes the fob watch, cursed as its existence is; he traces its grooves, the spiralling, twisting, circles and the rim of the latch.
How beautiful it is.
(How cursed it is.)
There’s a creak of wood in front of him, and he looks up.
It’s Tim.
“Do you know,” he says quietly, looking at the watch in John’s hands, “Even though he was like fire and ice and rage. Even though he’s like the night and the storm in the heart of the Sun…with her, he was warm. Even though he’s ancient and forever, even though he can see the turn of the Universe – even though he burns at the centre of Time… Rose Tyler is his centre. ‘The Doctor and Rose Tyler, in the TARDIS, forever,’ you said, sir. I think it’s much more than that, though, Professor.”
Latimer looks up, looks at John and sees not only him, the erstwhile and eccentric Professor, but also The Doctor, the raging, hurting, alien in love.
“The watch…it showed me all of it. Showed me their adventures, their triumphs and falls and togetherness throughout it all. It showed him as kind and warm when it was just the two of them, and as fearless and daring just the same. With her, he was so many things – he was different, even before, but with Rose Tyler, he liked that difference. It made him better; it made him someone he was proud of. Even though it’s just a watch, sir, I think – I think it wants you to remember her. I think – I think it wants you to remember them. And – ” the schoolboy hesitates here, taking a nervous step back before gaining courage and facing him. “And as much as he is wonderful, so wonderful, the only reason, I should think, is because Rose Tyler makes him kinder. The only reason he is so wonderful is because of her, and – I can see why.”
He’s seen her, then, in that watch of The Doctor’s.
Rose Tyler.
Rose. Tyler.
(He remembers now, saying that name over and over again, like a chant or a wish or a mantra. Like hope. R - oh - se Ty - lah.)
He swallows and curses, blinking back tears. He closes his eyes and cries out – in pain and love and pity.
(And hope, so much hope.)
He wants to hurl it across the room; wants to destroy the tea set and set this room asunder. He wants to cradle it to his breast, wants to whisper ‘Rose Tyler’ and wants to have the courage to open the latch – he wants to have the courage to see and experience the two of them in those dreams of his.
There’s a hand placed on his forearm, gripping him gently.
“John,” Joan says gently, as if talking to a newborn fawn. She looks at his eyes and clenches her jaw.
“Timothy, Martha,” she gives them more respect than she has ever before, “Could you leave us?”
Martha looks at him, and he looks back.
He wants to scream what is in his chest, but all he does is turn away from her eyes. He hears her sigh before the door’s latch opens and closes, leaving only Joan and himself.
…
“What if I just gave the watch to them?” he says suddenly, a mad, crazed, desperate glint in his eyes. “I could give it to them and then, then –”
It’s brilliant.
(It’s crazy.)
“Then it all ends in destruction. I never read to the end, John, but I read enough; Those creatures would live forever, never tiring, breeding and conquering for war across the stars and for every child. And I know I hoped, I truly did, but –”
Joan stops and looks at him sadly, holding his hands in her palm. She traces the rim of the watch, follows the spiralling circles and caresses it, as if it is a memory from a past time. She looks away, blinking tremulously before looking back and squeezing his hands, once, twice, thrice.
“My hopes aren’t important. This Rose…If she truly is as important as Martha, and even Timothy, makes her out, then – then, I don’t want to deprive you of her. I had a husband, I felt that all-consuming love, and I thought I never would again but – things change, and I’m glad you were one of those things.”
Joan smiles, and it is kind and heartbreaking all at once.
She’s letting go and yet still screaming ‘ Stay! ’ all at once.
“It was real, though, wasn't it – what we had? But I wasn’t.”
Joan closes her eyes and lets out a shaky exhale; her eyes are bright, perhaps even teary, and John – he feels so lost, so sad.
“I know. I know, but you were so, so, real to me.”
Joan speaks now, her voice hoarse and tremulous. She speaks simply with feeling and nothing else.
“But what you have with her, even as a human, is far more than you will ever have with me. If you loved me even an ounce of how you loved her, then I would be the luckiest of them all. But I’m not.”
“And how – how do you know that I feel for her that much, the way you describe? How do you know that I feel – feel that irrevocably?”
She laughs sardonically, as if asking that question is useless in itself.
(It is. He knows it is – but he wants to hold onto this illusion of a life even a little longer, so that he may not return to empty days without her – Rose or Joan he does not know.)
(Liar. He does. Why else would he crave the woman in his dreams more than the one in his reality?)
“In your journal…your Journal of Impossible Things, you and her, side by side and together and simply living a normal life – one with mornings together and children and family dinners…that was the most impossible of all. And I suppose, in the end, that only means that you craved that impossible more than anything else. It means that you and her, that the both of you, together, was the thing that you wished for the most. She haunts your dreams, John. You called her ‘soulmate’ in that book of yours, though the words were scattered, and when you talked of her, even unknowing, it was the kind of softness that young girls dream of – it was the way my husband looked at me. I don’t want it to be true, but it is. So,” It is in the way of kindness that she speaks, but it cleaves her in two.
“As Martha says, be brave, John – no, Doctor. Be valiant. For Rose.”
She still encircles his hands in hers, and squeezes once before letting go.
Be brave, he thinks.
Be valiant.
(For Rose.)
He circles the rim, finger moving and feeling each individual ridge one more time, and clicks the latch.
It opens and whole universes expand within him.
(He remembers – remembers hands held, words exchanged and hearts broken. Remembers days spent in the company of laughter and domesticity and love and others in the company of adventure and danger and running and yet, still with an umbrella of love. Remembers chips and no money, remembers passionate embraces hiding secrets and slaps and kisses to more than one face. He remembers all of it, and he is spellbound.)
(He remembers, and he is consumed, because when John Smith remembers, The Doctor is reborn.)
…
The Doctor is a man of many thoughts, Joan realises, but that must be why people find him so irresistible.
And, whether it be fate or not, she is not one of them, not when he carries his face.
The Doctor seems to understand why she can’t tear her eyes from his face and yet does not speak a word to him.
He could babble all he wants, could keep talking till the Sun burned its last flame and never say a word.
He could talk of trying again and travelling with Joan, not as a companion but as something more.
But he doesn’t.
They don’t speak, not really. He is consumed by regret, sorrow, guilt. She is consumed by what-ifs and hopes and wishes crushed.
Joan steps forward, feet thudding softly against the floors of the cottage, the shattered teapot on the floor due to the earlier explosions. How many times had the Cartwright family taken tea, in this very cottage of theirs? Mother, Father and Child.
A family.
“Is it done?” she asks, John’s Journal of Impossible Things clutched to her chest.
“All done.” The Doctor answers, a sad smile on his face. “The army will roll in soon, so will the police.”
And so will Torchwood, he knows.
“And you’ll leave, won’t you? In that blue box of yours.”
“Yes.” The Doctor says, because that’s what he does. He fixes the problem. He doesn’t stay behind for the clean-up or the consequences.
He’s no one special, just a madman in a blue box, running for his life and helping those he can.
(But sometimes, helping causes more despair.)
“You won’t ask me to come with you?”
“Would you want to?”
“No, I…no. No. I’m sorry, it’s just – just hard. To look at you, I mean, with –” She hesitates and her voice warbles. She is minutes away from crumbling into a fathomless dust.
“With his face?” The Doctor says, with a knowing look and an understanding face. She doesn’t nod, doesn’t even tremble, but he knows that he is correct.
“I know.” he sighs, breath trembling and air rattling in his chest.
No, Joan wants to scream, you don’t.
(But he does.)
“I know what you’re feeling. You’re feeling as if the breath in your very lungs is constricting you and that those happy memories of yours are only dreams. And I’m sorry, so sorry, Joan, that I had to do this to you.”
She hates it.
Hates how calm and understanding he is. She hates how he knows what is to experience all this, because he has lived the same experience she has – of losing someone you love.
She loved John, as possible as it was to love someone within a few short days of falling for each other. And now she hates the man with his face, hates him for taking all of it away.
“You’re sorry, because this has happened to you too, hasn’t it? Rose, you lost her, Martha said. And it still devastates you.”
He does not answer, but his silence alone is enough.
“Just tell me this, Doctor – if you had never come, never lost Rose, never encountered those creatures of the Devil, never chosen this place simply on a foolish, god-forsaken whim –” she draws in a breath, fury in her voice, “Would this, any of this, have ever happened? Would anyone have died?”
(Would I have had my heart broken?)
He doesn’t say anything.
Not a peep, and that itself is damning, because he knows – he knows, that it is true.
“Leave,” she pleads, heart broken and eyes wide and voice on the edge of hysteria. “Leave!” she cries, thrusting his Journal into the Doctor’s hands; “Please,” she tries again, “Leave, and take the madness and the monsters and the mayhem with you. You already took John, don’t be selfish and take any more.”
He takes it, his human self’s Journal of Impossible Things. “You don’t want it?” he asks quietly, gently tracing the ridges of the worn paper. “It’s the last bit of John that is purely yours, Joan.”
“Wrong.” She speaks up, “My memories of those few, magical, days will more than suffice, even if he belonged to Rose even them. But I – when I look at that Journal, I don’t see it as a gift from John to me. Towards the end, I suppose it was – that it was for Rose. Even a ghost of man, Rose still haunted his thoughts;…Take it to her, Doctor. And please, don’t return.”
Joan strengthens, overcoming her hysteria. “Find her,” she says, one heartbroken person to another, “and give it to her. So that – that she knows that even human, John only thought of her.”
“But he was – ”
“Yes, and I him, but just like I will always love my husband and John, no matter how many years pass, he, too, always loved Rose, even though she was hidden in his dreams. So take it, Doctor,” she commands, “Take it and leave.”
And so, watching only a short distance from him, she watches the man in the blue box turn on his heel, clutching that Journal of Impossible Things to his chest, and watches as he opens the door, stepping out into the unknown, and leaving not a trace behind.
She watches him leave through that door, and hopes that he never returns. Because just as The Doctor has many friends and admirers, he has twice as many enemies and people who despise him.
(And sometimes, he despises them too. Not for who they are, but what they are - human, for example. He despises them for the capabilities they have - like living day to day, with love and family and friends. He despises them for having the ability to die and rest. He despises them because sometimes the most short-lived creatures have more, possess more, feel more, live more, than he will ever be able to in numerous lifetimes. He despises them because they get to stay with the one they love, day after day, week after week, year after year, and never suffer a loss. He despises them sometimes, only sometimes, because they represent everything he can’t have – they represent everything he isn’t.)
---
“Do you remember, Doctor,” The Master says over the phone, voice grainy and slightly echoey over the signal, “Those stories they told us in the nursery, all of us clad in robes and far more intelligent than any insipid creature on this planet? Do you remember those fairy tales they told of the Toclafane, meant to lure us into study - the Toclafane, great and mighty and esteemed, second only to the Time Lords who grew far beyond their self-proclaimed prowess. Tell me, do you remember, Doctor?”
