↳ replies and updates for fic will be slow. i will post updates for any projects
↳ rulebook [open]
ヾ𓈒⁀➷ MASTERLISTS
↳ stranger in a strange land (11th doctor x mcu!sorcerer!reader)
the diary of an overworked sorcerer (prequel series)
↳ eleventh doctor
↳ vi (arcane)
ヾ𓈒⁀➷ RECENT WORKS
↳ stranger in a strange land [series]
you were the only thing standing between thanos and the mind stone. your defenses weren't good enough and in the end you had to watch the mad titan rip the mind stone out of vision's head.
thanos, in his rage to kill you, forced you to bear the brunt of all six infinity stones, hoping the combined energy would disintegrate you.
you wish it did.
↳ the diary of an overworked sorcerer [mild angst, comfort]
snippets of your life as a former master of the mystic arts turned sorcerer supreme. spoiler alert, it's not as fun as everyone makes it out to be.
↳ maybe until tomorrow [angst, smut]
you tell yourself that you can play pretend with vi. just one more day. one more week. just until you find the will to break everything off yourself. (part one is linked in the summary)
You know, when I see fictional characters who repress all their emotions, they're usually aloof and very blunt about keeping people at a distance, sometimes to an edgy degree—but what I don't see nearly enough are the emotionally repressed characters who are just…mellow.
Think about it. In real life, the person that's bottling up all their emotions is not the one that's brooding in the corner and snaps at you for trying to befriend them. More often than not, it's that friendly person in your circle who makes easy conversation with you, laughs with you, and listens and gives advice whenever you're upset. But you never see them upset, in fact they seem to have endless patience for you and everything around them—and so you call them their friend, you trust them. And only after months of telling them all your secrets do you realize…
…they've never actually told you anything about themselves.
Adding onto this: characters who are so deeply repressed that they don't even realize they're not fine, or at the very least not supposed to be fine. Characters who do tell you about a situation they're in that should be bad, but instantly laugh it off saying they can handle it (spoiler: they can, in fact, not handle it). Characters who laugh with you and listen to all your woes and much later you learn that they were actually going through something at least equally bad at the time, but they wave it off and don't want to speak of it. Characters whose main coping mechanism seems to be "don't think about it" on endless loop.
Basically, the fictional embodiment of the "this is fine" dog.
js saw ur jjk ask u r genuinely the love of my life CAN U DO HDCS FOR GOJO PLEASEEEE I NEED TO KNOW HOW U THINK ABT HIM PLS MAMA I NEED ITTTT
I don't go here either, technically. But boy oh boy did I have a lot to say. This one is personal. Starts as a bit of a character analysis and then goes into relationship.
18+ for smutty parts ( ¯\_(ツ)_/¯). mdni.
boyfriend hdcs series: jason todd ✶ dick grayson
SATORU GOJO AS YOUR BOYFRIEND HDCS—
He's the strongest, and that isn't ego, it's a fact he was handed when he was born before he understood what it costs to be the strongest.
By the time he was eleven he'd already started to suspect what it would cost, and by twenty-eight he's stopped caring enough to articulate it. He just lives inside it the way other people live inside a body, and like a body it's the only one he gets and he can't take it off. So the burden is not something he can set down, he can't ever for one minute be a person who isn't that.
The older he gets the more Satoru realises he doesn't know who he would have been without it, and there's nobody alive to ask, and there never was.
People forget he is genuinely, structurally lonely in a way most humans can't fathom.
It's important to understand this isn't the lonely of no one understands me, it's the lonely of no one can stand on this floor with me. Every person who could meet him as an equal is either dead, sealed, or his enemy, and the floor is empty, and he stands on it anyway, has stood on it so long that he's started to mistake the loneliness for his own personality.
Which is what makes meeting someone who can stand next to him, even slightly, even imperfectly, a kind of catastrophic event he doesn't know how to process, doesn't have a category for. Finds himself returning to over and over in idle moments the way a tongue returns to a missing tooth.
He speaks in a permanent register of irony because sincerity costs him too much. The playful drawl, the dramatic stretching, the singsong nah, nah, nah, the way he turns every serious moment with a joke... it's a screen.
He learned by his late teens that if he stops smiling the room reorganises itself around him in a way he hates. People start whispering and treating him like something not quite human. So the smile stays on, the smile is always on, and over the years it's become so welded to his face that even he sometimes forgets there's a person underneath it.
Which is its own kind of horror when he catches himself looking in a mirror at three in the morning and seeing only the public face looking back, the same face strangers see, the same face his enemies see, and wondering, briefly, if there's any difference between him and the mask anymore.
People use him constantly: the higher-ups use him as a weapon they keep aimed at whatever threatens their power, the students use him as a teacher and a shield, the public when they know about him at all uses him as a myth, and the clan that raised him used him as a vessel before he was even old enough to have a personality of his own.
And Satoru lets them, because being used is preferable to being seen, and being seen would require him to admit how tired he is, how much of his life he's spent solving other people's problems with the casual application of impossible violence. How no one has ever quite remembered to ask if he wanted to be doing any of it, including, eventually, him, because once you've been a tool for long enough you forget there was an alternative.
You forget you were a child once, you forget you were ever asked what you wanted, you forget there was ever a you who wanted things.
Which brings us to Limitless and Infinity.
His technique means that nothing touches him, ever. It's literal, the world arrives at the surface of his skin and stops a hair's breadth short and slides off, rain doesn't actually land on him, wind doesn't actually move his hair the way it moves other people's hair, a hand reaching for his shoulder is gently, automatically, declined by the space between atoms. The technique runs in the background of his being the way breathing runs in the background of yours, it doesn't require thought, it doesn't require permission, it simply is.
So he's lived almost his entire life inside a bubble of not-touch that he didn't choose and can only consciously turn off, and the body remembers being touched the way a tongue remembers a word in a language it hasn't spoken since childhood, dimly, hungrily.
Think about what this does to a person over decades, think about the cumulative weight of it. The absence of casual contact, the absence of the hand on the shoulder, the absence of being jostled in a crowd, the absence of even the small environmental touches everyone else takes for granted. Water on skin, a breeze, the press of a chair against your back.
He has all of these only at one remove, mediated, filtered through Infinity. Near but never quite landing. And the part of him that's animal, the part of him that's simply human, the part of him that needed to be held as a baby and got it but only sometimes, only when the clan elders permitted it, only carefully, that part of him has been screaming low in the background for so long he doesn't even hear it anymore, has mistaken the scream for silence.
He has to consciously let you touch him, has to make the decision, it isn't passive. Every brush of your fingers against his wrist is a small deliberate act of disarmament on his part, a tiny lowering of the only defence his body has ever known.
You don't realise at first what it means when he reaches for your hand or leans his head against your shoulder. You think it's casual the way it would be casual with anyone else. Then one night you catch him doing it and you see the way his eye flickers shut for half a second when your skin meets his. The way his breath catches almost imperceptibly, the way his whole body subtly leans into the contact like a plant turning toward light, and you understand with a kind of slow horror that this is the only place in his entire life where he's touched. That he's starving. That he's been starving for as long as he can remember, and that the person who gets to feed him is, by some impossible accident of the universe, you.
So he hoards it, he hoards you, hoards your time, hoards the contact, in a way he doesn't hoard anything else in his life.
He's famously, almost ostentatiously generous with money, with food, with attention to his students, with the violence he hands out on behalf of strangers, he gives and gives because giving costs him nothing and proves he is who they say he is.
But your time, your touch, the hours when he gets to sit on your kitchen floor with his head against your knee and not be Gojo Satoru for a little while, those he holds with both hands, those he counts.
He'll rearrange his entire week, lie to the elders, dodge three different missions to protect. Because they're the only currency in his life that is actually scarce. The only thing he's not been given freely and at scale, the only thing he's poor in, and a man who's been rich in everything he doesn't want and poor in the one thing he does will guard that one thing like his life depends on it, because in some sense it does.
You'll notice, after a while, that he's started to count, in small ways. The number of hours you have together before his next mission, the number of nights in a row he gets to come home to your apartment, the number of mornings he gets to wake up with his face in your hair.
He'll never say any of this aloud, will not admit even to himself that he's keeping a tally, but you'll catch him standing at the window at five a.m. before a long deployment with that particular stillness, that not-quite-smile, and you'll understand he's memorising this, banking the look of you in low light against the days, weeks, he won't have it.
And there's cruelty to Satoru we can't ignore, don't romanticise it away.
He laughs at his enemies and threatens elders with a smile. He flicks people out of existence the way you'd flick lint off a sleeve and doesn't think about it for longer than the gesture takes.
He loves selectively, narrowly, and the people outside that narrow circle barely register as real to him. It's not a tsundere thing and not a misunderstood-softie thing, it's a him thing. The consequence of being raised by people who treated him as a vessel rather than a child and a world that has confirmed for him over and over that most lives are not equivalent to his.
So why should he act as if they are, when nobody else does, when the entire structure of his existence is built on the premise that they aren't?
And yet—Suguru. The never healing wound.
The friend he loved more than he loved anyone before or perhaps since, the only person who ever stood on the floor with him even briefly. Who walked away from that floor into atrocity, who built a life around the proposition that non-sorcerers were cattle, and who Satoru ultimately had to kill, and then couldn't even bury, and then couldn't even mourn properly because Kenjaku stole the corpse and wore it like a coat.
Satoru carries that loss like a second spine, doesn't talk about it, just moves differently when it comes up, the joke arrives a half-second late, the smile thins by a few millimetres, but if you know him well enough you can see it and if you don't you'll miss it entirely. Which is exactly how he wants it, and you'll live for a long time in a relationship with a person whose central grief you're not invited to share.
You'll have to learn that the not-being-invited is not a rejection, it's the closest he can come to protecting you from a wound that he himself doesn't believe can be healed.
Occasionally, very occasionally, he'll mention Suguru in passing, in a sentence that ends a sentence too soon, we used to, or he would have laughed at, or simply yeah, well, trailing off, and the right thing to do in those moments is nothing, no follow-up question, no soft inquiring look, just keep your hand where it is on his back and let the sentence die in the air.
Over time he'll give you more, in his way, in fragments, never a story, never a confession, just shards, and you'll assemble them into something private that lives between you and that he'll never quite acknowledge you have.
The first time he notices you it's almost an accident.
You're a curiosity, the way a cat notices a thing that moves wrong, something about you registers. Maybe you didn't flinch when he walked in, maybe you said something acidic to him and meant it, or maybe you simply didn't look at him with that mixture of fear and worship he's catalogued in everyone since he was a child.
So he files you under interesting and then he starts poking. That's the opening move, relentless, low-stakes provocation.
He stands too close, he steals your drink, he says something outrageous to watch your face, and if you laugh he files that, and if you snap back he files it harder, and if you do the rarest thing of all (meet his eyes and not perform anything in particular, just look at him like he's a person) he goes briefly quiet and changes the subject, because that one he doesn't know what to do with, that one his mind doesn't have an entry for.
He'll think about it for days afterwards in idle moments and pretend he isn't.
The teasing is constant and surgically tuned to whatever insecurity he picks up on within forty-eight hours of meeting you. He's monstrously perceptive. He reads people the way other people read traffic signs, automatically and without effort, he'll find the exact thing you don't want named and name it grinning, sunglasses on, while you choke on your coffee.
Then ten minutes later he'll buy you something stupidly expensive without comment, and you'll start to understand that the cruelty and the tenderness come from the same place in him. That Satoru doesn't really separate them, that being seen by him is going to involve being seen all the way through and there's no version where you only get the soft parts. No version where he agrees to look at you only in the flattering light, the deal is the whole gaze or nothing, and most people, in practice, take nothing.
He will not, at this stage, tell you he likes you. He barely tells himself. He tells himself he's bored and you're entertaining, which is the lie he's been telling about every meaningful relationship in his life since he was a child.
The not dating but dating phase can last months, plural, with no internal acknowledgment of what it is. He shows up at your apartment at eleven p.m. with bags from three different cities because he was in Kyoto for a mission and remembered you mentioned a sweet shop.
He eats half your food, he sleeps on your couch, he leaves a hoodie behind that you don't know is deliberate. He starts referring to your address as home in passing and then catches himself and redirects. Gives the cashier at your local market a tip that the cashier remembers for a year (because it's obscene) because Satoru went there exactly once to buy you a thing and decided everyone connected to your daily life was now retroactively important.
You ask what this is and he says aw, don't be weird about it, with that slight enigmatic smile (that runs the danger of coming off as dismissive so it's always a balance to read it), and you let it go because the alternative is losing whatever this is, and you've already, without quite noticing, begun to organise parts of your life around his unpredictable orbit.
He's also obnoxious about your attention. Obnoxious.
If you're on your phone he'll lie across your lap to block the screen. If you're talking to someone else at a gathering he'll drape an arm around your shoulders and announce something embarrassing about you. If you don't text back fast enough you'll get fifteen messages, three voice notes, and a selfie of him pouting at his own reflection.
He's a six-foot-three nuisance who's also the strongest sorcerer alive and he'll use every inch of both facts to make sure your eyes land on him and stay there. And the moment you give him your full attention, undivided, looking right at him, he goes shy in a way he'd never name, looks away, changes the subject, asks you something offhand that's actually the most sincere question he's asked in weeks.
Because he wants your attention the way a man dying of thirst wants water and now that he has it he doesn't quite know what to do with it, doesn't have the muscle memory for being looked at the way you look at him. Has spent his entire life being looked at as something rather than seen as someone, and the difference is everything, and he's bad at receiving it.
It tips eventually because of something small. It always does with Satoru. He doesn't have the language for grand declarations, he's never needed them, never been asked for them, so the moment something shifts it's quiet.
He stops by after a mission and maybe there's blood under his nails and his hair is damp and he sits down on your floor and leans his head against your knee and doesn't say anything for a long time. And you, against your better judgment, put a hand in his hair, and he closes his eye behind the blindfold and exhales like he's been holding his breath for a decade.