There is a slight inflection at the end. Mocking and slightly hysterical, nostalgic and belonging to the schooldays gone past; “Yes,” The Doctor says, remembering days in the nursery from when he was so foolishly young and naïve. “I remember.”
“Fantastic!"
And it grates on his teeth, that word belonging to his past self, on the lips, in the mind of his beloved friend and hated enemy.
“Do you remember,” The Master says again, teasing and benign and sinister in its childhood normality, “The silver leaves as the sun hits just right? Do you remember that old planet, with the peaks of Mount. Caddon and the skyline of the Citadel? Do you remember the power, the might, of the Untempered Schism as you looked into it? Tell me, do you remember, Doctor? Do you remember home, Doctor?”
Perhaps he stays silent a second too long. Perhaps he breathes a touch too hard. Perhaps it is none of these things that alert The Master but, instead, only the knowledge of how well The Master knows the Doctor. “Or perhaps, Doctor,” The Master says, calm and relaxed and so, so frustrating, “Perhaps, Theta, that is not what you think of when you think of home. Perhaps it is a person - a human. A woman, even!
“Perhaps they have golden hair, like the strands of time! Perhaps they have brown eyes that you constantly try to catch, or a hand like any other that you think is special - that you want to hold, even!” He laughs delighted, a world of knowledge within his grasp. “Perhaps they ran into that TARDIS of yours, leaving their puppy behind. Perhaps they hugged you tightly and you hugged back even tighter, Theta. Perhaps, just perhaps, Theta, remember, they might even set your hearts ablaze. Perhaps they set your hearts running, and perhaps that causes you to be scared. Perhaps that’s why you didn’t rescue her from the parallel world; perhaps you wanted her to stay there, to save yourself the trouble. Perhaps that’s why you left her there - perhaps to get a swanky new companion, amiright?”
“Enough!” The Doctor says, eyes cold and voice calm and collected and hostile and, and – and Martha is terrified. “Don’t rehash the past or even what you know nothing about, Master.” He refuses to call him by the name of childhood - that boy is long dead.
“Oh, come now!” The Master giggles, as if amused by the Doctor’s cold, blistering anger. “Come on, Theta, don’t be afraid to say my name. Koschei. Koh - chey. Say it,” he wheedles, voice light and airy, “And don’t forget. Not like you forgot Arkytior, after all. Or is it Lady Larn? You’re dear, dear, granddaughter, whoever she is. Whatever happened to her, I wonder?”
He can hear it; can hear the smile spreading across The Master’s face as he speaks.
“Curious, isn’t it? I was brushing up on High Gallifreyan, you see. It means a curious word in one of these thousands of Earth languages. In English, the language you so prefer, it means Rose. R - oh - se. Say it, Doctor. It’s your favourite word after all, isn’t it? Rose Tyler.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
This conversation has gone on too long, Martha thinks. They’re supposed to be on the run, yet the Master wants to keep the Doctor’s attention - for what?
“SAY IT!”
“...Rose Tyler.”
Jack looks at him and mouths the words: Rose Tyler?
(Rose Tyler! His heart's cry – )
“Come on, Doctor!” The Master cries, filled with frenetic energy. “Say it with more gusto! See, I’ll say it first: R - oh - se Ty - lah!”
“Rose Tyler.”
“No,” The Master says quietly. The Doctor can imagine him shaking his head, blond locks now. “Think of her, Doctor; think of her golden hair and her hand that I always see you grab in all that grainy footage that I could find. Think of her voice and her eyes; think of that insipid creature’s laughter and the adventures you two had in the old girl.”
“Don’t call her that.”
He doesn’t know if he’s talking about Rose or the TARDIS.
“Oh, calm down.” The Master laughs airily, as if The Doctor is no matter to him. “Think,” he says again, voice dark and smooth like chocolate,“Think of her before that passage leading to the other universe. Think of her tears and her pleading face and think of those last moments you had with her.”
(“I…I love you.” she cries, and it breaks his hearts.
“Quite right too,” he says, hearts breaking piece by piece, “And I suppose, if it’s my one last chance to say it, Rose Tyler – “
The gap closes and his hearts stutter to an end.
“ – I love you.” he means to say, but it all ends with tears running down his face. He holds those words, precious, precious, words, in his hearts and nowhere else.)
He gasps it out, her name; desperate and yearning and heartsbroken.
“Rose Tyler.”
“Yes, yes!” The Master - Koschei - cheers, laughter resounding. “Think of that name,” he says, “Because that is the name of the person I’ll tear apart, Doctor. Gallifrey is no more. The Time Lords are no more. No one, absolutely no one, can stop me! Why take over this tiny planet, this universe, when I can have two? I’m going to rip open a hole - I’m going to rip open time and space and the seams of reality and conquer what those Cyberman and Daleks could not! And while I’m at it, Theta,” he draws a breath, quick and raspy and eager, “While I’m at it, I’m going to rip open your hearts and your lungs! I’m going to devour those hearts of yours, flesh by flesh, vein by vein! I’m going to feel the blood against my tongue and the flesh against my teeth! I'm going to compress the air out of your lungs, I am! – And what better way to do it than by devouring - by destroying - the one person - the one human - that makes you whole? That makes your hearts beat?
“What better way to do it than destroying Rose Tyler?”
(What better way to do it than destroying Rose Tyler?)
“You’re wrong.” The Doctor says savagely, running his fingers through his hair, nerves on end. “You won’t, because I’ll stop you. Why do you think you could do what the Daleks and Cybermen couldn't? And Rose? You think you could destroy Rose? Rose with fire in her lungs and bravery in her heart and adventure in her veins? Rose, who is better at running than even me? You think you could destroy her? Never. Not in a million years. Rose Tyler is the name that keeps me fighting, and she’ll never let you take that courage from her, let alone me. You’ll never break those walls down.”
“Oh? Didn’t you know, Theta?”
“Don’t – ”
“Yes, yes, alright, Doctor. I suppose I’ll enlighten you – a gift, from your all-benevolent Master. That woman that your hearts beat for with, who has – what was it? Oh yes, ‘fire in her lungs and bravery in her heart and –’ yada, yada, yada! Yes, well, it seems like she likes me more than you.”
“What?”
“Curious little creature, this Rose Tyler of yours. The Toclafane are such brilliant helpers, and they’ve discovered something fantastic!” The Master relishes the word: fantastic.
(He hates it, that word. He only does it to annoy the Doctor.)
“Rose Tyler is making a journey through space and time, it seems. Cracks between the walls - that’s what she’s travelling through. Ripping apart the walls between dimensions to reach you, it seems. What a special birthday boy you are, Doctor! And her latest appearance: April, 1963. Well, well, well – isn’t that just lucky! Not to worry, she'll soon be within my reach. Perhaps the Toclafane and I can help guide her - after all, I’ve got some business with her. Pesky drums, the ones in my head - they keep beating to the drum of her name, of her pathetic human heart. But don't worry Doctor, we'll get your little pet back safe and sound - "
"NO! Koschei - "
"I win." He whispers, voice triumphant and dark. "You said my name."
The Doctor can feel it, the palpable excitement (the sick pleasure -) in the Master's voice. "Toodles!" He cries, and the line cuts dead.
The Doctor looks at the small communication device in his hand and shoves it in his pocket. He looks at Martha, worried for him and her and her family, and towards Jack, wondering about why The Doctor said Rose Tyler (rose, rose, rose –) and what they're going to do next.
"Let's go." He says, and they do.
(“Let’s fly.” he says, and they do. “Let’s burn.” he says, and they do. “Let’s die.” he says, and they do, because that’s who he is – him, a compassionate, fearless, guilt-ridden General and his companions brilliant, wonderful, obedient soldiers.)
---
“Doctor?”
He can hear a muffled worry as he readjusts, minutely noting his aged face and how his hearts tremble in his chest, the suit-clad form of the Master visible despite his deteriorated eyesight.
He turns his head, and looks into Martha’s eyes, wide and teary and determined despite it all, and he knows what he must do.
His hands are shaky against the floor, unstable and about to collapse; Martha comes and grips him tighter.
“Don’t worry,” she says, overcome by shock and fear and grief, yet, bravery still grips her heart, “I’ve got you, Doctor.”
The Master looks at them, companion and Doctor, and relishes the sight.
“Oh,” He croons, pursing his lips and blinking his eyes, “Isn’t this a sight!” He comes closer, passing Martha just, smiling giddy. “You’ve trained her well, Doctor - a would-be Doctor in the making, just like you! Tell me Martha,” he says, looking down at her red leather-clad form on the ground, “Are you as much of a nuisance as the Doctor was in school? I could tell you stories, Martha Jones, about the alien you call Doctor, that would break your heart in two! Through all your adventures, did you ever hear about Adric? Or Ace? How about Arkytior? But of course, you’ll know all about Rose, won’t you?”
Martha clenches her jaw, only slight, but her eyes are still wide, still resolute not to shed a tear.
(Still confused.)
“Yes? No?” The Master says again, circling the two of them.
Martha doesn’t budge.
“Shame, I’ll need to catch you up over a cup of tea, won’t I?”
“No.” Martha says, shaking her head.
(No, I know more than enough about Rose.)
“Yes!” The Master cries in the face of her refusal, “Yes, we will! We’ll have little cucumber sandwiches and jammy dodgers and tea! Lots and lots of tea! Of course, there’ll be more guests than just you, of course - lots of tea to go around, your Master is generous, after all!”
He licks his lips.
“But you’re my guests, and I’ve got a present for you - and you, Theta, don’t look so sad, will you? It breaks my poor, poor hearts, fragile as they are.”
His eyes crinkle like the folds of an umbrella, opening and closing at their own will.
(He is made of so many broken parts, forged by pure madness, and this is what he has become.)
He clicks his tongue, master to mutt.
“Bring them in.” He commands, and The Doctor hates it so, the way that a friend he once knew has become so twisted-and-twined into an image he cannot discern, no matter how hard he wishes nor tries.
The pad of feet sound, and Martha’s eyes widen, a desperate panic inside her.
“Mum.” She whispers, desperate and scared, wanting to protect them and yet still glued to the Doctor’s side.
The guard shoves her mum, dad and sister to a start.
“I’m sorry, Martha.” Her Mum says, mouth trembling as Clive and Tish stand by her side.
The Doctor looks at them, cowed and defiant and scared, and he wishes that it had never turned to this: his companions’ family helpless and himself, old and shrivelled and tiny, powerless.
Let them go, he wants to say, but he knows his command would amount to nothing. Instead, he asks this:
“The Toclafane, Master.”
The alien in question smiles.
“What are they? Who are they?”
The Master titters, bending down to grasp the Doctor’s wrinkled chin.
He looks Theta straight in the eye, a mad delight, a sadistic enjoyment, as he sees the fear - the despair - in Theta’s eye.
“If I told you, Theta,” he murmurs, “Your hearts would break before I could ever hope to tear them apart myself.”
He stands, slipping his hands into his pockets, a crazed smile evident on his face and a fanatic joy in his voice.
“Now,” he crows, eyes twinkling like iridescent stars, “Time for your surprise.”
He paces forwards and vibrates with excitement, a jubilant smile as he places his hands in his pockets.
“Bring her in!” he cries, giddy and excited, and they do.
The Doctor’s hearts stutter to a stop.
There she is, the woman who holds his hearts. His tongue feels paper-dry, his hearts precariously on the edge of life and his blood is pounding in his ears, but her?
Oh, her.
Her eyes are wide, brown and fierce and full of fire. Her skin is rosy, her lips full and her hair golden as the strands of time. Her will is strong, he knows, and even now she still has fire in her lungs and bravery in her heart and adventure in her veins.
Even now, wrinkled and defenceless and pathetic, he knows that she is still better at running than him.
That’s just who Rose Tyler is - someone impossibly brilliant, someone impossibly fantastic.
Someone impossibly darling and someone impossibly close to his hearts.
And suddenly, like lightning striking the sky, his eyes water and his hearts ache and his voice hurts.
Their eyes meet.
“Rose.” He whimpers, pathetic and itching to run, jump, careen across and enclose her in his (tiny, pathetic, frail) arms.
She is so alive, and yet, she is still so impossibly faraway.
(Martha inhales sharply and Jack breathes a sigh of relief - of longing - as he traces her figure, noting the differences and similarities to the woman he once knew.)
“Doctor!” She gasps, a brilliant, beautifully alive smile blooming across her face, a tenderness in her heart unmatched.
The Master looks at them, woman and alien, both sickeningly in love, and sighs.
“Ah, looks like my plans will have to move forward.”
He walks past the Doctor, blocking his wrinkled form from Rose’s love-tinted gaze. He walks up the steps, smiling in amusement as he sees the way her smile disappears, the way her shoulders hunch and her back straightens and the way the fire of defiance alights in her so, so, so, ordinary brown eyes.
Oh, The Master thinks, amusement colouring his mind, you’ve taught her well, haven’t you, Theta?
He climbs up, ignoring plaything-Martha Jones’ quivering family and approaches the subject of Theta’s affections.
(He approaches the woman whose heart copies the drums in his head: bdum, bdum, bdum – )
He steps onto the dais and grips her chin, tugging her roughly towards him, her jaw clenched as the guards hold her tight from escaping.
“Rose. Tyler.” He says, caressing her name as if it is an exotic delight.
She glares, trying to free herself of his digging grip, wincing when he pulls back harsher, delighting in the pain in her face.
Sadistic, she thinks, and she knows she is right.
“R - oh - se. Ty - lah.” He says again, enunciating the syllables of ‘oh’ and ‘lah’. He notes that she trembles under his grip, taking a perverse delight in that.
“This trembling,” he murmurs, gripping her tightly as the rest watch with bated breath, “Is it from fury or fear?”
Rose smiles, a wicked thing it is.
“It’s from disgust.” She smiles sweetly, her teeth clenching, “Your touch disgusts me.”
The Master looks at her, this golden woman with the Doctor’s hearts in her hands, and he laughs.
It is a manic laugh, but it is a laugh nonetheless.
He bends forward, laughter tumbling out like an endless waterfall, a thought stirring in his mind as he stands, wiping away a faux-tear.
“Oh Rose,” he giggles, a manic light in his eyes, “I can see why the Doctor kept you ‘round. Golden strands of time as your companion and an absolutely hilarious humour to boot!” He grins, looping his arm through hers.
“But,” he says, tugging a piece of her golden hair behind her ear, “I’ve got a different interest in you. You see, from the moment they dragged me in front of the Untempered Schism, I’ve always had a drumming in my head, pounding away day after day, year after year, century after century. Can you imagine that, Rose Tyler, the constant, unending, drumming? And when paired with him –” The Master gestures to the Doctor, releasing his arm from Rose’s and pacing forward, “Well, you understand that it’s enough to make any Time Lord go insane.” He says conspiratorially.
"And so, there I am, stealing the TARDIS and watching some footage on her CCTV when I see you. All those hours with the Doctor, watching how you met, seeing how you fell in love - sickening, I tell you, the amount of flirting you two manage to hide in a simple hug. But then!” He bursts out, excited and turning to Rose, “But then, when you looked into the heart of the TARDIS, I could hear your heart, dearest Rose! And guess what?”
Rose stays silent.
“No guesses, then?” The Master pouts, “None at all?”
He sighs, breath leaving his body.
“Fine,” he acquiesces, “I’ll spoil the surprise: It matched the drumming in my head. After hundreds of years, I found someone with the same sound as the drums.”
He isn’t smiling anymore, more sinister and calm. “So, Rose Tyler,” He says, inching closer and closer, “I want to know this: why do your hearts - oh, sorry, silly me! - why does your heart, one singular, frail, human heart, match these drums that have haunted me since my inception with the Untempered Schism?”
Rose swallows and opens her mouth.
“I scattered myself through space and time. From beginning to end, top to bottom. I did to save the Doctor, and if you saved him - can save him - in some way then…that’s why your drums echo my heart.”
“Because of the Doctor?” The Master asks, his eyes dead and cold.
“Because of him, because of me, because of the TARDIS and the Universe and whatever else. Because of all of us combined and because of none of us at all.”
Life returns to his eyes.
“Well,” The Master says, “I can see why Theta adores you, can’t I? In love with riddles, that’s what you are.”
He loops their arms again.
“Come,” he commands, catching the Doctor’s eye as he drags a bewildered Rose away to the window, his wife forgotten in the shadows, “Let me show you something.”
Rose can hear a whisper - a static cry.
“Is it time?” The voice asks. “Is it ready?”
The Master turns to her, a charming smile slipping on his face.
“This is for you…no.” He reconsiders, pondering it quickly, looking out the window, a blue-and-white Earth down below. He turns again, looking at her.
“This,” he says, that crazed glint back, a ravenous hunger in his eyes and his grip, “Is because of you - consider it a ‘Welcome Home!’ gift!”
With his posture straight and looking as giddy as a school boy with a lego set constructing a world just for himself, he is terrifying.
“Let’s decimate them.” He grins, his wish soon fulfilled. “Remove one tenth of the population!”
The Toclafane swarm downwards, and Rose’s heart breaks.
(The Doctor’s too, at the look on her heartbroken face.)
The Master looks at her.
“This is because of you and your pathetic, human, heart. But,” he says, removing his linked arm from hers, “I do like the word decimate. De - ci - mate.” He relishes it, enjoying the motion of the word on his tongue and the fierce, desperate, chaotic, fire in her eyes.
“Decimate.” He says, oblivious to Martha creeping closer, drawing Rose’s face to his own, wanting to torment Theta even more.
Wanting to torment her and her stupid, beating heart even more.
He ponders her lips.
“Such a lovely word…” He murmurs, reaching slowly to grasp her chin, just like that, like lightning striking the sky, Martha grabs Rose’s blue-leather sleeve and teleports away, abandoning The Master and The Doctor and Jack.
The Master looks at the spot where Rose was.
He sighs and turns to Theta.
“I suppose I’ll have to concoct another torment for you, Theta.” He pouts, drawing away and out the door as his wife, Lucy, follows.
“I didn’t even get to invite her to tea.” He bemoans, disappearing down the corridor.
The Doctor swallows and curls up in a small huddle, tired and longing and hoping.
Tired of life, longing for Rose and hoping - no, wanting - his oldest friend back.
He closes his eyes, those tired eyes of his, and dreams of happier times:
Times with her, the brilliant woman he calls home.
(He dreams - dreams of times with her hand in his, her smile boundless and heart expansive. Dreams of the woman with adventure in her veins and bravery in her heart. Dreams of the one he wishes to cradle close to his hearts forevermore. He dreams of times where it is just her and him and…them. Just them.)
---
The first days with Rose are the hardest.
Travelling with her, living with her, talking with her - they are the hardest, in the end, because they are the loneliest.
Each day, each minute - she realises she doesn’t know who Rose is.
Hearing of Rose - hearing of her brilliance, her kindness, her bravery - is so much different when faced with her. The woman she travels with is someone she has heard all about, yet one whom she barely knows at all.
She doesn't know her favourite colour, her job, her preferred drink. She doesn’t know whether Rose is more a cat or dog person or whether she prefers lizards instead. She doesn’t know her favourite movie or how she makes her tea. She doesn’t know how she met the Doctor or Jack, or how the Master captured her.
Martha doesn’t know any of this, and, and –
Martha cares about all this.
And the thing is, she doesn’t particularly want to care.
The world goes up in flames around her, her family is kept captive, the Doctor and Jack are at the mercy of the Master…why should she care any more than she has to?
Why at all?
She doesn’t want to, but she does.
She cares about Rose, the blonde woman who smiles at the simplest things, not because she is the woman the Doctor loves but because she’s the one that holds Martha’s hand when she first witnesses the destruction the Toclafane (no, The Master –) have caused. She’s the one who fixes their tiny boat's motor when it seems they’re going to be stranded in the middle of the Channel, and she’s the one who nicks a packet of Jammy Dodgers for Martha when they go hunting for food in Berlin.
Rose Tyler, not the woman the Doctor loves, but instead Martha’s friend, is the one that silently endures the pain of the blisters on her feet and is the one that complains of mosquitoes when they troop across the expanse of Asia with only a backpack full of assorted blankets, food and water. Rose Tyler, who holds infinity within her grasp and stars within her soul, is the one that teases Martha about her off-key rendition of Toxic and is the one that can fire a rifle like no other.
Rose Tyler is someone that Martha was once jealous of - someone she resented even, but now?
Now, Rose Tyler is simply someone she loves.
Someone she adores.
Perhaps it is a friendship born of pain and circumstance and guilt, but is a friendship nonetheless.
Perhaps this is why, on one starry night, when Rose tells her the true reason she came, Martha’s heart breaks in two.
“And you came…to save the Universe? Not for the Doctor?”
Rose looks up at the night sky, and only when she turns to peer at Martha, does she realise she is wrong.
“I came for both.” She affirms, shrugging her leather jacket off as she kindles the fire, “I came to save the Universe by finding the Doctor and I…I came for him too.” She softly admits, the fire dancing across her face as she twirls a strand of hair. The expression on her face is reverential – no, Martha realises, not that.
The look on her face, it’s –
Tender.
(So, so tender.)
Martha feels almost embarrassed to be witness to it, but then she wonders, did she ever think of the Doctor with that expression on her face?
When she looks back on the man that sent them on this quest, she feels numerous things: resentment, hope, worry, happiness, sadness, but…she doesn’t feel it anymore, that wish to be his someone.
She is happy, she realises, that he has Rose back, because now she knows how wonderful she truly is.