Somewhere in the next sixty seconds, without a word being spoken about it, the shape of what you are to each other has changed permanently (and the thing is, the thing is, you've put your hand in his hair before, plenty of times, that isn't what's new) what's new is that this time he didn't make a joke about it. Didn't tilt his head away with a smirk, didn't deflect. He just let it happen. Let himself receive it, let himself be a person being touched on the floor of your apartment by someone who loves him, and that's the act of trust that closes the door behind you both.
He doesn't ask you out, he just starts treating the thing like it's already real, that's his version of commitment.
One morning you wake up and there's a toothbrush, then a drawer, then he's giving the higher-ups your name as his emergency contact, which is functionally insane given his life, and when you ask him about it he shrugs and says who else? i'll kill them if they hurt you
And you have to sit with the fact that this is, by his standards, a declaration of love so vast and total it would be embarrassing if he knew how to say it out loud. Which he doesn't, might never, and which you will, over time, learn to translate from. To read his language of moved-in objects and undeclared decisions and the small adjustments he makes to the architecture of his life to fit you into it.
You'll learn that who else is the closest thing he has to I love you and that it is, in its way, more total than any conventional confession could be. Because Satoru genuinely means it. There is no one else, there has not been anyone else for a long time, and there is unlikely to be anyone else again, and the who else contains all of that without spending a word on it.
Once you're his, he's terrifyingly possessive in a way he frames as joking but isn't joking at all.
It's not jealousy in the petty sense, he genuinely doesn't feel threatened by other people because no one is a threat to him on any axis he understands. It's something far deeper, a quiet total refusal to share the thing he loves with the world that has spent his entire life trying to take pieces of him.
You are his and the door closes on that, and people who don't understand this about him will mistake the lightness of his voice for the lightness of his meaning, and they'll be wrong. They'll only be wrong once, because Satoru Gojo does not need to make a point twice for the point to be understood.
He's all laughs until something touches you and then he isn't. When he isn't he's the scariest thing in any room. Because he doesn't raise his voice, he doesn't even change his posture much, he just goes still. That smile thins, the blindfold tips down a quarter-inch so whoever's standing in front of him can see one eye, and that's usually all it takes.
The people he loves have a very, very short list of enemies, and the enemies don't tend to stay enemies for long, and the first time you see this happen, the first time you watch him decide that someone has done something unforgivable in his vicinity, you'll understand viscerally and forever that the man who steals your snacks and complains about your coffee is also a creature of almost unbearable lethality.
Those two facts about him are not in tension, they live in the same person and have always lived in the same person, and loving him means loving both, and finding, somewhere in yourself, that you're not horrified by the second one. That you are, in some quiet shameful corner of yourself, relieved by it. Glad that the thing standing between you and the world is that.
But the protectiveness has a flipside that's harder.
Sometimes he genuinely forgets that you don't operate at his level. Not just power-wise but emotionally.
He'll keep things from you because he's decided you can't handle them, will make decisions about your safety without consulting you because he's already run every scenario and arrived at the answer before you've finished asking the question.
When you call him on it he gets that look. The one that says he knows you're right and he's going to do it again anyway, because protecting you matters more in his internal calculation than your autonomy. He's not yet figured out, possibly never will figure out, that those two things are not actually separable. That taking your choice from you in the name of keeping you alive is its own kind of small theft, and the fights you'll have about this are some of the worst fights you'll ever have. Because you're both right, in your own ways, and neither of you knows how to give ground without feeling like the giving will cost you the other person entirely.
Satoru is, frankly, bluntly, a difficult partner.
He disappears for a week and comes back like he was gone four hours. He forgets birthdays unless he's set six different reminders. He eats your leftovers and lies about it with a face so straight you almost believe him. He'll be in the middle of a conversation about something important to you and his phone rings and he's gone and you don't see him for three days. When he comes back he's edgy and dark but grinning. For you. Doesn't want to talk about it.
There'll be times you sit on the edge of your bed at two in the morning wondering whether you can actually do this. Whether anyone can actually do this. Whether loving him is sustainable as a long-term proposition or whether it's just an extended exercise in being slowly hollowed out by absence. You will not always know the answer, and the not-knowing will sit in your chest like a stone for weeks at a time. You'll not be able to talk to anyone about it because nobody else's relationship looks anything like this and the comparisons don't help.
And then he'll come home, and he'll walk through the door and look at you and his whole face will change.
The public face drops off like a coat slid from his shoulders, and he'll cross the room and wrap his arms around you and bury his face in your hair and just breathe, and you'll feel in the slight tremor through his ribs exactly how much it costs him to be away from you. Exactly how much of him has been holding itself together by force for however many days. How much of his nervous system has been waiting to come back into a place where it could let go, and you'll be reminded that whatever this is, it's not nothing.
It is, in fact, possibly, the most something either of you has ever had, and the stone in your chest will dissolve a little, and you'll get through another stretch, and another, and another, and that's the rhythm of it. The rhythm of loving him. You take the absences and the homecomings and you live in the gap between them.
You have to learn to steer him back, too. That's the part no one will tell you. When he's deflecting too hard, when the grin is too wide, with too many teeth. When he's started narrating the conversation in third person because he can't bear to be in it. You have to say his name, just Satoru, quietly, without performance, and watch him land back in his own body like a kid who'd forgotten he had one.
That's the work, and you have to learn the difference between the moments when he wants to be steered back and the moments when he genuinely needs the deflection. When the deflection is the only thing keeping him functional, and you have to develop an ear for which one is which.
You'll get it wrong sometimes, you'll reach for him at the wrong moment and he'll shut the door in your face, politely, with a smile. You'll have to not take it personally, will have to remember that the shutting is a survival mechanism older than you, older than this relationship, older than his ability to choose otherwise.
The work is also recognising when he's being cruel and not letting it slide.
He tests people, not consciously, not maliciously, but he tests. He'll say something cutting just to see if you'll flinch, and if you do he'll mark it and never quite trust you again, and if you don't, if you look at him steadily and say that was mean and I'd like you to not, he goes quiet and apologises in his own roundabout way. Usually with food, sometimes with an extravagant gift, occasionally with a real plain sorry that sounds half-coughed up but sincere, and the trust deepens by a millimetre that'll matter for years. Over time the tests get rarer. Not strictly because he stops needing to know, but because he stops needing to ask. Because the answer has been written into the structure of you by then.
His indifference is real too and you have to make peace with it.
He'll not care about things you care about. He'll not pretend to care because he despises performance in his private life. He already performs enough in public, the whole rest of his life is a performance, and what he wants from you is the place where he doesn't have to.
He'll tune out during your work stories, he'll forget the names of your friends, you'll mention something that happened to a person he doesn't know and his face will do that thing where it goes politely blank and you'll realise he genuinely doesn't register them as real people.
You have two choices: take it personally, or accept that the narrowness of his caring is the price of how completely he cares about you when he's actually looking at you, and that for someone who has spent his whole life forced to be important to everyone in a generalised and meaningless way, this fierce specific narrowness is the closest thing to honesty he can offer. Once you understand it as honesty rather than as withholding, it gets easier, not easy, but easier.
Without the blindfold, in low light, in your apartment, his eyes are the most beautiful thing you'll ever see.
He'll look at you with them and you'll feel briefly like you understand what infinity means. He knows what they do, he doesn't take the blindfold off often and never carelessly. So when he does, with you, it's a gift he won't name.
The first few times it happens you'll find yourself going still under that gaze, because it isn't only that the eyes are beautiful, it's that he is looking at you with them, which is to say he's choosing to use the full devastating bandwidth of his perception on you. You'll feel seen in a way that is somewhere between being loved and being read, and you'll not know which you prefer.
Eventually you'll stop trying to know, will accept that with him those two things are not really separate, that being read by Satoru Gojo and being loved by him are the same action performed at the same time and there's no version where you get one without the other.
He sleeps with his face pressed into your shoulder or the crook of your neck, always. He steals the blanket. He talks in his sleep occasionally, usually nonsense, occasionally names (Suguru is one of them, and you learn early not to ask, you learn to put your hand on the back of his neck when it happens and feel him settle again, and you learn that the privilege of being the person he sleeps next to is also the responsibility of being the person who holds him through the dreams he won't acknowledge in daylight) and you also notice, after a while, that he sleeps deeper with you than he does anywhere else.
That the man who's hyperaware in every other context goes completely under when his face is in your neck, that his Limitless does something different when he's asleep next to you. You don't fully understand what, but the air around him in your bed feels less guarded, feels permeable, feels like he's decided, in some pre-verbal way, that this is the one place he can stop running the defence, and you carry that knowledge with you everywhere afterwards.
He eats sweets like a child. You'll find empty wrappers in every pocket of every jacket he owns. He buys you absurd desserts and watches you eat them with this soft unguarded look that he immediately replaces with something dumb when he notices you've caught him.
He's intensely physical in low-key ways once he trusts you, constantly touching, a hand at the small of your back, a leg over yours on the couch, fingers in your hair while he's reading something on his phone. Now you understand why.
Now you understand the hunger underneath each touch, the way his hand drifts to your wrist like a magnet when you're in the same room not even talking, the way he'll pass through a doorway behind you and let his palm trail across your hip just to feel something land where his body is used to nothing landing.
The way he will sit pressed against your side on a couch that has plenty of room as if he doesn't quite understand that the configuration is unusual, and the way he will, in public, in front of people who fear him, slip his hand into yours with a casualness that's itself the most extravagant possible declaration. Because his hand is the part of him that touches nothing, and he's letting it touch you, and he doesn't care who sees.
He gives you things, not flowers, weird specific things.
A ring he saw in a window in Istanbul, a knife that belonged to someone he killed (he thinks this is romantic somehow 💀), a stupid keychain from a vending machine in a service station, a single perfect peach from a market in a city you can't pronounce.
The expensive ones and the trash ones come from the same place, he saw it, he thought of you, that was the whole transaction in his head, and over time you learn that the thinking of you is the gift. The object is just the receipt, and you also learn that the volume of objects accumulating in your apartment is itself a kind of secret census. A record of all the moments his mind drifted to you while he was supposed to be doing something else, all the moments he was killing or eating or sitting in a meeting and an image of you crossed his attention and he reached into the world and grabbed the nearest thing and carried it home.
There's a specific way he touches you in public that is different from how he touches you at home. At home it's constant, tactile and greedy.
In public it's more restrained but somehow heavier, a hand at the small of your back that presses just slightly too hard, a thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in a way that recalls what that hand was doing six hours ago, an arm slung over your shoulders that positions your body against his in a way that is, if you're paying attention, absolutely a territorial claim.
The first time you notice it, the first time you realise he's performing I have someone for an audience that may or may not be paying attention, you feel something complicated, because the displaying is obnoxious and possessive and also, underneath that, it's the closest he can come in daylight to saying mine, I have a person, I'm not untethered, someone chose me, and that part is so vulnerable you almost can't look at it directly.
He is, predictably and unbearably, a menace in bed.
The teasing doesn't stop, if anything it gets worse. He'll work you up for an hour with hands and mouth, that low laugh against your skin and every time you try to push things forward he'll pull back and grin and say something insufferable like aw, what's the rush? and you'll want to kill him. You'll also never wanted him more in your life, which is precisely the effect he's after.
But the teasing is also doing something else, something he wouldn't articulate if you asked him. It's stretching the time. It's making the encounter longer, because every minute his skin is on your skin is a minute he's not in the bubble of not-touch, and the part of him that has been starving since he was boy is in no hurry whatsoever to be done.
The leisureliness is the hunger, the leisureliness is the entire point. The man who could end any fight in a quarter of a second is, here, deliberately taking the long way through everything. Because he can, because no one is going to take it from him, because for the duration of this his entire body is being touched and nothing else has ever been worth slowing down for.
He has no shame. Zero. Nada. Zilch. He's never in his life been embarrassed in a bedroom and he never will be.
He'll say things that make you cover your face, he'll narrate in that bright drawl exactly what he's doing and exactly what he's going to do next. He wants to watch you come apart and he wants you to know he's watching.
The eyes (those impossible, beautiful eyes) fixed on you with the same focus he turns on enemies in combat, except now it's all you, all of it, every inch of that perception aimed at your face and your body and the small involuntary sounds you make.
The experience of being the sole object of Satoru Gojo's attention is something the average human nervous system was not designed to absorb, and you will feel, more than once, like you might come apart from the looking alone, before he's even properly touched you.
And underneath the showmanship, he's attentive in a way that borders on uncanny. That perceptiveness he uses to hurt people, that catalogue of every micro-expression, he turns it the other way here.
He learns you like a language. Inside two weeks he knows exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you go quiet, what makes you grab his wrist, what you don't like and haven't said, and what you do like and demand more of without a word.
He files all of it and he uses all of it, and there'll come a point where you realise he's better at being in your body, at appreciating your body, than you are. Which is humiliating, and which also means that there is, in his head, a Satoru-shaped map of you that nobody else has ever made and nobody else will ever make, and the existence of that map is, in its own way, another form of declaration. Another way he's keeping you, another piece of you he's quietly taken into the private hoard.
The teasing finally breaks at some point, it always does, he'll have been playing for too long and you'll do something (say his name in a particular way, or just stop laughing, or reach up and put your hand on his face and look at him) and the temperature in the room changes.
He goes quiet, the joke dies in his throat, his eyes go dark and his hand goes still in your hair, and what comes after the break is intensity. That's the word, the same focus he uses in combat, the same focus that makes him the strongest, except now it's all turned on you and there's nothing else in his world in those minutes.
You'll never have been looked at like that before and after him no one will look at you like that again, and a small frightened part of you will register that this level of attention is probably not survivable as a permanent condition. Which is fine, because it's also not survivable to live without it once you've had it, and somewhere in the negotiation between those two unlivable conditions is what people mean when they talk about being ruined for anyone else.
He's rough when you want him rough, gentle when you want him gentle. Satoru reads it in your breathing.
He'll hold you down with one hand like it's nothing because for him it is nothing, the strongest man alive applying a fraction of a fraction of his strength, and the wrongness of the math of that (the absolute power held in such restraint, just enough pressure to make a point) does something to you.
Then five minutes later he'll be brushing your hair off your forehead with a tenderness that'll undo you, the same hand, the same man, the same impossible bandwidth of control directed now at the most delicate possible task. And you'll understand, again, that loving him means containing two facts about him that other people would prefer to keep separate.
He likes you on top because he likes watching your body move, he likes you under him because he likes the way you reach for him. He likes you against a wall because he's dramatic and he likes how you hold onto him. There's no position he won't enjoy and he has opinions about all of them which he will tell you, at length, while you're trying to catch your breath.
But the one position he keeps coming back to, the one he doesn't make jokes about, the one that you start to suspect is his actual favourite, is the one where he's wrapped around you completely. His chest against your back, his face in your hair, every possible square centimetre of his skin in contact with yours. Because that one is the one that delivers the most touch per second, that one is the one that delivers him to the place his body has been trying to reach his whole life. He'll hold you like that and sigh into your neck and you'll feel him become, for a few minutes, a different kind of creature than the one the world sees.
The frequency is, frankly, ridiculous, and you should make peace with this early.
Satoru wants you constantly. Mornings before missions when he's pulling on his uniform and changes his mind and crawls back into bed because the look of you half-asleep is more than he can walk away from. Afternoons in the kitchen when you're making tea and he comes up behind you and sets his hands on your hips and the tea goes cold. Nights when he's just gotten home and is bleeding from a shallow cut on his temple and the first thing he wants (before food, before a shower, before sleep) is you. Your hands on him, your mouth, the proof of being alive that arrives most reliably through your body.
The stamina is, predictably, unreal, because cursed energy is in some sense life-force and his is bottomless. He can genuinely go for hours. He can do it twice in an hour and then a third time after a nap. He'll keep going long after you've lost the ability to form coherent words, and the only thing that ever actually stops him is you reaching up and putting your hand on his face and saying Satoru, enough. At which point he immediately collapses on top of you and laughs into your collarbone like a kid.
He has a very specific thing he does with his mouth that you're convinced could be classified as a war crime in several countries.
Starts with his tongue flat and broad, almost lazy, and then narrows the focus incrementally over the course of what feels like fifteen years until the attention is so precise and unrelenting that you forget how to speak in full sentences.
The entire time he's doing this he's watching, eyes flicking up to your face to monitor every reaction, every hitch in your breathing, and he will adjust in real-time based on what he sees, will speed up or slow down or change the angle by millimetres, and the realisation that he is essentially conducting your nervous system, that he's turned your pleasure into a project he's solving in real-time with his mouth and his horrible perfect attention, is almost worse than the physical sensation.
Except the physical sensation is also destroying you, and at some point you'll try to push his head away because it's too much and he will grab your wrist and pin it to your hip and keep going, and the combination of the restraint plus the relentlessness plus the looking at you will take you apart so thoroughly that you'll briefly forget your own name.
The first time you go down on him he tries very, very hard to stay in control. The teasing is still running, he's making comments, he's got one hand in your hair but loosely, he's performing the whole yeah, that's good, you look so pretty like this routine. And then you do something with your tongue, or maybe it's the suction, or maybe it's just the accumulation of sensation and the fact that your eyes are on him, but whatever it is, the performance cracks.
His hand tightens in your hair and his hips jerk forward before he can stop them and he makes this sound, this completely unguarded ah fuck that comes from somewhere deep in his chest, and for about thirty seconds he's not Gojo Satoru, just a man getting his soul sucked out through his dick, and his head tips back and his eyes close and his breathing goes ragged.
You'll file this away as maybe the most erotic thing you've ever witnessed.
Then he catches himself, opens his eyes, tries to get the grin back, but it's too late. You've seen it. You know what's under there now, and every subsequent time you'll chase that crack, will try to widen it, and he knows you're doing it and it becomes this silent game between you. Him trying to keep the mask up and you trying to fuck it off his face with your mouth, and it's unclear who's winning but it's very clear that you're both enjoying the game.
He uses his hands the way some people use a violin. Fingers that know exactly how much pressure, exactly what speed, exactly when to slow down, and the way he watches your face the whole time he's working you up with them is unbearable. That intensity again, that focus. He'll keep his hand between your thighs and his other hand braced beside your head and just look at you, will drink in every twitch of your eyelids and every involuntary sound, will say there, right? right there, when he feels you tense and he's always (always) right.
Because he's been mapping you since the first night and his memory when it comes to you almost photographic, and the first time Satoru gets you off with just his fingers and that low patient voice telling you how good you're being, you'll understand viscerally that this man is dangerous in a category you had not previously had a word for.
He gives head like he's apologising for something, like it's an offering, like he's discovered that this is one of the only contexts in his life where he gets to put his actual face (not the public face, not the smirk, the bare unguarded thing under it) against another person's skin for an extended period of time and have it be welcome. Have it be wanted, have it be received with gratitude, and so he takes his time, takes a humiliating amount of time. He'll spend an hour between your thighs and emerge looking pleased with himself and slightly drunk, and the psychology of it is that this is the closest he gets in the entire repertoire of physical intimacy to being able to give without performing strength. Without performing wit, without performing anything but devotion.
It turns out the strongest sorcerer in the world is, behind closed doors, almost embarrassingly devoted, and you'll have to learn to take it without flinching, will have to learn to keep your hand in his hair and your eyes on him and let him do the thing he so badly wants to do, because trying to redirect him out of generosity will read to him as rejection and the resulting sulk will last days.
Which brings us to: he loves having his hair pulled. Loves it.
You'll discover this the first time you do it by accident, will feel the sound that comes out of his throat and store the information forever (and it's not just the sensation, though that's part of it, it's the relinquishment, it's the fact that he's spent his entire life as the person no one can put hands on, and the experience of someone closing a fist in his hair and directing him is, for a man whose body has been autonomous and unreachable since he was a boy, a kind of erotic release he didn't know was possible until you stumbled into giving it to him) and once you know, you can undo him almost at will. Can grab a handful and pull and watch his eyes go dark and his whole posture change.
Use it to slow him down when he's being insufferable, can use it to make him beg, which he will, eventually, if you're very, very patient, in a low ruined voice that sounds nothing like the public Satoru and will live in your head for the rest of your life.
The dirty talk is foul, by the way, just so you're prepared.
He has no filter, no embarrassment, no concept of going too far. He;ll narrate exactly what he's doing to you and exactly what he wants to do next and exactly how good you look while he's doing it.
He has a running commentary habit that should be annoying but is instead devastatingly hot. Will narrate exactly what he's doing to you with clinical precision, gonna put two fingers in now, okay? yeah, you can take it, I know you can, fuck you're tight, relax for me, that's it, good, so good, and the constant stream of words does something to you. Keeps you anchored in the moment, keeps you present in your own body, and there's something about the way he phrases things as statements of fact rather than questions that makes your brain short-circuit.
He's not asking permission, exactly, but he's also not not asking, he's narrating the thing right before he does it which gives you a half-second to object if you wanted to but also presumes you won't, and the presumption is correct, you never do, and the combination of the warning plus the confidence plus the good, I knew you could praise immediately after makes you feel simultaneously taken-apart and taken-care-of, will find that just the tone of it, that particular low register he drops into, can make you wet before he's even touched you.
He has a particular thing about your mouth and it borders on a obsession.
He loves kissing you, will kiss you for twenty minutes, will interrupt himself mid-sentence to lean over and kiss you because the proximity of your mouth has overridden whatever he was saying, will, during sex, slow everything down so he can press his forehead against yours and just breathe you in and kiss you like he's trying to memorise the inside of your mouth.
The psychology with this one is straightforward and kinda devastating: kissing is the form of touch where the most square inches of skin are in motion, where two faces meet with no defences up, where Infinity has to come all the way down for it to work at all, and so kissing you is one of the most undefended things he ever does. And he wants more of it, always more, and you'll find that your jaw aches sometimes from the sheer duration of his attention and you will not mind.
There's a specific thing that happens sometimes when he's inside you where he just... stops. Fully seated, not moving, just looking at you with an expression you can't quite parse. The first time it happens you think something's wrong, you start to ask if he's okay, and he puts a hand over your mouth (gently, not to silence you but to pause the question) and says just let me feel you for a second.
You understand he's savouring the sensation of being inside another person which is, for someone whose body has been a closed system for decades, about as intimate as it's possible to get. He'll stay like that for thirty, forty seconds, barely breathing, just feeling it, the heat and the pressure and the aliveness of it, and then he'll move again and the sex resumes, but you'll carry that pause with you. That moment of him needing to just experience the fact of connection.
He likes you in his lap because he likes the height parity. He likes you pinned beneath him with your wrists held in one of his hands because he likes feeling you strain against the grip just enough to know he's holding you.
He likes you facedown with your hips pulled up because the angle is filthy and because it gives him an unobstructed view of his hand on the small of your back.
He likes you bent over the kitchen counter because he's a menace and because he thinks it's funny. He likes you against the wall in the hallway because he came home and couldn't wait the eight steps to the bedroom, and he likes you riding him slow with his hands on your hips guiding the pace because then he gets to watch, and watching you fall apart on top of him is one of his very favourite things in the world, possibly the favourite, certainly in the top five.
He likes to be bitten, which you discover by accident when you're kissing his neck and you scrape your teeth against the tendon there without thinking. Satoru makes a sound you've never heard before and his hand comes up to the back of your head and holds you there, and when you pull back to look at him his eyes are unfocused and his breathing is uneven. He says do that again, so you do, harder this time, and he shudders, full-body, and you realise that this is another version of the marking thing but inverted.
He can't keep marks, his body won't allow it, the bruise from your teeth will be gone in an hour, but for that hour he gets to carry the evidence of you on his skin, and more than that, biting is one of the only kinds of pain that actually registers for him, his tolerance is so high and his healing is so fast that most sensation just... slides off, but teeth in his skin, that gets through, that makes it past the Infinity, and he wants it, wants to be hurt in the small specific way that confirms he has a body at all, and you'll bite him often after this.
His neck, his shoulder, once the tendon between his thumb and forefinger just to watch his eyes go dark, and he'll never ask for it out loud but he'll angle himself toward your mouth, and you'll know what he needs without him having to say it.
The sounds you make apparently do something to him that borders on medical.
You learn this because he tells you, in that running-commentary voice, fuck, the sounds you make, I could come just from listening to you, and you think it's hyperbole until the night when you're louder than usual and he legitimately almost finishes before he means to, has to stop moving entirely and breathe through it, and afterwards he tells you, in a sheepish voice you've heard maybe twice, that he wasn't joking. That the audio of you falling apart does something to his brain he doesn't totally understand, lights up some reward pathway that's usually reserved for combat victory or successful technique execution, and the fact that your pleasure registers in his nervous system the same way winning a fight does tells you more about how he's wired than any conversation you've ever had.
It tells you that he has somehow neurologically linked making you feel good with the thing I was put on earth to do, and once you know this you'll feel a strange responsibility, will understand that you are, in some sense, feeding something in him that has been hungry for decades.
He has exactly one position he'll almost never initiate but will melt into if you start it.
Which is you on top facing away from him, reverse cowgirl, and the reason he won't ask for it is because it's the one position where he can't see your face, can't monitor your reactions, has to rely entirely on sound and touch. Which means he can't manage the situation the way he manages everything else, has to just receive whatever you're giving him.
When you figure this out and put him there deliberately, take his hands and pin them to his own chest (or yours) and tell him to keep them there, and then set a pace that's slower than he'd ever choose, he comes apart in a way that's almost alarming. Makes sounds like he's being pulled apart at the seams, and his hands will come up to your hips eventually because he can't help it, but he won't direct you, won't try to speed you up, will just hold on like he's drowning, and afterwards he won't make eye contact for like ten minutes, will just pull you down against his chest and hide his face in your hair.
There's a very specific sequence that happens sometimes in the early morning.
You'll wake up to him already hard against your back, his hand already sliding between your thighs, and he's still half-asleep himself, moving on instinct, and his voice when he speaks is rough and unguarded, need you, can I, please, which is the only time he says please without sarcasm, and if you say yes he'll slide in from behind without preamble, no teasing, no buildup. Just the blunt animal need of a man who woke up wanting, and the sex is slow and messy and graceless, nothing like his usual performance, he's just moving in you with his face pressed between your shoulder blades, one arm locked around your waist, and he'll finish fast, too fast, with a sound that's more relief than pleasure.
Then he'll soften inside you and not pull out, will just stay there while his breathing evens out, and half the time he falls back asleep like that, still inside you, like even unconscious his body doesn't want to give up the connection, and you'll lie there feeling him slip out eventually as he softens, feeling the mess between your thighs, and you'll not move, will not disturb him, because this morning creature is the version of Satoru that no one else will ever meet, and you guard it the way he guards you.
He has a thing for marking but not in a possessive-bruise way, exactly, though there's an element of that. But in a more specific sense.
He likes leaving evidence on your skin that he was here, hickeys low on your neck where a collar won't quite hide them, fingertip bruises on your hips the morning after, a bite mark on your shoulder he'll trace with his thumb at breakfast looking insufferably pleased, and the psychology is, of course, that he himself can't be marked easily.
His skin doesn't register injury at all under normal circumstances, no scar of his is older than five years. No bruise lasts beyond a few hours of activated Reverse Curse Technique, so his body is annoyingly, inhumanly pristine, and so the visible evidence of intimacy is something only your body can hold longer term, and he's fascinated by the marks the way a man who's never seen colour might be fascinated by a sunset. He'll trace them with something close to reverence when he thinks you aren't paying attention.
He's loud.