And yet…sometimes, Rose looks lost when she fires her gun. Like it is muscle memory that requires no thought; she shoots down the Toclafane but they always come back, and yet Rose she tries to keep them at bay for as long as she can. When she is on the battlefield she looks undefeatable, but when she is sitting around the fire, Martha knows that the guilt crushes her.
Rose Tyler, the shop girl, was never meant to wield a gun but Rose Tyler, the fighter, the warrior, must.
And Martha hates that she has to, but she can do nothing otherwise they all die.
Rose Tyler is the pillar that is holding the sky up, and Martha only wishes to alleviate her pain in some way.
And so she tries each night to get her to open up, to remind her of happier days.
“How did you meet?” Martha asks one day, handing a tin of water to her. They stray away from these sorts of questions usually, the ones that are far too delicate, but right now, with Rose so tender and the night sky clear, it is an opportunity to pass up.
“How did we meet?” Rose repeats, a strange sort of smile invading her face; it is equal parts fond, nostalgic, tender and…something else.
Oh.
Sad.
Sad is what it is.
(Why sad?)
“I suppose,” Rose says, patting the space beside her as Martha plops down, “It began in a basement…”
Rose speaks and speaks, recounting tales of her TARDIS-travelling past and her parallel universe one. And, looking at her now, the fire dim and joy alight in her features, Rose looks more human than ever before.
She looks…she looks someone the Doctor would fall in love with.
Someone with blinding smiles and sparkling eyes. Someone with a warm heart and whose heart brims with empathy. Someone who always has a tale to tell and a quip to give.
Someone who always has a hand ready to hold.
That someone…could be Rose.
But it’s more than that.
There is no ‘someone’.
Even if a carbon copy, even the most similar duplicate of Rose could be found…there would only ever be Rose, wouldn’t there?
And, as the soft stream of Rose’s chatter resounds in the night sky, Martha is so very glad that there could only ever be Rose for the Doctor and him for her.
The stars twinkle, profound in their knowledge, and Martha sighs.
They’re due to sail for Japan tomorrow, a local ferryman will take them, and yet…if they never set sail, if they just stayed like this despite the situation, Martha thinks she would be content.
No, she knows she would be content, with only the night sky and Rose to keep her company.
(But, why settle for contentment when happiness is so much more desirable? Desirable, yes, but happiness…? Happiness is so much more heartbreaking, because one day it’ll end.)
---
The Master is dead.
His hearts, once so strong, are now lifeless. His hands, once filled with force, are powerless.
His body, once filled with life, and his mind, once filled with drums, are burned to ashes, the pyre consuming him as is right for his kind.
(The Doctor’s kind.)
The Doctor is alone, staring into the flames that consume someone he once called friend. The TARDIS huma a gentle song: melancholic and sad, grieving for her pilot and mourning that he truly is the last of his kind.
Rose watches him, alone against the flames of mayhem and insanity that consumed his youth, and she approaches.
She doesn’t do anything special; doesn’t call his name, or whisper condolences, or even give him a hug.
She simply holds his hand.
(But, perhaps that is what he needed all along: simply a hand to hold and her to give him strength.)
Their fingers intertwine, their palms mirror each other.
They stand in silence, in mourning, in sorrow.
They stand in regret.
And when they go inside, fixing what was wronged, saying hello to old friends and goodbye to new ones, they still don’t let go of each other.
And, when it is only them in the TARDIS, just him and her and them, they finally hold each other close.
She wraps her arms around his lithe frame and he holds her own close, melding into it; she nuzzles into his shoulder and he encloses his arm around her waist, content to simply stay here (with her – ) forevermore. They hold each other as tight as possible, trying to meld into each other’s hearts, souls, bodies and minds.
“I missed you.” Rose whispers, her voice muffled against his blue suit, brown eyes looking up to him, one cheek pressed against him.
And he – he is so overwhelmed. She had not explained the circumstances of her return before launching into one of his hare-brained schemes almost immediately. She has not had a moment of rest this past year and yet – yet she still, she still proclaims her thoughts of him so easily: she proclaims that she misses him as if it is a fact of life, as if missing him is as easy as breathing.
He means to say ‘I missed you too’ but this is instead what tumbles out, sincere and true:
“I love you.”
There is no fanfare, no rapidly, rabidly, beating hearts.
He is not nervous because he has known it all this time.
He loves her.
It is a fact, simple and true.
And yet, his hearts cluster up his throat, wanting to spill devotions and adorations - wanting to rain them upon her, sincere and true and infinite.
Rose smiles that tongue-touched smile and leans up, whispering I know before pecking his lips, quick and delicate and leaving him wanting more before nuzzling back into his shoulder, content with the situation at present.
The Doctor, too, is content.
No, he is happy, and he knows that this happiness will never end with her by his side.
And so, with both enclosed in each other’s arms and the Universe-saving to be explained later, that is that:
He is home at last.
#finally finally finally#this is finally done#nearly a year since i first started#and its done#final time but...#home is where the heart are (and my hearts are a universe away)#inkwardspots#inkwardspots fic#tenrose#tenth doctor#rose tyler#dotor who#martha jones
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My Sailor Moon/Avatar crossover is in no small part going to be willfully written to avert this trope
One part of this is that Azula by virtue of being one of the most powerful Firebenders of her world and then brought into the clashes of the Senshi and their villains represents a complete Outside Context Problem for both the Senshi and the Death Busters alike. She is in all real senses a human alien, much like Galaxia and the Starlights in canon. The difference is that her magic is not, in all truth, Senshi magic and that the tricks that work on both sides with Senshi and Chaos do not reliably work on someone who has a world with her own.
The flip side is that the doorway that opened between worlds isn't just seen from the perspective of Earth and that the Senshi and their villains are eventually drawn to the Avatar-verse. And even a 'joke' Animate like Iron Mouse who gets clobbered by the Eternal Senshi in the Avatar-verse is a major, serious threat. To say nothing of Galaxia herself, who is straight up 'could fight the likes of Darkseid and Thanos six times before breakfast' territory.
And of course the broader elements and ironies of Galaxia more or less slumming it in a completely different universe she's never heard of to explore alien magic that she discovered when Chaos in turn discovered Firebenders means that the 'real' center of this particular multiverse happens to be the Galaxy Cauldron where Galaxia and Chaos made their base of operations and where she stored all the various souls of all the Senshi she killed over 10K+ years.
Galaxia is also ancient, predating the entire span of human civilization and written history, in both Earth and Avatar-verse terms. No small part of her murderous efficiency as a fighter is that she was already the strongest single Senshi but she compounded that by ten thousand years of constant practice, to the point that she's become a malicious shadow invoked as a blend of Devil and Boogeyman to Senshi who know of her existence....which the ones of Earth did not, minus Queen Serenity. Who went to the Galaxy Cauldron to get herself a daughter and found herself in the fight of her life.
#atla aus#atla/sailor moon crossover#if there is a center of this multiverse it's the Galaxy Cauldron#and/or the Shadow Galactica Flagship#neither Earth nor Tianxia know exactly what they're in for when Tomoe Souichi opens a portal with the 'wrong' co-ordinates
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A Diamond in the Rough (Part 1)
Hey everyone! This is my part for the Once Upon a Dream Collab that was with @katsuverse and @juicykatsuki. The theme of the collab was Disney x Haikyuu crossovers so if you're interested check it out!
I'm a little late, I fell asleep last night and forgot to post, but here it is! I also decided to break this up into three maybe even four parts, because we're already 10K+ for this part and only maybe a third of the way through. I hope you all enjoy it regardless, and I'll be posting the next parts (hopefully) soon!
If you like this feel free to check out my Oikawa Tooru Masterlist!
While there is no smut in this part there will be in the future thus this story is 18+ minoris DNI please!
TW: Mentions of prostitution, poverty, starvation, hurt children, the consequences of the Aladdin equivalent of growing up in the medieval slums, disease, hidden gender, brief mentions of rape and domestic abuse, (nothing in depth, but readers please if you’re sensitive to those issues proceed with caution)
warning about Jafar, because he deserves his own warning, mentions of murder, gaslighting, manipulation, and general sleaziness because like Aladdin’s Jafar he has a thing for “princess Jasmine”
This story is fem!Reader x Oikawa, but there will be mentions of other pairings as Oikawa is pansexual in this story!
“You know things would be much easier for you if you’d just come and join us here,” your friend told you as she carefully bandaged up your fingers, “You’re certainly comely enough, once we got you cleaned up a bit, and we always have full bellies, we get nice presents and a place to rest our heads. There would be no more of this suffering for you.”
“Except I’d open myself up to a whole new type of suffering,” you told her knowingly, gently touching her face where you could see the shadow of a bruise forming on her jaw, “And I wouldn’t be able to fight back.”
Hana winced slightly, but said nothing to contradict your statement, quietly biting her lip, clear worry in her pretty cinnamon brown eyes. The two of you had been friends since you were very young, running around the streets together from the time you could walk. She’d been your neighbor, living with her sickly grandmother just next door.
Both your caretakers had died of a disease that had swept through the city and you’d been quickly and ruthlessly evicted from your former home. With no one else to rely on you’d stuck together through the years, two orphan girls out scavenging to survive.
Your mother had been a prostitute, one who’d done her best to take care of you up until she’d died of that awful disease when you were five. You didn’t remember much about her these days, nothing except for a soft voice and the shade of her hair, but you did remember just how rough she’d had it.
You might’ve been young, but you’d had no choice but to hear what happened to her, as you were forced to hide away in a small closet every time she had a client over into the small one room apartment the two of you had shared. You remembered her crying, and the quiet vow you’d made to yourself to never ever be like her no matter what. Anything else had to be better than that.
It was a thought that had only been reinforced as you grew up and saw how prostitutes were treated, used, abused and thrown away at the whims of their clients. The lucky ones, the ones with the looks to draw higher class clientele, belonged to houses like Hana, run by a Madam who enforced the rules, but even those were lax at times depending on how valuable the client was.
Living on the streets, running errands, performing the odd job where you could, and stealing from stands you knew could afford it to make up the difference wasn’t all that great either. For one thing you’d learned after a brief scare when you were much younger that it was much safer to be male than female, because the crueler hardened men who roamed the streets, especially at night, wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of a lone woman on her own.
Acquiring a proper binder for your breasts, and learning to walk, talk and act like a man had become a necessity to protect yourself. However, masquerading as a man had its downsides as well, most obviously that quiet, vicious, fighting over things like food and what little money another street rat might have were prominent and no one would go easy on a man. It also meant the few times you’d had to run away from the guards you’d gotten roughed up a bit, even if you got away in the end, which was unfortunately what had happened today.
You’d gotten good enough at stealing throughout the years to almost always slip away without notice. Unfortunately the vendor you were nicking the bread from had sneezed and bumped into you at just the wrong moment. He’d immediately cottoned on to your light fingers, shouting about a thief.
You’d managed to lead the guards on a merry chase, using the rooftops and your knowledge of the backstreets of the city to lose them, though not without a few tumbles and scrapes. The worst part was you hadn’t even gotten the chance to enjoy the fruits of your labors.
You’d sat down, fully intending to eat your meal when you’d heard a small sound nearby. It hadn’t taken you long to spot the children, young enough you couldn’t spot their gender at a glance, rummaging through the trash outside one of the restaurants in the area. It was one of the few that wouldn’t give a street rat a smack or try to detain them for the guards if they caught them, the owner more tenderhearted than most. However, it was also a very good restaurant, with a very frugal owner who rarely ever had leftovers or any waste at the end of the day.
Looking at the two children you’d been reminded of yourself and Hana from back when the two of you had just started on the streets, scuttling like the rats you were named after from alley to alley hoping to avoid the attention of the guards and anyone else who might hurt you, desperately searching for food.
You’d ended up handing over your ill-gotten gains to the wide-eyed children, and given them directions to a nearby street vendor you knew of who often gave away scraps to children. It wasn’t much, but it was all you could do for them, especially as you were barely able to keep yourself fed and alive.
The nostalgia you’d felt at seeing the children had led your feet to the brothel where Hana was working. You’d come at a good time, and your ever-worried friend had quickly ushered you inside, insisting on feeding you a bit of her own dinner and bandaging you up a bit before you left.
Despite your feelings on prostitution for yourself, you’d never resented your friend for making the choice when it was offered to her, and had even encouraged her to go for it if that was what she truly wanted. Street life had always been much harder on her than on you, as she’d never quite been able to pull off the boyish act that you did, and wasn’t nearly as tough or scrappy.
That wasn’t to say she couldn’t hold her own if she needed to, there was no one else you’d trust to have your back in a fight like her, but she didn’t enjoy it. It left her out of sorts and paranoid for days on end. Being scouted out for a brothel was probably one of the best things that could’ve happened for her, and one of the few things a street rat could do to get out of the streets, you just wished there was something more you could do.
The sound of bugles in the street caught you off guard, and both you and Hana turned toward the window. This particular brothel was high class enough that it was on the main thoroughfare that led straight from the city entrance to the Sultan’s palace. It meant a lot of visiting lords often passed by.
The girls of the brothel immediately rushed forward, no doubt hoping to both see and maybe catch the attention of someone in the party. You’d fully intended to hang back, but found yourself dragged forward by Hana who was surprisingly strong for her size and vicious as she elbowed her fellows out of the way.
It meant you got a good view to watch the procession as it meandered into view. There were several palanquins and mounted guards, along with servants driving camel pulled carts that no doubt carried their luggage. It was huge and extravagant, every single person dressed in finery, even the clothing of the servants and guards far better than even the merchants in the middle area of town.
They were clearly putting on some kind of show, both for those of you who were watching, and for the sultan. You’d heard rumors that his son Prince Tooru was searching for a bride, and wondered if maybe one of the palanquins held a potential candidate. Word on the street was that he was rejecting everyone who came to him out of hand, claiming none were good enough despite how beautiful they were or how much was offered in their dowry.
“Look, it’s the prince of Shiratorizawa!” Hana hissed, elbowing you in the side and pointing to a man who was riding at the front of the column, letting out a breathy sigh as she identified him, “Ushijima Wakatoshi.”
The man would’ve looked more like a guard or soldier with his build, which was utterly enormous and heavy with muscle, if not for the finery he was wearing. Everything was rich embroidered silks, and he had heavy gold collar around his neck along with a few rings whose gems you could almost see sparkling from where you were stood they were so large.
He was rather handsome, if austere looking, his face practically carved from marble as he glanced around at the cheering citizens who were welcoming him as they gathered in the streets seemingly unbothered by the commotion. The horse he rode on was huge, and pure white with a silvery mane, its saddle trimmed in expensive purple cloth that no doubt cose a fortune.
He was surrounded by several retainers, one of whom had the brightest red hair you’d ever seen, and another whose hair you could swear was an unnatural shade of silver. You probably would’ve kept on watching, letting the ruckus pass you by, except movement from the crowd caught your eye.
You recognized the man moving through the crowd as one of the nastier shopkeepers. Yasir was the type to set out food seemingly for street rats to take as an elaborate trap before dragging them to the guards. Normally you wouldn’t interfere, as you’d learned early on that sticking your neck out for anyone would only get you burned, but you recognized the person being dragged along as one of the children you’d seen earlier. They were identifiable even from a distance because of the rust orange wrap they had tied around their head.
Your heart, which you tried to keep iced over in order to keep from bleeding for every poor street rat kid you came across, throbbed painfully, and you were halfway out the window before you’d even really thought about it. You paused however, when the kid proved to be more scrappy than you would’ve guessed. You couldn’t see what exactly it was they did, but it forced the cruel old merchant to let go.
It probably would’ve been fine if the kid had chosen any other direction to run in, but unfortunately, they’d chosen to run right for the street, just ahead of where the prince and his party were going to pass. Your body was moving before you’d even really processed what was happening, barely registering Hana’s shout of alarm as you leapt into the crowd, slipping through with the ease of long experience.
You managed to break through just in time to see the kid take a tumble right in front of the Shiratorizawa Prince’s horse. The proud, enormous creature immediately balked, rearing and flailing its dangerous hooves, shouts of alarm echoing through the crowd and from Ushijima’s retainers, though whether they were worried about the prince or the child you couldn’t tell.
Heedless of the danger you leapt forward, managing to snag the kid and dodge the horse’s flailing hooves, getting both of you out of the way and to the other side of the street. The crowd parted, more to avoid being even remotely associated with you then to let you through, but you were grateful nonetheless as you took the kid’s hand and pulled them through the labyrinth of buildings, hoping to shake any pursuers and then dodged into an alleyway to catch your breath.
“You alright kid?” you asked to your charge who was staring up at you with huge eyes.
They nodded slowly, a wary glint in them that told you they’d been on the street long enough to know not to trust just anyone, even if they’d done you a favor, maybe even especially not if they’d done you a favor. The sound of rapid footsteps alerted you to the presence of another, and you turned, just in time to see the other kid who’d been with them barrel into the alleyway, a small knife in hand.
You were honestly impressed they’d managed to follow you through the twists and turns you’d taken through the alleyways, especially since you hadn’t seen them in the crowd during your initial rush to save their friend. The kid glanced between the two of you, clearly willing to launch themselves at you if you showed the slightest hint of hostility towards either of them.
“Relax kid,” you told them, holding your hands out in a peaceful gesture, “I’m not going to hurt you, or your little friend here, in fact if you’ll move to the side there I fully intend to leave now.”
“Why?” the kid with the knife demanded, brandishing it at you.
“Because I’m bigger and more experienced then you and if you attack me I’ll kick your ass,” you told them bluntly, deliberately misinterpreting the question as you leveled a glare at the kid.
“I mean why did you help us?” the kid clarified, still brandishing the knife as they eyed you suspiciously.
You heaved a sigh and darted forward faster than the kid could react knocking the knife from their hands easily, twisting their wrist up behind their back in a hold you knew from experience they wouldn’t be able to escape. The kid wriggled furiously, cursing up a storm, and you raised an eyebrow, impressed by the language they’d picked up, but as you predicted they were nowhere near strong enough to get free of your grip.
“Please,” the kid you’d saved pleaded eyes darting between you and their friend as they bowed low, “Please, please, don’t hurt her!”
“Her huh?” you asked, both surprised and not. The more you interacted with the kid the more you were reminded of yourself. Both kids froze, horror taking over the face of the one you could see as they realized they’d slipped.
“I suggest being a little more circumspect with that information in the future,” you scolded lightly, as you set your foot down firmly on the knife and released the kid, shoving her toward her friend, “And not picking fights you can’t win, or else you won’t last long here.”
The kid stumbled but quickly got to her feet again, planting herself firmly between you and the other, who you were beginning to suspect was also female, leveling you with a rather impressive glare for a kid her size.
“Try to stab me in the back when I leave and I won’t be near as nice,” you warned, meaning it. You knew kids could be just as vicious as adults at that age, after all you certainly had been.
“You didn’t answer my question!” the girl demanded, as you turned to walk away though to her credit she didn’t move to follow, and there was a slightly plaintive note to her voice.
“Call it a whim,” you answered over your shoulder, “And because you reminded me of someone.”
Good deed accomplished you slipped away into the alleys, climbing up on to the rooftops. You didn’t actually move all that far away, instead pausing on one of the more open rooftops, absently fingering your own weapons, which were tucked away neatly into the sash on your waist as you demanded, “Is there a reason you’re following me?”
“Oya? How interesting,” the voice was smooth and rather cultured, and as you turned to get a look at the person who’d been stalking you, who’d arrived at the same time as the knife wielding kid, you had to do a double take.
You recognized him. It was hard not to what with that bright crimson hair, worn in sharp spikes that accentuated the sharpness of his face, with its high cheekbones, thin bladed nose, and sharp chin, though the most prominent feature was one you hadn’t been able to see at a distance earlier, a pair of ruby red eyes that were observing you with interest.
Even without his distinguishing features you still would’ve been able to tell he didn’t belong, decked out as he was in clothing that, while not as ostentatious as prince Wakatoshi’s, was still far too ostentatious for a normal person. He’d been at the prince’s side earlier, and it made you extremely wary, especially given the sword he was wearing strapped to his hip.
“You don’t look like an assassin,” the redhead told you, head tilting a bit like a curious bird’s.
“Assassin?” you asked, utterly appalled at the very idea. You may be a thief, and you had definitely gotten into fights that had ended someone’s life before, but that had always been in defense of yourself or Hana. Never had you even considered killing people for money, not even at your most desperate.
“It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s attempted to kill Waka-kun,” the redhead chirped, slowly circling you, forcing you to pivot with him as you absolutely refused to have him at your back. You gulped as you noted the familiar address for the prince, which told you he probably was of even higher standing than you’d first suspected.
A quick glance around showed the rooftops were mostly empty, and you were fairly sure you could escape if you ran, as you were far more familiar with the territory than he was. You’d just have to escape and lay low for a while. No doubt someone as important as he was would forget about a nameless street rat after a little while.
“Ah-ah,” the redhead scolded, a teasing note in his voice that made her incredibly wary, “Don’t go scurrying away just yet little street rat, or I’ll have to chase you down, and I don’t think either of us want that.”
“What do you want?” you asked suspiciously, well aware there was very little you could do in a situation like this one. Against someone who probably had quite a bit of training you wouldn’t stand a chance. Even if you did, it wouldn’t be a good idea. A street rat who ran away from a noble was one thing, but a street rat who injured one? They’d never stop hunting you down.
“No need to be so hostile,” he told you, his voice almost sing song, “I’m only curious. It’s not every day you see a street rat who behaves as nobly as you did, saving a small child from Waka-kun’s monster of a horse. Is it any wonder I’m interested?”