You'd think a man who controls his image so carefully would be controlled here too, but no, when it's good, when it's very good, when you've found the rhythm or the angle or the particular thing that he can't talk through, Satoru makes the most beautiful unguarded sounds you've ever heard.
Low and broken. Your name and a string of curses and sometimes just a sound that isn't a word at all, and the first time you hear it you'll understand that you're getting a version of him no one else on earth has ever heard, will ever hear, and the asymmetry of that (the fact that you and only you carry this audio file of Satoru Gojo coming undone) will live in you for the rest of your life as a kind of secret you can't tell anyone, not because he asked you not to, but because it would feel like theft.
He also likes overstimulation, on either side. He likes pushing you past the point you thought you could go and watching what happens when your body keeps responding past your conscious permission.
The way you shake, the way you grab at his wrist and don't actually push it away, the way you say Satoru in a voice that sounds like you don't recognise yourself, and he likes being on the receiving end of it too.
Will let you take him apart in slow stages and will not tap out, will let you keep going until he is, at the very end, actually begging, in a voice you've heard maybe four times in the entire relationship and will spend years trying to coax back out.
On both ends, It's about being driven past the point of self-control, about losing the management he's been maintaining since he was a child, about being delivered, even briefly, to a state in which he's not running the world or himself. In which something happens to him that he's not pre-calculated, and you're the only person who gets to deliver him there.
He has a specific tell when he's about to come that you learn to recognise within a month.
His breathing goes shallow and his hand, wherever it is on your body, tightens incrementally, and his eyes, if they're visible, flutter shut for just a second before snapping back open like he's refusing to miss a single frame of what's happening, and in that last stretch right before he tips over he gets quiet.
The dirty talk stops mid-sentence, the teasing dies, and what's left is just a man holding on by his fingernails to the last shred of composure, and then he says your name, just once, like a question, and that's it, that's the whole sequence, and once you know it you can time it, can push him right to that edge and hold him there, and the first time you do it deliberately he looks at you afterwards like you've performed a magic trick.
There are nights when the sex is fast and rough and plausibly selfish.
Where he takes what he needs without much preamble and you take what you need from being taken, and those nights usually follow the missions where something went badly, where he had to do something he doesn't want to carry into a conversation, and you learn not to ask, learn to just be the place where he can discharge the voltage.
He's never actually selfish even when he's pretending to be, his hand still finds its way between your legs, he still makes sure you get there, but the veneer of selfishness is important to him in those moments, the fiction that he's simply using you rather than the more complicated truth that he needs you to absorb something he can't process on his own, and you let him have the fiction because the alternative is watching him go somewhere unreachable inside himself, and you would rather be fucked like an outlet for excess energy than watch him disappear.
He is, despite all of the above, capable of being unbearably tender. The same man who an hour ago had your wrists pinned over your head while he said something filthy into your ear is now propped up on one elbow looking down at you in the half-light with an expression so soft it doesn't seem to belong to his face.
Brushing his thumb across your lower lip, not saying anything, just looking, and when he does this he'll sometimes slide back inside you slowly with the same intention with which he was watching, will move in long unhurried strokes with his forehead against yours, will let you feel every inch of it while he keeps your eyes locked to his, and the experience is not really about sex anymore at that point. It's about being witnessed by Satoru Gojo with the entirety of his attention, and you'll not be the same person on the other side of it, and he'll not say a word the whole time.
That silence will be the loudest thing he's ever offered you.
He'll also fuck you to apologise when he doesn't have the words for an apology, which is most of the time.
You'll learn to read it, will learn the difference between the cocky-Satoru sex and the I-was-an-asshole-and-I-know-it Satoru sex, the second one is quieter and more attentive and involves him doing things he would normally tease you for asking for.
It involves him taking your hand and putting it in his hair himself, will involve him saying tell me what you want and meaning it without sarcasm, and afterwards he'll lie there with his head on your chest and you'll run your fingers along his spine and neither of you will say what just happened or what it was for, but the apology will be received and the thing he did will be, if not forgiven, at least set down for now.
This is how a lot of arguments end with him, in a language he never had to learn because his body already knew it.
He'll also fuck you the night before he has to do something dangerous.
You'll learn to read this one too, will feel it in the way his hands move slower than usual, in the way he keeps pulling back to look at your face, the way he's paying attention not to the act but to you. Specific you, the version of you that exists in this room on this night, as if he's taking a photograph he can carry with him.
You'll know, on those nights, not to ask where he's going in the morning, will know to let him have whatever shape of you he needs to take. You'll know to be still and present and here, because in the morning he'll be gone and the version of you he carries into the field is the one he assembled from the night before, and you want it to be a good version.
You want him to come home, and so you'll give him every part of yourself that he asks for and a few he doesn't, and he'll leave without waking you, and there'll be a hoodie on the pillow where his head was, and you'll not see him for ten days, and when he comes back the first thing he does is press his face into the side of your neck and breathe.
And the thing about all of this (the menace, the stamina, the filth, the devotion, the foul mouth, the long slow worship sessions, the apology-fucks, the goodbye-fucks, the way he hoards the contact like a man who has been freezing his whole life finally finding fire) the thing about all of it is that it is all, every part of it, the same thing, the same hunger expressing itself in different registers. The same starvation reaching for the same food, the same impossible undefended boy finally, finally being allowed to put his hands on another human being and have them not slide off.
You'll lie next to him in the dark afterwards and you'll understand that what just happened was, on its surface, sex, and underneath the surface was something older and stranger and closer to a religious rite. A man being touched, and not many people in the history of the world have been loved like that, and you're one of them, and whatever else happens, whatever else this relationship costs you or gives you, that fact will not stop being true.
The praise is constant (look at you, just like that, good, fuck, that's good, you're doing so well for me) he says it casually, almost lazily, like it's just a fact he's observing. That's somehow more devastating than if he were being intense about it, because it means he thinks these things about you all the time and is only sharing a small sample of them with you out loud.
But he likes being praised too, he won't ask, he'd rather die than ask, but the first time you tell him breathless that he's incredible, that no one has ever done this to you, he gets this look. A flicker. The mask slips for half a second and you see something hungry underneath, something almost grateful, and then it's gone and he's smirking again and telling you of course he is, he's Gojo Satoru, what did you expect?
You let him have the bit, but you know what you saw, and you'll say it again, more, every time, because no one in his entire life has thought to tell him he was good at anything other than killing, and that's a wrong that you can begin, slowly, to correct.
The correcting will be one of the most important things you ever do for another person, and he'll never quite let you know how much it matters, but it does, and you will see, over months and years, the small ways it has remade him. The way the deflections come slightly less automatically, the way he will, occasionally, just say thanks, without irony, before he can stop himself.
Aftercare from him is strange and lovely. Satoru doesn't have a script for it, he didn't grow up with a script for any of this, but he'll get you water without being asked. He'll pull a blanket over you, lie next to you with one arm slung across your waist and trace patterns on your skin with a fingertip while he talks about something completely unrelated (a mission, a student, a snack he wants) and you'll realise slowly that this is him being soft. Him decompressing.
This is him letting you in, and the touch never stops, his hand never leaves your skin for the entire conversation. He's banking the contact, storing it, he's making sure his body remembers as much of yours as it can before he has to walk back out the door tomorrow and be untouchable again.
Once you understand this you will never again interrupt him when he's doing it, will never again roll away to get up too early, will lie there and let him have all the minutes he can take, because you understand now what the minutes cost him to come by and what they'll have to last him through.
And sometimes, not often, but sometimes, afterward, in the dark, with the blindfold on the nightstand and his face hidden in your shoulder, he'll say something (something small) I'm glad you're here, or don't go anywhere, okay? or, once, very quietly, thank you.
You'll know this is hard and you'll hold him a little tighter, not make a thing of it. Because making a thing of it would close the door, and the door has been closed for so long in his life that you've learned to walk through every opening softly, without comment, without celebration, just in, the way smoke moves through a window.
You'll lie there listening to him breathe and you'll think about how this man, this impossible, terrible, beloved man, has just told you something true, and how the world will never know he's capable of it, and how you're the only person alive who gets to.
In the morning he'll be insufferable again, of course he will, he'll be eating your breakfast and stealing your shower and complaining loudly about your coffee. But he'll catch your eye across the kitchen and the smile he gives you won't be the one he gives the world, it'll be a smaller one, a realer one, one that for a moment looks like a man and not a myth.
You'll understand that this (the kitchen, the bad coffee, the man who's just stolen your food and is now grinning at you like he's gotten away with it) is the only piece of his life that actually belongs to him.
That everything else has been claimed by other people, by the clan, the elders, the higher-ups, the public, his students and the dead. That he's hoarding this slow, ordinary morning the way a dragon hoards gold, fiercely, secretly.
Loving Satoru Gojo means loving a person who's been told his entire life that he's more important than the people around him and who's come to believe it in some ways and despise it in others and who's no idea how to be loved as a person rather than as a weapon.
You'll be one of the first people in his life to try. You'll fail sometimes, he'll fail more.
The failure will sometimes be cruel, but when he gets it right, when he lets you in, when the mask falls, when he reaches for you in his sleep, when he kills for you without flinching and then comes home and makes a stupid joke about dinner, when he hoards an afternoon with you the way other men hoard treasure, when his hand finds your wrist for the hundredth time that day because his body simply will not stop seeking yours out, when you understand that you are, in the entire impossible structure of his existence, the one thing he chose and the one thing that chooses him back... you'll understand that nothing in his life prepared him to be loved and he's trying anyway, badly and brilliantly, with everything he has left.
And he has a lot left, he just doesn't know it yet, and that part, you get to show him.
very very rarely do people write jjk romance with respect to the characters and often times i find stories where gojo is written as a one dimensional caricature. but this?! perfection. no notes. genuinely sat in the parking lot for half an hour reading this like it's scripture.
as an autistic woman, i feel deeply represented by both wanderer and LS (more so lady stark in recent years). you have no idea how many times ive been described as "bitchy" or "unsettling" by others because of my resting bitch face or how i express my emotions. it's hard for me to be enthusiastic, but i still have a lot of empathy for others. i love your writing, it humanizes my experience :) 💕
Thank you so much, that genuinely means so much to me 🥺
The problem with commercial F/M romance is that it's written by the most heterosexual women alive and reading it you feel yourself slowly suffocating from the Gender of it all like a fish in a eutrophying lake. And what we actually need as a culture is F/M written by insane bisexuals violently allergic to heteronormativity
questions for my smutty doctor fic with his ganger
the smut fic in question
to everyone who's asking for the sequel ganger doctor threesome fic, plz lmk what positions/freaky shit you want to see.
also, do we wanna see the two doctors make out? is that allowed? does that count as twincest or is it fine since they're the same person with mostly the same memories?
PAIRING: 11 DOCTOR X MCU! SORCERER! READER
GENRE: slow burn, crossover
WORD COUNT: 6.1k
WARNINGS: angst, family drama, reader has a backstory/family, OC characters, no mention of race/ethnicity for your family
NOTES: i only have myself to blame for the delay
PREVIOUS CHAPTER┊NEXT CHAPTER┊SERIES MASTERLIST
CHAPTER SIX: the ghost of you
[KAMAR TAJ]
“Stars are not immune to change. They grow, expand, disperse. They shape worlds, bridge together galaxies, and sustain us.” Wong flips the page off an old book, translating the old poem on the spot. Thunder echoes above as he continues: “Like stars, souls also undergo change…”
Elio fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve, buttoning and unbuttoning repeatedly. The iridescent yellow fabric is cooling around his warm body, but the silk feels suffocating. His family stands out like a beacon, dressed in the finest silks and linens in the brightest of colors against the sea of pitch black robes. Customary mourning clothes for celestial witches call for the bright colors of stellar death; the oldest members of the family wearing red and the youngest wearing bright blue.
His family is at the front of the crowd. Even though the families of all the fallen sorcerers are gathered at the sanctuary, emphasis is placed on the (Last Name) family. Faces old and young bow at their feet, not because of their powers or their status among the magical community, but because they are the direct relatives of you.
A week ago, Elio would’ve scowled at their mock respect. The Elders of the Mystic Arts continually undermine the powers of celestial witches, often comparing the magic of his family as primitive. Of course, they never said it outright, but their snotty attitude towards Celestial magic never went unnoticed by Elio and Lene.
But today, dressed in mourning and the sticks of incense wafting in his face, he doesn’t twist his mouth into any sneer or fix his tongue with any retort. He sits besides his mother and sister, listening to the lull of prayers conducted by Master Wong. The prayer itself is a hopeful one, celebrating a person’s time on Earth, how life and death are merely continuing energy cycles of the universe. Though, Wong’s worn voice molds the prayer to a somber one.
While everyone’s head is bowed, praying for a safe journey for the souls into the afterlife, Elio stares at your portrait. In the sea of other photos of fallen sorcerers, yours stood out like a star in the night sky. In true (Last Name) fashion, you were adorned with a garment of your own making, your red robes inscribed with various magical symbols. The one he had seen in the years you’ve been a sorcerer. The oil on canvas doesn’t do the real garment justice. It doesn’t quite capture the luminary aspects of the magical runes you’ve stitched onto the fabric. In certain angles, the robe seemed as though you’ve threaded a string of light into the blood red fabric.
A snapshot of you at the age of nineteen, months after the death of your mentor. The painter responsible for your portrait took their time to mirror the grief you held and the weight of the new responsibilities you are burdened with. Hollow, unsettled, angry. It was the final catalyst of the estrangement between you and the family. Your brows are slightly furrowed and your jaw is tense. You stare into Elio as if he’s the one personally responsible for your misery.
You are lounging on a decorated chair, as if it’s your throne. The background is deep brown but the darkened sky above the courtyard turns the brown into pure black. You command the abyss, reigning over the darkness with your light. At least, Elio seems to think so.
Elio’s eyes travel down your portrait, to the shiny gold plaque at the bottom of the frame.
The World is Protected Under Seraph, the Sorcerer Supreme.
He used to hate that name. He hated what the title meant; putting the entire universe before anything else.