“I’m nothing interesting,” you informed him flatly, dread filling you at the thought of being ‘interesting’ to a noble, something you were sure wouldn’t end well for you, “You heard me before, it was a whim, nothing more nothing less.”
“Oh-ho! So you knew I was there did you? That makes you even more interesting!” he informed you, clearly delighted.
You cursed to yourself quietly wondering just what you could do to extricate yourself from this situation, which was becoming increasingly dangerous for you, wondering what foul deed you’d committed to deserve this.
“Don’t look so worried,” the man informed you, wagging a finger at you playfully, “I’m not going to hurt you ah… what’s your name by the way?”
You stared at him, keeping your mouth stubbornly shut. You had absolutely no intention of giving your name to a strange man, who had cornered you with unknown motivations.
“Don’t be like that!” he urged with a bright grin, “I’m harmless I promise! Here I’ll even go first I’m Satori Tendou!”
Your mind raced as you tried to figure out if you’d heard the name before. Unfortunately you hardly paid attention to the nobility of your own country, let alone the neighboring kingdoms. You lived in different worlds after all, so there was no real need for you to know.
“Your turn,” he prompted, watching you with eager eyes, making a ‘go ahead’ gesture with his hands.
“Terushima,” you told him bluntly, giving the name of one of Hana’s most frequent customers, hoping it was enough to get him to leave you alone.
“That’s an awfully strange name for a woman,” the crazy redhead, Tendou, told you an amused lilt in his voice that told you he didn’t believe you at all.
You froze in horror, a shiver of fear going through you despite the heat of the day and the sun beating down overhead as your hands dropped to your weapons. You had no idea how he knew that, because a quick check of your body proved you had all your disguise in place. However, you didn’t think it meant anything good for you.
“Now, now,” he scolded, his tone still light even as his eyes gleamed in triumph, “Didn’t I say? I’m not looking to hurt you. In fact I’ll cut you a deal. Give me your name, your real name and I’ll let you leave, since you don’t look like you’re enjoying this conversation as much as I am.”
You didn’t believe him, not for a second, but you didn’t have much of a choice either, instead gritting out, “Hana, my name is Hana.”
“Hmm interesting,” the redhead mused, his ruby eyes boring into your own as if he was trying to see right through to your soul. You held his gaze, doing everything you could not to flinch or give away that you’d lied to him once more. No way were you going to give this crazy noble your name, not if you could help it.
“Alright then Hana,” he said at last with a strange, mysterious smile, “This was a nice chat, but I really should be catching up with Waka-kun and the rest of the entourage. Let’s meet again someday okay?”
He gave you a fluttering wave, and leapt off the edge of the building, surprisingly nimble for a noble. You followed after, watching him from the edge of the rooftop, your entire body wound tighter than a spring until he disappeared out of sight. Even then you didn’t relax instead running in the opposite direction.
Paranoia meant you spent the rest of the afternoon dodging through alleyways, taking all the twists and turns you knew and sometimes doubling back just in case he’d tried to follow you again. It was utterly exhausting, and late at night before you finally managed to return to the space you’d claimed as yours.
It was an old abandoned loft, part of an derelict building on the outskirts of the slums. The only way to get up was to climb, using carefully concealed handholds and a rope ladder you kept tucked away in a safe spot. You let out a breath as you reached your place of safety, collapsing down against the cushions and rags you’d compiled over the years to make a fairly comfy nest.
The stress of the day made you unwilling to do much of anything, instead rolling over and taking advantage of the opening, which was the whole reason you’d chosen this particular spot in the first place. The wall had collapsed, leaving it open to the elements unless you covered it with the heavy canvas curtain you’d rigged up. It would’ve been too much of a nuisance for some, but for you it was completely and utterly worth it, simply for the view.
All you had to do was turn your head and you could look out over the entirety of the city, with the palace glimmering in the distance. It was one of the best views you’d ever found, and it always managed to make you feel at peace, something you desperately needed after the day you’d just had.
Looking out over the city, feeling your eyes droop as you realized you were finally safe and utterly exhausted from all the running around you’d done, you said a quiet prayer in the hopes that you and Satori Tendou would never, evermeet again before allowing yourself to fall into a deep, restful sleep.
“Tooru! Tooru!” a trilling voice called, interrupting his peace and making him cringe. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.
“Iwa-chan, do something!” he hissed to his faithful companion, a Bengal Tiger he’d grown up with, hand raising it from a cub. The tiger in question raised his head to look at him, snorted in disgust and put his head back down again, clearly not bothered to do anything at all, let alone protect him. Not that he could blame him, his sister could be incredibly persistent and spiteful and was definitely not someone you wanted to cross.
“So this is where you were hiding away,” his sister Ayumi announced as she made her way into the pavilion where he’d been sitting.
“I haven’t been hiding,” he protested, but at a look from her quickly revised, “Okay so maybe I’ve been hiding but can you blame me? Who’d want to be forced to spend time with Ushiwaka?”
“One of these days you’re going to have to let that rivalry of yours go,” she scolded, though from the amused quirk of her lips he could tell she wasn’t entirely serious.
“Never,” he informed her with a hiss, irritated all over again at the thought of the stoic prince of Shiratorizawa.
As prince’s of neighboring kingdoms the two of them had, had several meetings over the years, including two consecutive years where they fostered in each other’s countries, Oikawa going to Shiratorizawa for a year and Ushijima coming to Aoba Johsai for a year. The two of them actually shared an interest in several things, which would’ve made most people think they’d get along quite well.
Unfortunately at their very first meeting the two princes had been learning to ride, and Oikawa, attempting to show off had managed to fall off his horse. Ushijima had made a simple comment about how his riding skill was clearly superior to Oikawa’s who’d taken extreme offense. From then on he’d tried to make Ushijima his rival in almost everything he did, from riding to etiquette, to parchisi anything was fair game.
Once in a while Oikawa could eke out a win over the other, especially if the contest involved strategy or charm as Ushijima tended to be extremely blunt and lacked some essential people skills. However, when it came to contests of athleticism or brute strength he always lost no matter what he tried. It was utterly infuriating.
Even worse, somewhere along the line Ushijima had apparently gotten it into his head that he liked Oikawa, and so was constantly trying to convince him to uproot himself from Aoba Johsai and come to Shiratorizawa, which was utterly infuriating. It wasn’t that he had anything against the country in particular, other than his intense dislike of Ushijima, but he loved his home country and would never dream of leaving it.
“You might have to get over that dislike of yours sooner rather than later,” his sister warned him, an amused lilt to her voice that made him extremely wary.
“Why should I?” he demanded petulantly.
“Oh I don’t know, maybe because he’s come courting and father is seriously considering his suit,” his sister told him nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t dropped an enormous bomb on him.
“That’s not funny!” he squawked indignantly, loud enough that Iwaizumi raised his head to glare at him for interrupting his nap.
“I’m not joking,” Ayumi countered, “It’s your own fault for saying you don’t like women.”
“That is not what I said,” he hissed at her indignantly, “I said I didn’t like the simpering pampered women mother kept trying to introduce to me.”
“That’s not what she heard,” Ayumi told him with a giggle, “Besides I thought you liked men? That’s what I told father when he asked, and the reason he’s been inviting all these foreign princes to visit you know.”
“I like both,” he corrected absently, before he processed the rest of her sentence and quickly objected, “But that’s not important! What do you mean that’s why he’s been inviting princes to visit?! I thought that was for diplomatic relations!”
“Is that what he told you?” Ayumi snickered meanly, looking far too amused at his appalling situation, “You should’ve known better Tooru, after all you only have a couple weeks left before your twenty-fifth birthday.”
He heaved a sigh at that, unable to keep the grimace off his face. It was tradition in the royal family to marry before they hit twenty-five, which was part of the reason that he’d had a seemingly endless parade of women, and now men apparently, brought before him in an attempt to find him a life partner. Unfortunately every single one of those people had clearly been looking to use him, for his status, wealth, or looks, which were some of the best the kingdom of Aoba Johsai had to offer in his own humble opinion.
And while he couldn’t necessarily blame them for that, he couldn’t bring himself to be satisfied with it either. He wanted someone who would love him for who he was, and not what he was. He wanted a partnership like his parents and sister had, not whoever happened to be most convenient.
Sadly he probably hadn’t dedicated as much time to searching for someone as he probably should have, and his twenty-fifth birthday had crept up on him without warning, leaving him scrambling as he tried to figure out what to do.
“I don’t see why I have to get married at all,” he told her petulantly, “It’s not like they need an heir, you’ve already taken care of that.”
“You know tradition dictates the crown goes to the oldest married male of the line first,” his sister pointed out reasonably, “Don’t you want to be sultan? I thought ruling was all you’d ever wanted.”
“Would it be worth it to rule if I end up being stuck in a miserable marriage for the rest of my life?” he asked moodily, sprawling back on to the rim of the fountain and turning his head to watch the water flow.
“You don’t know it will be miserable,” his sister pointed out, stepping closer and putting a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged her off, not in the mood for her attempts at comfort.
“How can it be anything but, if I’m not in love?” he responded, reaching out to slap the water angrily, earning a disgruntled look from Iwaizumi as it splashed on to his face.
“I’m sure you could find a way to make things work,” Ayumi told him sympathetically, “You always do, and in the mean time I’ll talk to dad about not letting Prince Wakatoshi get the wrong idea. You’d never be able to marry him anyway, since he’s the crown prince of Shiratorizawa.”
“Thanks,” he told her grudgingly.
“You’re welcome little brother,” she told him ruffling his hair affectionately, “And while I do that, maybe remind yourself why you want to rule the kingdom in the first place, maybe that will help you make up your mind.”
Oikawa grimaced, and didn’t bother to reply, intead running his fingers through his hair to fix the mess his sister had left as her footsteps retreated from his sanctuary, scowling down at his reflection, frustrated and unhappy.
“How the hell am I supposed to find the right person to marry in just a couple weeks Iwa-chan?” he asked the tiger, heaving a sigh, “And what the hell does she mean ‘remind myself why I want to rule?’ I already know why!”
The tiger took one look at him, got to his feet, plodded over and promptly shoved him, making him lose his balance and tumble right into the fountain. He surfaced with a sputter and a glare for the big cat, who looked entirely too smug for an animal.
“You’re so mean to me Iwa-chan!” he accused dramatically, earning an narrowed eyed look from the tiger, one that was a clear threat to ‘stop whining or get swatted or dunked again.’
“Fine,” he agreed, heaving himself out of the water and grimacing down at his ruined clothes, “Fine, fine, fine! I’ll stop sulking. Maybe it’s time for another trip, see if I can’t clear my head.”
Iwaizumi eyed him for a long moment, but apparently seemed content with this plan as he promptly laid back down again with a yawn, clearly settling in for a nap. Oikawa shot him a dirty look, but then heaved a sigh and walked away. He needed to change out of his wet clothes, hopefully before anyone saw him or he ran into that ass Ushiwaka again.
“What am I going to do with that boy?” the Sultan asked despairingly, heaving a sigh and tapping his fingers against the arm of his throne as he tried to come up with some solution.
“Patience my dear,” his wife, the love of his life, soothed her voice quiet and gentle, “Tooru is a good boy, I’m sure he’ll come around to marriage eventually.”
“We don’t have time to be patient,” he told her, heaving a sigh, “His birthday is less than three weeks away, and we haven’t heard a word from him about who he wants as his spouse! I had to hear from Ayumi that he prefers men! He could’ve told me himself you know? It’s not an issue! He has an heir in Takeru and could rule happily with a man by his side!”
“I know dear,” she assured him, patting his hand sympathetically, “I’m sure he didn’t mean to hide it from you, you know our Tooru he’s always been so focused on being the best prince he could be, I bet that romance wasn’t even a thought that occurred to him.”
“Well it should’ve been,” he harrumphed unhappily, “He knows the tradition as well as anybody, and knows he won’t be allowed to rule without a consort! It should’ve been one of his top priorities!”
“You know Tooru’s heart has always been more focused on things like politics and the welfare of our people,” his lovely wife scolded reprovingly, before sheepishly admitting, “And I think our pushing the subject may have made him dig in his heels, you know how stubborn he can be.”
“I do,” he admitted, heaving a sigh before playfully pointing out, “I wonder where he gets that from?”
“From you obviously,” she informed him pointedly, making him chuckle slightly in agreement.
“I’m afraid it’s to his detriment this time,” he told her, smile sliding off, “He needs to find himself a consort. Male or female I don’t care so long as it’s before the deadline.”
“Do we really have to rush him?” his wife asked sympathetically, “It’s a silly tradition anyway. Why should we put a time restriction on falling in love?”
“Normally I would agree, but this tradition is actually rather generous compared to others,” he reminded her bleakly, “Our children have until the age of twenty-five to make their own choice and if they don’t it gets made for them. It’s a compromise that gives them a chance at love, while also ensuring those who neglect the chance still serve their country by forming some kind of political alliance. Such is the life of a royal, whose life belongs to their country first and foremost.”
“And there’s no way to change it? To push things off just a little while longer?” she pleaded, quietly.
“I’m afraid not,” he told her sympathetically, his own heart heavy in his chest, “As it is other countries who are fully aware of our traditions are already chomping at the bit, hoping to form an alliance, presenting us with their offers. It would be incredibly insulting to turn them all away. It’s one of the reasons Prince Wakatoshi is here.”
“You do know that our Tooru would never actually agree to marry Prince Wakatoshi don’t you?” his lovely wife asked reprovingly.
“I… well… one of my advisors might have mentioned something about sexual tension,” he blustered, earning a resigned sigh from his wife, along with an eye roll. Luckily he was saved from having to try to explain himself further as the doors to their throne room swept open.
“Ah Jafar!” he exclaimed, jumping immediately on the other man’s presence as a distraction from the current topic, “Welcome back! How was your trip.”
“Enlightening your eminence,” the other man assured him, his voice smooth in a way Ayumi had at times complained was oily. Then again his daughter had never really trusted his vizier, and neither had Tooru but since neither of them had ever given him a good reason, other than gut instinct he’d brushed it off, figuring it was probably because of the man’s looks. Both of his children, for all their better traits, could be exceedingly vain at times, a fault he was a bit despairing of, though he couldn’t think of anything he could do to change that.
Jafar certainly wasn’t the most handsome fellow around, lean and near skeletal in a way, tall, thin, and bony with large almost protuberant eyes, high, winged brows, unfortunately large nose and thin wormy lips all set in a too narrow face. He knew his appearance was off putting to some, but he liked to think he was wise enough to see beyond such surface things. Besides, his father had trusted the man implicitly and had always heeded his advice, Jafar had also never steered him wrong, so he saw no reason to give his children’s ‘gut feelings’ any sort of credence.
“Excellent,” he told his vizier with a glad clap of his hands, “I’m glad your trip was fruitful, and the timing of your return couldn’t be more fortuitous.”
“Is something amiss your eminence?” he asked, leaning his weight on the golden cobra headed staff he carried with him everywhere as a sign of office.
“Not amiss per se,” he assured the vizier, going on to explain his troubles with Tooru, with the occasional input of his wife.
“I see,” Jafar noted, stroking his curled goatee with his fingers, his eyes narrowed in thought, “That is indeed troubling. I will give the matter some deep thought.”
“I appreciate that,” he told him with a smile, “And now, to other buisiness.”
The three of them continued their conversation, catching the vizier up on what he’d missed in his time away from court. Jafar played his role of advisor perfectly, his fingers idly playing with the golden serpent staff, neither royal noticing anything amiss as its ruby eyes glinted with an almost unnatural light.
It wouldn’t be until later that night that the sultan would begin to question several of the decisions they’d made earlier that day, but by then it was too late to change them, and he never thought to look to the vizier whose advice he remembered as being absolutely perfect. Instead blame fell squarely on his own shoulders, and he lay awake for several long hours beside his peacefully sleeping wife, troubled not just by his son’s lack of spouse, but questioning his own judgement, and wondering if maybe he might be slipping in his old age.
You strolled casually through the bazaar, listening with one ear to the familiar sounds of the hawkers all shouting about their wares and the hustle and bustle of the people as they moved about their business, chatting with one another and bartering with the stall owners. The smell was one you couldn’t really find anywhere else in the city, perfumed with spices, essential oils, fruits, and all manner of other interesting and unnamable things. It was better than the stench of the lower city for sure.
A warning look at one of the kids who darted past you made him hastily pull his hand away from your belt purse, offering a sheepish smile before fleeing like the hounds of hell were on his heels. That was the other thing the bazaar was known for. If you didn’t keep a close eye on your coin you would almost assuredly lose it.
You’d done your own fair share of pick pocketing and were pretty damn good at it, if you did say so yourself. These days though you tried to keep most of your money making on the up and up where you could to avoid long, drawn-out chases from the guards. Plus by now most of the vendors knew your face, and so knew to keep a wary eye out when you were around, though it didn’t stop a few of them from hiring you to run the occasional errand.
It was why you were here today, and in such a jovial mood. You had a pocket full of bronze coins rattling around in your purse, which meant you’d eat well for a week at least. Humming idly you contemplated whether or not you wanted to buy something from Yasir.
Normally you avoided the bitter, vicious, disgusting old man on principle for what he’d tried to do, both to you and other street kids, but you couldn’t deny he did sell some of the best fruit in the whole city and today he had a whole cart full of delicious looking apples that were practically begging to be eaten.
“That will be one silver crescent,” Yasir was simpering at the customer at his stall, his syrupy tones making you want to gag. A quick look at the customer in question had your eyebrows raising in surprise as he held a single apple in his hand, clearly about to hand over the silver crescent without question.
The way currency worked there were 5 silver stars in a silver crescent, 10 copper crescents in a silver star, 5 copper stars in a copper crescent, and 5 copper bits in a copper star. An apple was worth a copper bit at most, so Yasir was essentially charging him at least a thousand times what a single apple was actually worth.
Normally you couldn’t care less about some rich idiot getting swindled, but this was Yasir, someone you’d loathed since you were a child and an enemy to street rats everywhere. Thus you strolled over, quickly hands plucking the silver crescent out of Yasir’s greedy hands and pressing it back towards the rich idiot.
“You!” Yasir hissed venomously in clear recognition, “What do you think you’re doing? Interfering with my sales? I should call the guards on you!”
“I’m sure the guards would love to hear about how you’re trying to sell a single apple for a whole silver crescent, so please call them I could follow and laugh you all the way to the holding cells for trying to swindle someone out of so much money,” you told him idly, making him pucker his lips in a moue of distaste, though he notably didn’t bother to say anything.
“That’s what I thought,” you smirked, “And you…”
You trailed off for a minute, surprised. Walking up you hadn’t gotten a good look at the customer’s face because he was wearing a hood over it. Up close though you realized with a start that he was probably the most beautiful man you’d ever laid eyes on. He had smooth peach colored skin, high cheekbones, full lips, and wide brown eyes the color of chocolate a delicacy you’d only ever managed to taste once in your life but whose sweet, rich flavor you’d never forgotten.
He also had thick wavy hair, that fell in an attractive swoop across his forehead, small pieces sticking out of the sides of his hood, and was a good six foot tall, maybe more, with broad shoulders that showed despite the hooded cloak he was wearing. It was startling, but looking at him you were almost positive you were looking into the face of a noble of some kind which was incredibly disconcerting.
“And me?” he asked, his voice smooth, light and clearly teasing, the corners of that pretty mouth turning upwards, a glint in his eye telling you he knew exactly what had startled you into speechlessness.
“A single apple is worth a copper bit at most,” you informed him, snapping out of your daze, your tone waspish, though you were more annoyed with yourself than you were with him, “If you’re going to get swindled this badly, you might not want to be wandering about without your guards. Go back to your palace where you belong little princeling.”
Idly you flicked a copper bit at Yasir who caught it with an extremely disgruntled look but didn’t protest as you snagged an apple for yourself and wandered away. That was the one thing you could count on with Yasir, the greedy man would take money no matter who it was from.
You walked away, whistling happily to yourself as you bit into the sweet apple, wiping your chin with the back of your hand and savoring the fruit and the fact that you’d managed to get one over on the old man. It was looking to be a good day, or so you’d thought, right up until the sound of footsteps reached your ears. You turned just in time to see the strange nobleman fall into step beside you, peering at you with clear interest in his gaze.
“Something I can help you with?” you asked bluntly, as you took another bite from the apple.
“You’re interesting,” he informed you, peering at you with wide eyes as if he’d discovered some new fascinating alien species, “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before.”
You snorted, unable to help yourself, the uncouth sound garnering a shocked and slightly appalled, slightly intrigued look from the man as you informed him, unable to keep the slight condescension from your voice, “It’s no wonder little princeling, people like you and me don’t exactly run in the same circles, but let me tell you I’m nothing special, just an ordinary street rat. Now why don’t you run along back to safety before you bite off more than you can chew.”
“Mm I don’t think I will,” he told you, something about his tone utterly infuriating, “But tell me then mister street rat, how did you know?”
“Know what?” you asked flatly and rhetorically, “That you’re a noble? You mean other than the fact that you thought an apple actually cost a silver crescent?”
The noble flushed, the pink in his cheeks surprisingly pretty, but you weren’t done yet, “You’re too clean for one. No one wanders these streets without picking up some dirt.”
It was true enough. You tried to stay clean as best you could, but the climate in the city was arid, dust and sand everywhere, which made things difficult. The times you could actually afford to go to the bath houses were few and far between as food was far more important than money, though you did try to sneak in now and then when you could.