Being Sorcerer Supreme meant that family came last to you. Elio would see headline after headline with photos of you broken and bruised beyond repair. Gore of your enemies strewn around your feet and that wild spark of magic that constantly surrounds you. Sometimes he thinks of you as a wild, unbound spirit rather than a sister that shares his name.
As he looks into the solemn portrait of you, he can’t help but wonder if you knew that your life would be cut short so soon.
Elio feels a hand grasp his own, a familiar cold overtaking his body.
There were crystalline tears in his mother’s eyes, but they refused to fall. She’s already spent her energy sobbing endlessly in her room along with his father. The lingering redness in her eyes is something Elio is used to seeing. Another reason Elio hated you—your absence caused a lot of turmoil to your parents. Except this time, their worst nightmare came true.
You died in the middle of battle, never to come home ever again.
Elio gives his mother’s hand a squeeze, his magic warming hers in comfort.
— — —
The funeral ended with the burning of an empty casket filled with flowers and mementos of everyone who had lost their lives to Thanos. Wong gave a final, private farewell to you and Stephen Strange as he lit the fire. The grand flames enraptured Elio to the point where Lene had to tug him by the collar to the reception.
Surprisingly, Therula (Last Name), known despiser of anything to do with Eldritch magic, is talking to one of the masters. Old friends, you’d told Elio, back when they were in magic school. A hard looking woman with a gold orchid hairpin. Her sorcerer robe is shades of dark purple, enveloping her slim silhouette. Master Rokda’s posture is stiff as a board, but Elio notices the attentive stare and almost gentle expression on her face. Therula slouches against the wall, pouring out her emotions while a fresh stream of tears fall down her face. Rokda doesn’t seem to talk, only listening.
Enestor (Last Name) is on the other side of the room entertaining a few sullen children, pulling exotic, glittering flowers behind their ears. Their tears stalled as they were enamored with the magic. Flowers turned to butterflies as they burst in the air into shimmering light. Illusions of light are Enestor’s speciality. The children are awed and for a moment their grief is forgotten. And so was Enestor’s. A little girl tugs his sleeve, asking to conjure a different animal. More kids start to chime in on their requests until all their shrill demands start to blend into acoustic nonsense. Instead of putting his hands up in defeat, he goes to each kid, one by one, and provides them with their illusion of choice.
Civilians and sorcerers were mingling with one another. Along with a heavy weight of sadness, there were some genuine smiles in the crowd. Some were retelling stories, others were showing pictures, and some gave tearful hugs. Wong emphasized the importance of remembrance; their memories serve as an extension of their life and can be carried on for generations.
A few sorcerers surround Wong, exchanging condolences. Elio may have lost you, but Wong lost two of his long-time friends and half of his students. His sarcastic, aloof personality is wiped clean. A column of sorrow that floats around the room with a beer in hand. Wong meets his gaze from across the room. He bids farewell to the group of sorcerers before making his way over to Elio.
"Helios," Wong says hesitantly. It's been nearly a year since they've last spoken. Wong takes in the regal appearance and maturity of the young boy, an almost proud look forms on his face. "Grown up since I've saw you last. Your little sister too."
Elio gives a slight nod, slightly embarrassed. Even though he reserves some distaste towards sorcerers, he can't deny that you surrounded yourself with good people. Wong was better than most, a truly kind soul with a wit that matches your own. The toll of your passing weighs heavily, evident in his gaunt face and perpetually furrowed brows. Elio offers Wong a soft smile. "My older sister would say the same thing each time she came home."
It would be the first thing you say when you see him. Every single time. It became the default conversation starter because you didn't know anything else to talk about. Granted, Elio didn't try to converse with you in general, though you kept trying the same old prompt each time. It annoyed him greatly to have you be shocked by the few inches of height he gained, the way he styled his hair, or the way his face sharpened as the years passed. He wasn't the little boy that cried whenever you would leave for months at a time. He stopped seeing you as a sister and more so a stranger that just so happened to share the same blood as him. You must've realized it too, because one day you didn't try to talk to him at all. No comment on his height, no small talk about new magic, nothing.
Despite making amends with your parents, the tension never fully dissipated. The arguments stopped, but it didn't bridge the ever growing gap between you. There are times where Elio thinks it would've been better if you left altogether. He wouldn't be in this weird limbo between being bitter about you leaving the family and mourning the life he could've had with you if time had allowed it. Little by little, he can see himself opening back up to you again. He wonders if you would teach him how to conjure light spirits again, the same way you did when he was very young. Would you sneak him and Lene out the house for an adventure, just the three of you?
He imagines you, head held high, face shining with happiness as you pose for family pictures. Lene would bring her digital camera, wearing plain clothes as she drags you and Elio around London, a trip that Lene wouldn't have stopped talking about for years. Away from the parents and expectations to wear heavy robes to represent the oldest magical family in the world. Just the three of you with nothing but the promise of no work and no threat to the universe.
"Was she happy here?" Elio asks, his voice light.
Wong looks a bit taken aback. "That's—I don't think I can answer that. I can only speak for myself and how I saw her." He pauses, combing through his memories of you and the stories he's heard of your past before he was recruited for the mystic arts. "Seraph was brought into the mystic arts in an era that was more grueling and conservative. Tradition and hierarchy above anything. She told me about the use of blood and sacrifice as a means to gain powers, which is why many of the old masters had a history of trauma that led them to the gates of Kamar Taj. When she assumed role of Sorcerer Supreme, she tore down the foundations of mystic arts society. She guided a new era. The toll it took on her was great, anyone could see that. Still, she found a community of trust and serenity that wasn't seen in centuries. Only a person with hope in their heart could make something like that."
A heavy weight pressed on Elio's heart. A part of him hoped that you were fighting a losing battle trying to be a sorcerer. He didn't want to face the fact that leaving home and practicing magic—something that your mother and father strictly forbade—was the best possible outcome for you. His family splintering apart had to be necessary in order for you to thrive. He knows you were successful. Everyone in the world did. On paper you've accomplished more than your predecessors. Elio hoped, as much as it was childish of him to want, for that success to come with a price.
"I see," Elio mutters, the pain in his chest tightening, suffocating him. Tears fall, his throat constricting. "If I may excuse myself."
Wong nods understandably. "Of course. If you need to talk—"
"Thank you, Wong. I need to go." Elio didn't care if he came across as rude or stiff. He needed air and he wanted to leave any conversation of you behind him.
Elio made his discrete escape. The aged hallways muffled the sounds of chatter. Oil lamps with glowing magical patterns around them illuminate Elio’s way. The night is cold from the wind and wet with rain, but Elio’s magic forms a layer of protection against the elements. No cold touches him for he is the Sun Heir. He cuts through the main courtyard and passes by other students and masters who did not join the reception. No one made a move to question him or stop him.
Elio distantly recalls the layout of Kamar Taj from the few times he’s been allowed entry. Kamar Taj was strictly for Eldritch sorcerers and sorcerers-in-training only. The only times you’ve allowed him and Lene to come was when they were very young, a few times a year. You would have to sneak them out of their guarded rooms and bring them back without triggering the alarms in place.
Those scarce memories guide Elio to an open balcony with large vases filled with plants. A sanctuary of fauna and artisan terracotta. He curls up on a cushioned seat with a deep groan.
This was only going to be the first of many funerals he had to attend. Half of the (Last Name) family disintegrated, gone with a snap of a finger that echoed throughout the universe. It was a complete and total coincidence that both Therula and Enestor as well as Lene and Elio had survived. In their place, you had gone.
He drags a ring-adorned hand down his face. Was the initial devastation gut-wrenching and reduced him to a pile of tears for a few hours? Of course it did. Your death was televised and spread onto every social media platform like wildfire. But it didn’t matter, because he knew. Everyone in the family knew. A taut string that’s been snapped off the tapestry, the sudden loss causing a rippling effect to the rest of the fabric. After the first string came more. Three hundred and thirty-eight celestial witches were lost, and that’s only his family. But after the first few days, the fire settled for him.
Whether you were aware of it or not, you’ve primed your family for your passing. Ever since you ran away from the estate with nothing but a stolen sling-ring, there’s been a shadow lingering in the (Last Name) family. Being an Eldritch sorcerer was suicide in most cases. A cult to some, especially to Therula. The period between visits grew longer. Fights about your imminent death should you continue being a sorcerer were regular topics when you did visit. You always did after every mission. Elio got used to the idea of you dying, and now that you actually were, Elio finds himself accepting the change exceptionally fast.
“Seems like you found a good corner to sulk in.”
Elio’s body jerks at the sudden voice, only to calm when he sees it’s just Lene.
Her pale blue dress looks like a murky white in the subdued lighting of the evening storm. Candles and flames from oil lamps give her an orange halo of light. She finds another chair, scraping it against the floor so she can be closer to Elio.
Elio slouches back in his chair. “I’m not sulking, I’m thinking.”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“You’re not mutually exclusive,” Elio mumbles lamely, turning away from his sister.
Lene rolls her eyes, getting comfortable in her chair. When she noticed Elio leaving the reception, she didn’t plan on following. He was a teenager whose older sister had just died a little more than a week prior, it's natural for him to want space.
But Elio wasn't the only one to lose you; to feel your absence carve itself deep into Lene's heart that it's all consuming. The shock of it all—the loss of half the world, the recent upticks in violent attacks in every major city, the weight of the cosmic imbalance resting heavy on her shoulders—you dying was merely the cherry on top of the world going sideways.
You were always a sore topic in the (Last Name) household, even before your untimely death. It hurt Lene to see her older sister become a ghost even as you lived and breathed. Even as you argued day and night with your parents whenever you were home, Lene holds onto the memories of you whispering tales of old gods in her ears in the middle of the night. You would bring back small trinkets from the worlds beyond her own; daggers made of dragon scales, necklaces made of pure stardust, tomes that are thousands of years old in languages that are incomprehensible. Yes, Lene did feel scorned that you put an unnecessary rift in the family, but she couldn't hate you.
While her mother and father refused to talk about you, Elio would indulge Lene in conversation about you, even though he made it clear of his distaste towards you. He would listen, let her lean against him when she had another nightmare about you getting hurt on another mission. In the dead of night, when the entire estate is still and the moon is highest in the sky, Lene would catch Elio staring at your portrait—the only one that your mother didn't bring down—crying softly. He wouldn't say anything; no trace of anger against you. For years, Elio would slip into your old room and watch recordings of your interviews. Your voice, authoritative and commanding, would echo to Lene's room. Elio hated you, but he missed you more.
"Do you think Stephen Strange knew about this?" Elio wonders aloud, staring off into the foggy courtyard, his thumb fidgeting with the ring on his pointer finger.
"Do you think Stephen would let her die?"
Elio shrugs. "If it meant saving the universe…"
"Well, the time stone doesn't work for her, remember? How could Strange know if she was gonna die if the stone can't predict her future?"
Lene vaguely remembers the lecture you gave about the Eye of Agamotto. It's future predicting abilities depended on your multiversal variant's actions and decisions. However, since you were the only variant with magical powers, the stone couldn't conjure predictions for you.
"I know that," Elio says. "I'm just—it's a hypothetical."
"Stupid hypothetical on every count. There's no way Stephen would sacrifice her and there's no way the stone would work like that."
"So, there was nothing we could do?" Elio asks, his voice breaking at the end.
Lene falls silent for a moment. "Why would you think we could do anything to prevent her death—to prevent Thanos of all beings? And why did you pick that question?"
Elio wipes his eyes, collecting himself, but the tears continue. "Because it means she wasn't special. She wasn't meant for something greater. There's nothing keeping her here because the universe deemed her unimportant."
"That's not—"
"Think about it Lene," Elio says with a rasp, "think about what the stars talk about—about her. She's not supposed to be here. Why do you think she didn't get a patron after all these years?"
"What are you talking about?" Lene feels a sense of unease crawling up her spine.
Elio runs his hands through his hair. "She was supposed to die." He says it like it was a simplest truth; an obvious choice that stood above anything else. A grave revelation that dawned on him in that very moment. "You feel it don't you?"
She does. She knows exactly what Elio is implying. The quiet of the stars, the way the air doesn't feel electric. The universe calms, soothed by your absence. A wrong that should have been corrected long ago.
Whispers of the curse that you bore upon your conception reached Elio and Lene in bits and pieces. Something angry and unbreakable, a festering thing that tore off branches of your family tree, splintering and cracking the long chain of powerful celestial witches.
"The firstborn that bears blood of the first celestial witch shall fall before its first breath."
It was your mother who was the first to break the curse, at the cost of your abilities as a celestial witch. Whatever ritual Therula (Last Name) did to have you be born ruined your body's ability to channel energy. Your magic was explosive, barely controlled. Any attempts to restrict your energy intake resulted in your body tearing itself apart, over and over again; punishment against you for the crime of being alive.
Lene shakes her head. "You're in pain, Elio."
"Mom regrets it, you know. Keeping her." The statement cuts Lene clean through. The blunt edge to Elio's voice, as if he's talking about a stranger on the other side of the world and not his dead older sister. He chuckles lowly, tears still burning hot in his face. "I heard it once. Father kept silent, so it's safe to say he felt the same way. "
"They love her," Lene says, her voice small.
"You can love someone and still feel relief that they're finally gone."
Lene feels cold all over and sick with guilt, because she's no longer going to wait in the limbo of wondering if you're alive or not. There's a sense of closure in your passing, a guarantee of no further heartbreak. It hurts her. She's supposed to be the sibling that loves you openly and unconditionally—and she fully believes herself to be such a sister. But it's not as if Lene didn't hold resentment or felt ready for your death in some way.
"Is that how you feel?" she asks. "Relief that she's finally gone?"
Elio slumps back into his chair. His eyes, once bright with energy are now dull. He's quiet for a while, staring into the indignant eyes of his younger sister. Finally: "She made a choice. It's useless to mull over it."
Elio turns away, but Lene continues to stare into the side of his skull, burning holes into it. How dare he? Acting as if he's not overwhelmed with ugly emotions. With every word he spoke of you, he says it with a edge of disdain.
Things were finally good. You and Elio had a long talk with snot and tears streaming down your faces as you reconciled. It wasn't perfect, but Lene thought Elio was finally done with pretending he hated you.
It's the grief talking, she thinks bitterly, not wanting to paint her only sibling left as a heartless monster.
It felt wrong to think of you in such a way. Apathetic to the sacrifice of your life—however fruitless it was in the end as half the world died along with you—seemed taboo to even conceive of. Elio wouldn't think of disrespecting his elders, but he's just as easily vandalized your memory with his bitterness.
To Lene, you were a complicated mess of a sister. She shares the same bitterness Elio holds towards you and yet Lene still chose to reach out. Even as texts go unanswered and voicemails being sent to the aether, it wasn't because you wanted to shut her out. You were Sorcerer Supreme. You had responsibility of the entire world on your shoulders.
Your actions killed many. You broke bones trying to keep the world intact. There were so many things wrong and right about you; an enigma that took shape of a human that somehow shares blood with her and Elio.
Lene doesn't know you, even after you tried mending things. She can't remember what your favorite color was, your comfort meal, the number of times you broke your legs or your hobbies outside of magic. But she still loves you and you loved her. That was certain.
Lene couldn't help but spit her words back at her brother. "Was it her choice to run away?"
The memory in of itself hurts to think about. It was a ritual gone wrong and you had to be the one to blame for it.
Like all magical children, they got curious about the taboo. Spells that were off-limits, spirits to conjure, things that would definitely get them in trouble. But the thrill of pulling it off was too tempting for the little Sun and Moon siblings. They stole one of their Father's notes about visionary fire, flames that could temporarily peer into the future when looked at. They begged you for help with their large, doe-like eyes, and of course you obliged. If you hadn't the two of them would've done it anyway, with or without you. Everything that could go wrong went terribly, terribly wrong. Had you not intervened, the two sibling's would've had burns that extended past their torsos.
Yet, the blame for their injuries fell squarely on you, despite Elio and Lene saying otherwise. You were promptly grounded, barricaded to the highest room in the (Last Name) estate. The week after your punishment, you ran away to Kamar Taj with a stolen sling ring.
Even as Mother and Father realized the truth and tried to make amends, you didn't leave sorcerer society. You left this universe with months between word of your safety.
Elio stills, his body rigid as the memory of that night takes over. He subconsciously runs his fingers along his chest where his burns lie. He's silent, shocked that his sister would weaponize his own terror back at him.
"Why would she come back to us if all we did was punish her for existing?" Lene asks, more so to herself than to her brother.
Elio shakes his head, his voice trembling. "Mother wanted her home. Everyone was hurting because she was gone. It didn't mean anything to her. We didn't matter to her—"
"Are you hearing yourself, Elio?" Lene's face was growing hot as anger bursts to the surface. To say your family didn't matter to you is just as laughable as saying the sky is red. Elio would rather shove his head so far up his own ass so that he couldn't face the fact that he pushed you away just as much as you avoided him. "Mother only wanted her home if she would stop using magic. Tell me, dear brother, how the hell would Seraph—the Sorcerer Supreme—give up magic?"
"Is that really so bad?"
"Would you give up your magic forever?" Lene shoots back.
Elio tilts his head up in defiance. "If it meant keeping my family intact, I would drop it in a heartbeat."
"Did you forget that she did live without magic? For years before you and I were born? She was cursed, Elio."
"Father gave her spells and potions to keep her from flaring up again. All she had to do was—"
Lene laughs bitterly, her fingers rubbing circles along her temples. "It hurt her to limit her magic. It's not something you can simply turn off. And the safety nets Father put into place were half-baked at best. They would fail one way or another. Face it Elio. You were a bad brother!"
Elio shoots out from his chair, towering over his little sister. His eyes glowed a dangerously vibrant gold. He snarls at her, all teeth and anguish as he spits out: "Don't act like she didn't start this."
Lene doesn't react to the crackling energy around her brother. She sighs, pitifully. "Don't act like she wanted to leave us behind. I was her sister too. At least I chose to remember all the good and not whine about the things she missed because she was busy saving the world."
Without a second glance, Lene gathers her skirts and leaves Elio out on the balcony. He shouts her name but she's already made her way down the dark steps towards the courtyard.
— — —
"Selene!"
At the shrill mention of her name, the youngest (Last Name) turns towards her mother. Lene quickly swipes her face clean of tears as she approaches her mother and Master Rokda. She takes a delicate bow of respect to the two older women. "Mother. Madam."
Therula gestures her hand towards the mystic sorcerer with a small smile. "This is one of my old friends, Song Rokda. She and I used to work at Evernhaze's Institute of Magic many years ago."
Rokda doesn't smile, simply acknowledging Lene with a once-over. "I hear from your mother that you're interested in taking third year classes in cosmic theology."
"Oh, I was, but my request got denied," Lene admits shyly.
Evernhaze has remained one of the most prestigious and cut throat magical schools in the world. Elio and Lene had to take around the clock lessons in various forms of magic, potions, and history every day ever since their magic manifested. The entrance exam alone took a week to finish and it gave Elio a stress rash on his neck from the lack of sleep. Elio managed to pass with flying colors, and a year later so did Lene.
For Elio, passing through classes and balancing personal life and schoolwork remains his priority. For Lene? She wanted to be the top student. She wanted to be the best witch of her grade—the entire school, even.
Lene might be a first year, but her thirst for knowledge remains insatiable. Her mother mentioned in passing that her drive and ambition mirrors yours in an uncanny way; you would spend your formative years stuck in a library, combing through book after book about anything and everything magical.
"Unfortunately, I cannot sway the cosmic theology department to let you take their classes. There's not enough space for you to attend, not so much a lack of knowledge on your end," Rokda says. "However, I'm sure you're aware that your sister is—was the one to discover the energy chains and systems that link the universe together. Her research is fundamental to the classes you would take in your third year."
Lene tried not to react outwardly when she heard the careful was. Past-tense. It throws her off for an ugly moment.
Rokda reaches into the pocket of her deep purple robes, pulling out a thick book that's been hand-stitched together. Lene grunts as she holds the nearly twenty pound tome. The deep red leather is worn at the corners, its color slightly faded on the front cover as if the sunlight bleached it. The gilded title writes: Multiverse Reports Jan 2007 — Apr 2009.
"Seraph's hand-written reports of her travels during the early day of her arrival to Kamar Taj," Rokda explains. "I'd argue this is more valuable than any other textbook you would find on this subject."
Lene balanced her weight as she flips open to the first page. Her eyes looking over the slant of your writing, one that's unfamiliar and enchanting.
"T-Thank you," Lene squeaks. Her excitement is palpable.
Introduction:
January 4, 2007
As a rule, multiversal travel is limited to elder sorcerers and those in high command. Very rarely do sorcerers of my caliber get approval to go work outside this universe. Reports are scare and I have yet to prove myself worthy of knowledge about life outside of Earth.
Yet, the fabric of our universe is frayed. Rips and tears continue to expose our world to unforeseen forces—things that the Eye of Agamotto cannot predict with certainty. The Ancient One serves as the only person capable of traveling between universes, although the travels leave her weakened and sick.
However, I think I have a solution to this problem. The question remains: should I attempt to solve it at all despite my lacking ability to perform magic?
You seldom talked about your duties as a sorcerer. Aside from the obvious, protecting the world and traveling outside the multiverse, Lene hasn't the faintest clue the nitty gritty details of your trips. You reply in vague words and shy away from quenching your curiosity.
Perhaps this book, this physical evidence of your thoughts, could satisfy those burning, lingering questions about you.
Finally, something going right for once.
— — —
Elio is curled into the seat, his head between his knees, weeping softly, wrestling with the guilt that maybe, just maybe, he fucked up. With you. Certainly with Lene.
For someone entering high school, she seems to handle this shit show infinitely more maturely than he is. He's the oldest now. He should be the one setting examples just as he had been since you left.
You also came back, even if for a year.
Just when you were starting to pick up the pieces of your family, you were gone. When home started to feel whole again…
His phone buzzes loud and persistent against his thigh. He thinks about letting it go to voicemail, but there is a chance that it's his parents calling him, wondering where he was.
However, a quick glance showed it was Jiro calling him.
His phone is still ringing, even as thirty seconds have passed. Jiro would've hung up by now. Elio cancels the call anyways, shooting him a text.
I told you I'm at my sister's funeral. Now is not the time.
Jiro reads the message, his reply bubble popping up a second later.
Jiro: It's important.
Elio feels his blood pressure worsen.
What part of I'm at my sister's fucking funeral do you not understand?
Okay, maybe he shouldn't be so harsh. Jiro lost his dad as well. His abusive dad, sure, but a parent nonetheless. Jiro's three dots appear and disappear. Again. Again.
Jiro: I need to call you.
Weird. No set of emoticons or poorly edited meme to accompany his message. Another set of dots. Another reply.
Jiro: I wouldn't bug you if it wasn't important.
Elio could name a thousand and one scenarios in which Jiro exaggerated the importance of his news. Said scenarios were just low stakes excuses to get him out of class or make him return a call. But even Jiro knew the severity of the effect your death has on him. Even he knows the time and place for annoying Elio.
Elio narrows his eyes at the bright screen. The sun has made its descent and the night sky makes its transition. His father would chew his ear about bringing his phone to an important event. It's just him in this balcony. Everyone else is still in the guest hall. It's not like his parents noticed his absence anyways.
He wipes the tears from his eyes before calling Jiro.
He answers immediately.
"This better—"
"Promise me you won't freak out!" Jiro blurts out, panicked out of his mind.
Elio sits straighter. "Someone better be dying if you're calling me like this."
Jiro curses on the other end. "Promise me, Helios. Promise you won't be mad and also not try to kill me after."
Elio could only blink in surprise at the use of his full name and the grave tone Jiro used. He genuinely sounded terrified.
"Uh, why?"
The sound of hushed voices and Jiro's protests could be heard before a new voice rings through. Myanne's voice is more clear and level than Jiro. "It's about your sister."
"What about Lene?" Elio asks.
"Not Lene." Myanne pauses, the brief silence already answering for her. "Your…other sister."
Elio felt the air leaves his lungs.
"What the fuck." His voice sounded so hollow and small he wasn't sure if he even spoke at all. "I'm done."
His fingers fly to end the call before his friends' protests can deter him. The silence is broken a half second later, this time through Myanne's number. Elio cancels the call and turns off his phone entirely. His breathing is coming out in harsh, shallow breaths. He grips the edge of the chair, hoping the ground will open up beneath him.
Elio can understand Jiro wanting to prank him, joke about something serious in a very non-serious event. It would've been easy to dismiss his calls and assert his boundries over no phone calls during his sister's funeral.
(Jiro would never pull a prank under these circumstances. Not when they involved you, his idol).
Myanne on the other hand…she would skin Jiro alive if she knew he was going to harass Elio during your funeral. If she's with Jiro, speaking as if they have secret information that Elio should be privy to—
No.
Nope.
You're dead. Whatever news they have of you doesn't matter anymore. You're gone. Whatever happened in your past is just that. In the past. Nothing that should be concerning to Elio in the slightest.
His phone buzzes in his hand.
Myanne: I'm serious Helios. Pick up your damn phone.
Again with the full name. Elio stares at the threat with a numb face.
Please, not today.
It takes a full minute before Myanne responds:
Myanne: Give us your coordinates then. We'll come see you.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ PLEASE LIKE, COMMENT, AND REBLOG ❤︎
ADDITIONAL NOTES: i know these in-between chapters don't do well, but they're important to seraph's backstory and insight into her powers :p
eridian children in Grace’s class interested but slightly disappointed to learn that much earth life is bilaterally symmetrical with even numbers of limbs
Grace going “oh!! But!” and teaching them about starfish, to their absolute delight
new eridian schoolchild trend of starfishing aka flopping flat down with all legs out and moving by wiggling and squirming around, giggling. parents hooting at Grace in despair. why did you teach them this
i think if i asked peter thiel for 500 million dollars, and told him that my business plan was to spend 499 million of that on oil futures, and the remaining 1 million ordering the entire stock of pizza, burgers, fries, shakes, jamba juices, schitzels, fucking wetzels pretzels, the whole lot, within 50 miles of the pentagon, just to see if i could blow up the pentagon pizza index enough to move global oil markets 0.2% and recoup my losses... i think that if i asked him that, in those exact words, he would give me 1 billion dollars just to see if i could do it twice. and i would try. god forgive me i would try.
this is less about being smart and more about having some small pearl of evil lodged in the center of your being. you lack the evil pearl. thats okay. not all of us can be descendants of wicked oyster men.
PAIRING: 11 DOCTOR X MCU! SORCERER! READER
GENRE: slow burn, crossover
WORD COUNT: 14.0k
WARNINGS: ptsd, ponds being the best people ever, the doctor being the doctor
NOTES: i only have myself to blame for the delay
PREVIOUS CHAPTER┊NEXT CHAPTER┊SERIES MASTERLIST
CHAPTER FIVE: recovery and revelations
You had sensed that the space-time craft (or the TARDIS as the Doctor aptly named it), was unusual. It didn't function as a regular spacecraft and it felt too organic to call it just a machine. The steel and wires around you was merely the skin and veins of this machine. As Amy guided you through the halls, you can feel the rhythmic pulsing of energy that was akin to a heartbeat. The TARDIS is all hexagonal hallways and sterile metal. Bright white lights illuminating the space around you, somehow it's not cold and uninviting, but soft. A hum of power flows in the walls through the circuitry that's hidden behind your view; veins of a giant, mechanical beast that's both inorganic and sentient.
With each step, you can sense a reaction. You feel a presence peering at you. A set of eyes and ears that are just out of your field of perception. It tiptoed around the line between protective and creepy.