“You also have a noble’s hands, no scars,” you pointed out, showing him your own for reference, which were riddled with them from things like knife fights and the climbing you’d done over the years, “Worst of all you don’t keep nearly as good an eye out for your purse as you should.”
This last was said with a glare towards a pickpocket whose hand had been creeping toward the noble. Normally you wouldn’t care, and even applaud another street rat for taking what had to be a hefty amount of the ignorant idiot. However, given you were with him at the moment there was a good chance you would take the blame, and like hell were you taking the fall for it.
The noble you were with turned surprised eyes on the street rat who made a rude gesture at you and scampered away. You rolled your eyes unbothered by the kid before ducking away, intending to head out and see if you could find some work for the day, only to notice the noble following along at your heels. You quickened your pace, hoping to lose him, ducking between people and booths, but he turned out to be surprisingly agile despite his size. You ducked down a mostly empty side street but even that didn’t shake him.
“What are you doing?” you demanded, annoyed, spinning on your heel to face him and nearly getting knocked over for your troubles as he almost collided with you.
“Following you,” he told you, not even out of breath despite the merry chase you’d led him on through the bazaar, which you grudgingly gave him props for. Pampered as he looked you would’ve thought he would struggle at least a little bit.
“Why?” you demanded, utterly dumbfounded and more than a bit incensed.
“Because it seems like you know your stuff and it turns out I might need a guide,” he told you, giving you a charming smile that you were fairly sure would’ve made every prostitute in Hana’s brothel swoon. Luckily you were made of sterner stuff and knew better than to be enthralled by a pretty face.
“Didn’t I tell you?” you retorted, crossing your arms over your chest and giving him your best glare, “You don’t belong here little princeling. Now, scurry back to your palace before you get hurt and bring the guards down on all our heads.”
You turned on your heel and were pleased to hear he didn’t follow after as you made your way down the alley, fully intending to wash your hands of the responsibility for him when he called out, “I’ll pay you!”
The offer made you freeze in your tracks, your instinctive feeling that the man was trouble warring with your need for money. However, you clearly remembered that silver crescent he’d been willing to pay for a mere apple of all things and so slowly found yourself turning to look at him.
He’d looked a little concerned when you’d first got a glimpse of his face, but the moment he saw you turning it melted away into a triumphant smile. A part of you absolutely seethed with resentment, but you quashed your pride down. In the end money was money and you weren’t so proud you’d turn him away entirely, even if every instinct you had screamed that he was nothing but trouble.
“How much are you offering and just what exactly do you want?” you demanded, leaning against the wall with a deep frown on your face.
“I just want someone to show me the sights of the city, things I’ve never seen before,” he told you with an almost childish eagerness that was more endearing than you expected and took you aback a bit, making your traitorous heart flip in your chest.
“As for money,” he hastily dug into his purse and produced a handful of silver crescents and asked far too innocently, “Will this do?”
You groaned unintentionally, both for yourself knowing you were about to agree despite your better judgment and because the idiot noble was trying to hand you more money than you’d laid eyes on in the entirety of your life.
“Fine,” you agreed, running a rough hand through your hair, and wondering what the hell you were getting yourself into, “I’ll show you around princeling, but you stick close to me and do as I say.”
“Sure thing Mr. Street Rat sir,” he told you with a cheeky salute, making you heave a sigh as he sauntered over to you.
“I’m going to regret this so much,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him, before conceding, “Alright, let’s see what you want to see then.”
Jafar hummed to himself as he stroked a long bony finger over the enormous hour glass that sat at the center of his private workshop. A part of him was still incredibly frustrated over the drawback with the thief he’d hired to rob the Cave of Wonders. He’d been so close, closer than he had been in years to finally achieving his goal.
It had taken him over a decade to even locate it, chasing rumors, hunting down the pieces to the golden scarab that was said to be the key. This was partly his own fault he admitted, if he hadn’t been so impatient when he spotted the first piece, stealing it from the neighboring Kingdom of Date Tech , he might’ve managed to avoid drawing the suspicions of the previous Sultan.
Sneaking the viper that had ended his life into his rooms and ensuring it bit him had been a hassle and had cost him a pet he’d been fairly fond of. Still it had been worth it, as the previous sultan hadn’t had time to share his suspicions with the new one, who’d trusted him implicitly from the beginning of his reign.
He’d been sure to be more cautious this time, to ensure he kept that trust, using his lovely staff. It was just one of the many treasures he’d stumbled on while searching for the Genie’s Lamp and certainly one of the most useful. It’s hypnotic powers of suggestion combined with his own guile were nearly infallible. It only failed on people who were strongly opposed to whatever he was suggesting, and sometimes if they had a weak will it would work even then.
The current sultan, while reasonably clever wasn’t what he would call strong willed, and he had several glaring weaknesses, namely his family, his wife, two children and his grandson all of whom the man practically doted on. It made it particularly easy to suggest things that, while they might not benefit the kingdom as a whole, certainly benefitted him personally.
The sultan was an easy piece to move, and he liked it that way. If he couldn’t be sultan himself yet, being able to pull his strings without worry. However, there was one small problem. Prince Tooru was nowhere near as malleable as his parents, the man was stubborn as an ox and worse he’d never particularly liked him.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done to turn both princess Ayumi and prince Tooru against him, but both had only ever watched him with suspicion in their eyes no matter what he did. It was a shame, once upon a time he’d thought to marry princess Ayumi, but that plan had fallen apart with the death of the previous sultan.
In the confusion after she’d managed to get engaged to her current husband, and there had been nothing he could do to change that, as it was the one area the current sultan managed to stand firm on even with the full power of his staff against him. He’d let it go without fuss though, perfectly willing to wait, after all it was actually Prince Tooru who was the heir and the prince was just as lovely as his sister.
Even better, prince Tooru had remained willfully against marrying anyone his parents pushed his way, without him even needing to try to influence him. It had created a situation where the everyone was clamoring to marry the prince who was in desperate need of a spouse that wouldn’t upset the precarious balance of the surrounding kingdoms. It was the perfect position, and set him in just the right place for Jafar to put forth his proposal of marrying the younger man himself.
It might take a bit of work, and he knew Prince Tooru wouldn’t be happy about it, but he was sure he could make the pretty prince bow to his will eventually. Plus if his parents agreed to the match there was very little he could actually do about it.
All of this meant he’d been free to keep pursuing the lamp, with only the smallest of interventions here or there to ensure the prince never fell in love with anyone. Which was how he’d finally managed to find the other half of the scarab he needed, hiring the thief to take it from a wealthy merchant who’d been bragging about it.
He’d been thrilled to find, just as in the legend, that once it was complete the scarab took flight, leading him out over the desert and at last to the Cave of Wonders, the rumored resting place of the lamp he needed to ensure his future.
Sure it had been disheartening to hear from the cave itself that he needed to search out “The Diamond in the Rough” who was apparently the only person capable of entering the cave. However, he wasn’t too concerned. He was so close he could taste it and the death of the thief who’d been swallowed by the cave was no great loss. In fact he could even call it a boon as it meant he hadn’t had to deal with the rancid smelling gutter rat himself.
He would’ve been more worried about finding this so called “diamond” if not for another magical tool that had greatly aided him over the years. The large hour glass that he even now was preparing to use. It was a scrying tool, one that required rather expensive components to work, but one that was well worth it as it could answer any question asked of it no matter how esoteric.
Carefully he grabbed a vial, tipping it into the funnel, giving just enough to coat the bottom of the glass that would eventually hold the sand. The ruby red liquid coated the glass in a way that was clearly unnatural, forming a perfect film over the bottom. The stink of copper reached his nose as the blood he’d obtained from one of the virgin street rat children the guards were always hauling into the cells did its job.
That was the easiest of ingredients to obtain, and the children were rewarded for it in a sense, released from the cells to live and thieve another day. The next however was far more dangerous, and he grimaced as he tipped in six drops of King Cobra venom, which hissed as it hit the blood, filling the hourglass with a ruby tinged smoke. Last but not least, the most expensive bit, diamond dust, ground from real diamonds, a whole bag of it, which he poured in with careful precision.
The makeshift sand filtered through and he waited patiently until it was all in the bottom, before quickly turning the whole thing over, and quickly voicing his request, “Where might I find the Diamond in the Rough?”
The whole mixture, which had formed a steady stream as it filtered through the hourglass, swirled around the bottom half forming an image. He studied it carefully, knowing he only had until all the sand reached the bottom before the image would disappear and force him to do the whole process over again.
He let out a delighted, high, cruel laugh as he saw the visage in glass. It was a young man he didn’t recognize, but he did recognize just where he was, as he climbed up a derelict building he knew was at the edge of the city. The one he needed was close by, within an hour’s walk. It was as if the very gods were looking out for him, easing his path.
His every dream was going to come true, all he had to do was send the guards out to fetch his street rat prize. His Diamond in the Rough.
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#oikawa tooru x reader#oikawa tooru x you#oikawa tooru#oikawa x reader#oikawa x you#oikawa fanfiction#JayeRaySpice#hq oikawa#haikyuu oikawa#crossover#aladdin x haikyuu#katsulevicollab#oikawa as jasmine#oikawa fluff#oikawa fic#oikawa tōru#oikawa smut#eventually#a diamond in the rough#JayeRayWrites#haikyuu#collab
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personal problem
[Image ID: an image of a woman lying on a bed, with an updo and wearing heels, holding a camera up to her face, colorized in green and with the decker personal problem | lexi/mc/zoey/poppy | ch. 6/22 over it.]
A Lexi/MC/Zoey/Poppy emotional slowburn/physical very-much-not-a-slowburn infidelity fic. Read the full fic from the beginning here.
Poppy wakes up slumming it, in sheets that are only about 800 thread count and without even a silk eye mask or anything. Ugh. She's gonna have to use one of her nicest face masks to make up for her skin being in contact with this pillow all night.
Still, as she sits up and stretches, the mostly-pleasant ache in her muscles sort of makes up for it. Lexi in the sheets next to her, eyes open and watching her with this vaguely interested look, doesn't hurt either. Poppy could perform for her, show off, roll on top of her with a kiss, but she's never been the type to before she's brushed her teeth, and she's not sure she wants another round this morning.
Yet, anyway.
(Read the rest of chapter 6 here, the chapter IS over 10k so I couldn’t post it all to Tumblr. One day I will learn restraint <-- that sentence is me lying)
#poppy x lexi#lexi x mc#mc x lexi#mc x zoey x poppy x lexi#hizzieluthor#request#my fics#fic: personal problem#playchoices#queen b#mc x zoey#mc x poppy#zoey x lexi#zoey wade#bea hughes#lexi montgomery#poppy min-sinclair#oc: helena hughes#s: i wish i were heather#s: part of me you carry#s: you're acting like you hurt me but i'm not even listening#zoey x poppy
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