The hallways outside of the med bay were plain. A simple off-white color that was easy on the eyes. The dull heartbeat tugs at the sore muscles beneath your skin, ricocheting inside your body in a way that feels familiar to the cosmic tidal waves of your home universe.
Amy takes you across the hall where the kitchen was conveniently placed. It featured a retro style with organic colors; rustic orange chairs, brown tables, yellow overhead lights, and a pink fridge. It's small, comparable to an apartment kitchen. The table is already set with food, utensils, and napkins placed for three people. The Doctor pulls out another chair and sits directly in front of you with his arms crossed and his leg folded over the other.
You sit down, a little guilty that you're taking a seat meant for someone else. A simple stew sat in the middle of the table. A portion of mashed potatoes was already on your plate and you helped yourself with a ladle of stew. Normally you would pile on food to help your recovery, but you didn't feel a pang of hunger. Using magic tends to overwork a person's metabolism, you're no exception. Yet as you bite into the delicious stew, you don't feel a sense of satisfaction. The bites of food sit in your stomach for a moment before it dissolves into nothing.
"The food's alright?" Amy asks with a tentative chuckle. "It's okay if you're not up for eating, I just thought—"
"No, no, the food is good," you reassure. Your face must've looked ungrateful or scornful and undeniably rude. "I'm just not that hungry."
"You haven't eaten in five days," the Doctor says. "Your stomach is in working order, unless you're still in a state of worry. If there's a specific food you would like to eat, I'll be happy to provide it for you."
You let your spoon sit on your plate, leaning back in your cushioned chair. "It's not the food, it's my body. Once I swallow, the food just disappears."
The Doctor leans forward. "Disappear, how?"
"Like it evaporated the moment it sits in my stomach. I don't feel hungry. Sure, I feel worried, but that has never stopped me from eating before." A quiet hush covers the table. You feel terrible for not being hungry enough to scarf down a home cooked meal, but the need for food is entirely absent from you. The thought of self preservation creeps into your mind again. The stones are altering your body to be entirely self-sufficient. Maybe you would be hungry if you used the power of the stones, that's if you manage to not blow up your arm in doing so.
You turn to the Doctor. You look at him—really look—the wild brown hair and hazy green eyes that seem wiser than his face appears. He looks to be no older than you, his skin is smooth and unblemished, no signs of aging to be seen. Amy and Rory don't raise any suspicion, they seem to be as human as human gets. The Doctor, however, looks like he's wearing a human costume.
"What are you?" you ask.
The Doctor stills for a moment, before giving a cheeky: "I'm the Doctor."
Amy snorts quietly and Rory sips his cup to hide his smile.
"An alien, then? You're certainly not human," you press, unamused.
"I could say the same thing about you," the Doctor shoots back, leaning against his chair with his hands interlaced in his lap.
Amy points her fork like it's a weapon at the Doctor. "Interrogations are off-limits at the dinner table."
"She started—"
"Zip it, Doctor."
The rest of dinner carried an awkward silence. You chew and swallow the remaining food on your plate, slowly and quietly. The flavor lingers on your tongue, but the satisfaction of being full never hits you. Never in your twenty-four years has eating felt more like a chore. The Doctor watched you keenly as you help Amy pick up the empty plates, insisting against her wishes to help her wash them. Rory packed up the leftovers and ushered the Doctor out the kitchen, leaving you and Amy alone.
After a few minutes of tense silence, Amy finally speaks. "I hope he didn't annoy you in there. He has a tendency to do that." She hands you a clean plate before scrubbing the next dish. "I'm glad you're doing okay. You really scared us. You were so still when you slept that I thought you would never wake up."
You let out a hollow chuckle. "It happens more than you think. Sorry your first impression of me was a bit…bloody." Amy hums awkwardly. The tension hasn't left, you can tell Amy has a burning question at the tip of her tongue. You dry the plates thoroughly, not looking towards her. "If you have a question you can speak it. I won't get mad."
Amy's hands stopped. For a few seconds she stood still next to you, gathering her thoughts. Then: "Did someone attack you?"
"Yes."
She looks startled by the casual tone of your voice. "H-How?"
Had it been anyone else, they would've locked up with the shock of the whole experience. But you're you, trained since you were thirteen to learn to compartmentalize whatever trauma you held. The Ancient One made it a priority to have your mind fortified so that whatever pain your held won't compromise your mission. Trauma has a way of twisting your senses and the control over your own body. But you learned how to contain those memories, shape them into something harmless. You remove yourself from those traumas entirely in the way the Ancient One taught you, so that you can carry on through your mission without hesitation.
"If I tell you, you wouldn't believe me."
Amy leans against the counter with crossed arms, determined to prove you wrong. "I've spent the better half of four years traveling the universe with an alien. I've seen it all."
"The Doctor didn't believe me," you spit harsher than you mean to. Your steely gaze pins Amy. "Forgive me for not wanting to retell one of the most traumatic moments of my life, only to be dismissed as being crazy."
She flinches at your harsh tone, but doesn't cower away. "I'm not the Doctor." She meets your gaze with resolve, fully committing to prove you wrong. " You're angry, I get that. I would be too if I woke up from a five day coma only to be interrogated on the spot." Uncrossing her arms, she fully faces you. Her voice softens, her sincerity felt through her words. "I want to help you. That's all. Trust me, I do."
Trust is not something you find you can give freely. You tried to open up to the Doctor only to be met with a condescending tone and bitter aftertaste of feeling crazy. You've had enough of that in your life.
Unlike the Doctor, however, Amy doesn't look at you like you're a problem to fix. She wants to understand you. Hoping that you find comfort with her, to make sure you're cared for. There is no mocking tone to Amy's plea, nor a sense of deceit you can find. You find yourself wanting to confide in her, to verbalize the guilt you have resting on your shoulders.
After a few minutes of consideration, you sigh. "I don't think you want to hear it."
She nods without hesitation. "I do."
Your eyes widened a touch. Curiosity is eating her alive, but you're hesitant with telling her the whole truth. You settle halfway. Give her part of the truth that doesn't sound too otherworldly or unbelievable. She's easily startled. You can leverage that. Give her enough detail to let her imagination do all the talking.
Tell her the bits and pieces you know will throw her off. Enough to scare her from asking again.
"It was an alien that did it. Tall, impossibly large, strong enough to pinch my skull between his fingers." You draw in a shaky breath, locking the fear that tries to crawl up your body. "He threw me to the ground and hit me repeatedly. Over and over in the same spot. That was before I fell hundreds of feet from the sky and into the ground. Blood was everywhere. In my mouth, all over my body—I mean, you saw it yourself."
Amy looked green, her hand covering her mouth, her mind vivid with gruesome detail. "I…wished I didn't asked." Her hand hesitates a moment before gently grabbing your shoulder, squeezing it. "I'm so sorry for pushing you."
Amy's sincerity feels overwhelming to experience with your heightened senses. You crack a smile, a small one that doesn't quite reach your eyes, but appreciative all the same. "It's fine. You wanted to know, I was willing to share."
You pick up the last plate and resume washing. Amy stands a second longer, guilt eating her alive. She waits patiently until you've handed her the plate, drying it in silence.
Finally, in a quiet voice, Amy says: "I never got your real name."
Your spine tingles in a specific way that lets you know that Amy is lying to you. The Doctor had your wallet in his possession for some time, it wouldn't be a stretch to assume that he shared the knowledge with the Ponds as well. Why lie about that? What does she have to gain?
Amy darts her eyes anywhere but your eyes, buzzing with anxiety. She probably thinks you're mad at her and this is her way of gauging your willingness to trust her. Are you mad? Not really, not at her anyways. Are you going to give her what she wants? Fuck no.
"Seraph."
Amy's brow quirks up a notch, visibly disappointed. You know she knows your real name, but she correctly assumes that you don't feel comfortable with her using it. Not now at least.
Some part of you wants control over this shitty situation. They already seen you vulnerable, exposed—naked as well seeing as you woke up wearing clothes that definitely did not belong to you. Some irrational, scared, fed up part of you wants one piece of control. If it's something as small and insignificant as your own damn name, then so be it.
"Seraph," Amy repeats softly, the moniker ringing nicely with her accent; comforting in a way that feels more intimate that it should. "A beautiful name."
The Ancient One gave it to you, one year after you arrived at Kamar Taj. You had acquired many nicknames over the course of your sorcerer career; Throne gave you little fire, Peter called you Red, Loki had a catalogue of colorful greetings such as bitch, wicked bitch, all-knowing bitch, mortal bitch, et cetera, et cetera. A creative mind, truly.
But Seraph was more than a superhero code name.
You were the demonic child of your family. A child born from a curse that caused you to create uncontrollable fires. Your magic—and by extension your truest parts of yourself—were seen as evil; a terrible omen that the superstitious parts of your family believed to be wrath from their planetary gods. Your entire existence was a stain upon your family lineage.
Your fire was seen by your family as a manifestation of all the destruction you were capable of.
The Ancient saw your fire—your magic itself—as a power you should be proud of.
"People often forget that without fire, life as we know it would've never flourished." The Ancient One smiles knowingly. "Our forefathers considered fire as the purest source of magic. Controlling fire was one of the first spells ever recorded in magic history. It can destroy, yes, but it purifies. It brings safety, vitality, and innovation. You, my dear Seraph, should not be ashamed for your light."
Hearing your moniker spoken with that familiar, soft kind of reverence stings like no physical wound can replicate. Grief folds itself into your chest, tight and compact, hurting in a dull, familiar way. "I think I'm going to retire for the night."
Amy must see the way your features turn melancholy, reserved. She wants to ask more, you can feel it. But she doesn't.
She nods stiffly. "I'll show you to a spare room. I don't think you need the hospital room anymore."
You walk out of the kitchen, side by side, taking a short path to an unassuming door just a few paces down.
"It's right next to the med bay," you think aloud.
"Technically the med bay isn't next to anything," Amy corrects. "It exists somewhere outside where we can see it. It appears and reappears when we need it. The ship is telepathic, so just think really hard and she'll conjure it for you. I don't know the exact number, but Rory thinks there's an infinite number of rooms that the TARDIS keeps hidden."
"A telepathic machine," you repeat dumbly. "I understand you, but I also don't."
"You get used to the whole time traveling space folding machine once you've been inside long enough. After a few hours the idea starts to settle in."
Amy makes the concept of a space-time machine that also folds nearly infinite physical space within itself sound so simple. It sounds just as—if not more impossible—than proving that magic is real. All of the greatest scientific minds on Earth could barely get non-magical portals to be stable, let alone time travel, let alone folding space within itself that can be conjured telepathically, all without using any "magic" whatsoever.
Yet the concept of multi-verses and magic is too controversial to believe.
What kind of backwards universe did you fall into?
Amy chuckles at your shocked face. "It's a lot to take in, I know."
"Magic isn't real, but you believe in…this?" You gesture vaguely to the hallway around you. "This has so violate the laws of physics in every way."
Amy shrugs, pushing the door open. "Maybe the laws are different in your world than in ours."
Inside is a cozy bedroom, furnished with a twin bed, nightstand, and desk. It's large enough to pace around, but small enough to feel like a dorm than your own bedroom.
Amy rummages through the drawer in the nightstand, procuring a small bag of toiletries.
"These aren't the best, sorry about that. The toothbrush can be a bit hard against your gums." She points to a door on the other side of the room. "There's the bathroom. Towels, lotion, and soap should be under the sink. I'll give you some clothes. The ones you had before are all torn up. The Doctor had to cut it to access your abdomen for surgery. I'll leave them on the bed."
Your palm presses absentmindedly at your belly. The faint recollection of muscle and sinew split apart before rapidly zipping up the bleeding cavity presses the corners of your mind, but never reaches the forefront. A memory best left unremembered. You take it as a mercy, one less thing to weigh heavily in your mind.
"I don't know how to repay your kindness. For every—"
She holds out her hand to stop your apology. Her mouth flattens, not from anger or disappointment, but a firmness you attribute from a stern, loving parent. "Don't even finish that sentence. You're our guest. You're injured—and before you correct me saying 'I'm all healed up'—we both know you're still traumatized from what happened. The Doctor, as weird and uptight as he is, wants you to be better. Do you want to know how to 'repay' us?"
You're quiet for a beat. "I'm assuming that's rhetorical."
Amy's face softens. "Heal up. Rest." It's more of a command than a suggestion. "If you find yourself awake, the Doctor is almost always in the console room. He's a bit on edge, but I promise you he's a good guy. Don't let his ego trip you up. If you find the conversation unpleasant, just ask him about the stars. That will always brighten his mood."
You doubt that you can go through a conversation without butting heads with the Doctor, but Amy's soft words of encouragement gives you a brief, fluttering hope. "Thank you, Amy."
"My pleasure, Seraph."
— — —
The console room is abnormally silent. Purposefully, as the Doctor is keeping his mouth firmly shut to avoid spilling his thoughts all over the floor. He occupies himself with "fixing" a loose panel under the controls. Then he started taking wires out and pulling his toolbox out of the closet which is code for the Doctor is distracting himself with menial work to avoid talking.
Except not talking is something Rory can't do. Not when he has a million questions that's causing a mild headache at the back of his head.
"You're mad," Rory assesses plainly, pretending to inspect the wall.
The Doctor keeps his gaze laser-focused on unscrewing a second metal panel to expose more of the inner workings of the console. "I'm thinking. I'm not mad."
"Speaking in short sentences and having that furrow on your brow is shorthand for being pissed." Rory steals a glance at the (mess) handiwork that the Doctor is distracting himself with. Pulling more wires. Using his screwdriver to alter circuitry. Menial work that doesn't need to be done because the Console doesn't need fixing. "It's about Seraph isn't—"
Something clatters to the floor as the Doctor shoots to his feet in a blink of an eye. "She's lying, Rory. I know it. Everything she's saying is rubbish and it's starting to infect me."
"Infect is a strong word," Rory mutters. "Lying about what, exactly?"
The Doctor opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Whatever he wanted to say, he thought better of it. He turns away, his hand flying to fix his hair in order to gain control over something.
"Doctor, what is she lying about?" Rory gets to his feet as well, hoping to corner the Doctor into talking to him clearly instead of using vague words. Which is a feat in of itself. "Is she a threat? Dangerous? Are we in trouble?"
The older man sighs, tapping his foot against the ground, debating on which words to put in order. "I don't know."
Those were not the words Rory was expecting the Doctor to say. It's not the words themselves. Rory has heard him say some variance of doubt from the alien many, many times, but never has the Doctor look so grave when he said it. That's worrisome. More than worrisome. Rory always has the thought at the back of his head that the Doctor doesn't always save the day. Had the Doctor unknowingly trapped him and Amy with some monster in human skin? But if you were truly a danger, the Doctor would be flying through the TARDIS looking for you and Amy.
"What does that mean?" Rory asks.
"Nothing about her makes sense. Nothing. Everything about her contradicts everything I know to be true. From her words to her physiology, to the tidbits of clues that she's given us. Nothing." The Doctor rubs his face, his hair, his clothes, like he's wiping off invisible residue. "Her words feel icky on me." He snaps his finger at Rory. "What do we know so far about Seraph? Concrete facts. Tangible, edible facts that sound right and taste right. How many of those do we have?"
Rory stumbles over his words. "Um, she's human?"
"Except what human do we know that can survive the effects of gamma radiation that could cook their entire body in less than a second, yet come out mostly unscathed?"
"So that means we know she's not human?"
The Doctor groans dramatically. "But she is, Rory! 206 bones, Earth germs covering her skin, human cells, human digestive systems, red blood—the whole works!" He shoves his sonic screwdriver in Rory's face. "My own screwdriver can't tell the difference between your fleshy bodies and hers. The TARDIS thinks she's human. Try again, think of something else."
"She's from New York, right? That's what her license says."
The Doctor walks briskly across the console, typing away on a keyboard. He swivels a monitor towards Rory that shows a block of text next to a scan of your license. "By all accounts her license is perfectly normal. Same thickness, same plastic, same taste—"
Rory makes a disgusted face. "What is up with you and tasting things?"
"—everything looks perfectly normal." The Doctor doesn't even acknowledge Rory's question. "Except that her license isn't even in any database in the entire US. I even spread the search out to the entire planet and no trace of this license ever recorded. I scanned her picture. Nothing. Her birthday with her government name—nothing. Keep going, what do we know?!"
Rory wracks his brain for anything of use, anything that he or Amy discovered or talked about.
Immediately, he thinks back to the bloodied robe that you had on. The Doctor removed it along with the rest of your torn up garments and scanned them for any remaining radiation. His GM counter was impossibly silent, meaning that whatever CMBR that should've been there was strangely gone. Evaporated. Once the Doctor deemed the fabric to be safe for human handling, he let Amy and Rory look at it while he unhooked your body from his alien surgery machine.
All they could find was your wallet, to which the Doctor had already picked apart and found nothing of use. But the robe itself was unlike any piece of clothing Rory had seen. It was soft, incredibly well made, speckled with darkened embroidery. A gothic mandala is stitched on the back along with thin, flowing script in a language that he nor the Doctor nor the TARDIS could translate.
"The script on the back of her robes," Rory starts, "the mandala there, it's Buddhist is it not?"
The Doctor whizzes past Rory to retrieve the garment. It's stashed haphazardly in a coat closet off to the side of the room. A few shirts and boots fall out as he throws the robe to Rory to catch.
His hands grasp the air like the answer is within reach. "Robes. Rory. Rory holding robes. That's what I like to see. Now—" he yanks the robe from Rory, "—suppose you're right and this piece of artisan cloth is a religious one. It doesn't have to be Buddhist, it can be Hindu, Shinto—really any Eastern religion would have a mandala or two. I certainly would."
The fabric of the sleeve is smooth and red between Rory's fingers. At the very edge of the sleeves, however, is charred black where it met fire and stiff to the touch. "Are all her clothes made of the same material?"
"A blend of silk and cotton, yes," the Doctor replies before sniffing the collar. "Although she did wear some leather. And her wallet is ninety percent polyester."
Rory remembers how burned your body was upon entering the TARDIS. Your hands were bloodied, oozing with pus and flesh all the way up to your shoulders. Yet your robes still retained most of its sleeve. In fact, most of the robe seemed completely unaffected by radiation you emitted or the electric fire that burned most of your body.
"Is silk and cotton CMBR resistant?" Rory asks.
That seemed to get the Doctor's attention. "No. No, it should not." He retrieves his screwdriver from his pocket and scans the robes with a dramatic flair. Once completed, he connects it to the console where the readings appeared on the monitor.
The Doctor reread the monitor. Once. Twice. Thrice. Enough times to make the font permanently burn into his retinas.
"Did…the screwdriver say that she's related to the fabric of her robes?" Rory muttered under his breath.
The Doctor's fingers twist and fidget as he thinks. "Perhaps the fiber is blended with a piece of her genetic code. Hair, spit, skin, blood. A combination of all of the above. If that is the case, then it would make sense why her clothes aren't affected. Seraph herself is pretty resilient to the effects of CMBR. But why? Why?"
"Did she say anything to you when she woke up?" Rory asks, still reading the monitor. "I mean, it looked like we interrupted a conversation between the two of you."
All the unwanted memories you had given the Doctor suddenly rush into the forefront of his mind like a headache.
Blood, the taste of flesh on his tongue, the unearthly screeching of animals—
"It was nonsense," the Doctor mutters.
Rory walks into his personal space, trying to keep the Doctor's eye contact. The more the Doctor avoids the less Rory could help. "Maybe that nonsense is code for something else? Don't keep me in the dark. We're supposed to be a team here."
Truthfully the Doctor didn't want to speak about your tall tale of multiverses and magic because he himself couldn't process it. What was he supposed to make of it? Implanted memories always leave a residue in the brain. Whatever you did to him wasn't a normal memory altering scenario; it felt real. Too real. He walked in your shoes, seen the world through your eyes, felt the pain splitting you open. How can he possibly described what he felt, what he remembered seeing?
But Rory is making that kicked puppy face that makes the Doctor cave. The Doctor couldn't help himself, could he? He was always soft towards his human companions.
"She…showed me that she came from another world. That she was a sorcerer protecting Earth." He makes a face, the words tasting weird on his tongue. "Said some alien named Thanos collected six stones that held the universe's power. Apparently he wanted to erase half of all live in the entire universe."
Whatever Rory expected the Doctor to say, it wasn't that. A perplexed look crossed Rory's face. "A sorcerer? Like magic and stuff? She said that?"
Rory shakes his head. "Wait, you said showed, not told."
"I did say that didn't I?" the Doctor mutters. "Well our little fiery sorcerer did show me by transferring her memories to my head—" he makes a dramatic shiver wrack his body, "—force feeding me the last moments before she crashed into the jungle. A whole bloody mess, literally. The amount of blood that girl can bleed…you would've thought she was an overfilled strawberry-jam balloon! No, that's not quite right is it?"
Rory felt the universe narrow down to two words.
Fiery sorcerer.
The Doctor is still rambling on about the logistics of how someone would accomplish a memory transfer that smoothly and quickly, but Rory was much too focused on the minuscule detail of a fiery sorcerer.
Why? Why be stuck on that?
The Doctor drones on in his usual, manic cadence. His words slurring together in one long sound. "A bit ironic for a fiery sorcerer to be burned, don't you think?"
Rory glances back at the discarded cloth that's draped haphazardly across the console. The crimson robe, the gothic mandala, it's familiar in the same way a smell can trigger forgotten memories. He's seen it before, he's disturbingly certain.
The pieces were right there for Rory to put together: impossible scenario, NYC license, the flowing script that he has definitely seen before.
And the cherry on top of this weird revelation is your code name: Seraph.
Seraph. The burning one. It itches the edge of his mind. He knows what it means. How did he know what you name meant?
"I-I'll have to chat later," Rory blurts out.
"But you understand, don't you? How weird everything is and how nothing she says makes sense?!"
Rory is already making his way up the stairs and into the hallway, his mind rushing with a partial answer to the puzzle. "Uh, yeah. I'll dwell on that later!"
— — —
Hot water splatters across healthy skin, but you hiss anyways when you feel a residual soreness that erupts in your muscles. Outwardly, you look as if you didn't spend the last decade of your life sprinting through the universe's worst moments like it paid you. Inwardly, you feel like a semi ran you over a pavement made of glass, in the figurative and literal sense. Now that the shock and adrenaline has worn out and the reality of your situation settles, your body feels abnormally tense. As you move beneath the current of hot water, you find that your muscles are the sort of tightness you get from not using them.
You lather your body with soap, carefully scrubbing sweat and dirt off each limb, taking note of where the tightness manifests. You stretch your body, finding parts of yourself that should be flexible are remarkably not. Your job demands your body to be adaptable, bending around trauma instead of shattering from it. Every morning you stretch your tired muscles to their limits, using magic to aid in your recovery and flexibility.
The trained body you worked so hard on is laughably absent. You can barely reach your toes, find the middle of your back, or even lift your leg vertically up. You aren't sore enough to result in this much lack of mobility.
Your body has reverted to a state before your training, you realize with a harsh beat of your heart. Something cold slithers down your scarred spine.
(Despite all of your other wounds healing, your spine is still scarred.)
A nagging feeling that rears its ugly head now that you're finally alone with your thoughts for more than five minutes.
The journey changed you. Physically, you appeared to have recovered better than anyone would've thought possible, but its marks still imprint inside you.
"Maybe the laws are different in your world than in ours."
The TARDIS is—from what you can infer—the greatest piece of technology created ever. In your universe and you suppose in this one. It wouldn't be possible to build such a sophisticated machine without violating everything you know about physics (at least from the sparse lectures you've gotten from Tony, that is). Magic would be the only way to bend physics to your will without upsetting the universe; magic is just an energy exchange between one or more universes, so by introducing "new" energy to your system, it tweaks the laws of physics, but the law of energy conservation is still preserved. But this universe, and the TARDIS itself, lacks magical energy. It must mean that the TARDIS does not violate physics.
At least in this universe it doesn't.
Your gaze drifts to your hands. Electric valleys curving along the path of your veins. Dark, ugly, marred path that makes your throat seize at the sight of it.
Technically, you are an invading piece of energy in a new universe. By you existing, that must violate some law of physics here. But you're still intact. Nothing bad has happened (that you know of).
What would happen if you tried using the energy that brought you here in the first place? It's still here, buried deep in the marrow of your bones. It lingers, bites at the corners of your mind, daring you to give it your full attention.
Typically, the first step a sorcerer in training would take is identifying where magic is coming from. A sorcerer would need to find outside power to fuel their spells—or magical coding as the Ancient One described. Once a sorcerer identifies the pockets of magical energy around them, then they would make the steps to channel that magic through their bodies while at the same time wrangle that power into a mandala/rune/weapon/whatever is needed in the moment.
You may have a decade of sorcerer experience and a much more intimate knowledge of magic than even the most senior commanders of sorcerer society, but you need to effectively reverse engineering the magic-conjuring process. Instead of looking for outside sources of energy, you're looking inwards. Not only are you working opposite to what you've been trained to do, but you are also handling the combined power of all six Infinity Stones. You have to be clinically precise when and how you're releasing energy to create spells because you are—in lack of better terms—a fucking bomb waiting to explode. Your half-executed plan to share memories with the Doctor was just a prelude of what happens if you're not excruciatingly careful.
When in doubt, fall back on the basics.
You take a deep breath, closing your eyes. You let your chest expand, feeling the space your lungs take up.
Again.
Deep breath. Focusing on how muscles contract and relax as you take inhale after inhale. Your focus sharpens to a point. No distractions. No worry about your universe. No worry about the scary new changes in your body. You are in control. Your body is an extension of your will.
There.
Circulating throughout your body is a steady current of foreign power. It's winding around your veins, coiling around your organs. Sharp, frenzied, taunting you.
You let yourself feel. Be in the moment. You're in control.
But what if I'm not?
Your breath stops in your throat. A seed of doubt enters your mind.
A second of hesitation is all it takes for the energy to take over.
The air around you condenses to hot steam as you feel a sudden chill wrack your spine. You open your eyes to see your hands—scarred, ugly things—shaking uncontrollably.
Deep breath. You're (not) in control.
The water above you stops feeling comforting. It sounds sharp. Hitting your skin like drums. Like footsteps. Like a stampede of alien dogs with fangs and claws that tear through flesh like butter.
Your eyes stare and stare and stare at the dark pattern along your hands. You see it, the cosmic power echoing beneath your skin. Taunting you.
Your hands explode into a kaleidoscope of colors. The light from from the Infinity Stones scorched your retinas, ensuring you would remember the exact look of your flesh splitting apart forever. Your sob stays trapped, scratching at your throat, demanding to be let out. It doesn't. You can't speak. Can't move.
The bathroom fades out of your vision. All you can focus on is your hand. Your hand and the memory it so vividly holds. The foggy glass looks more like smoke, the tiled floor starts looking like dirt.
Thick, hazy air starts clogging your nose and mouth. It's too heavy. Too suffocating. The smell of oat and lavender body wash starts to smell vaguely sweet. Sweeter than sweet. Like barbecue.
Like burning flesh—
The lights flick off unceremoniously.
Darkness spreads fast, leaving you panting heavily in the hot, thick air that tastes way too human.
Your mind is still at the battlefield. Your body doesn't remember it's healed, it only knows that danger in here, it's coming, and you're far away from home. Closing your eyes only makes it worse. You can see them. The bodies, the Mirror Dimension, Vision's open skull.
The quiet of the universe awakens some primal instinct in your mind. You're exposed. It scares you. You're alone. No one to ask for help. No mentor to guide your way.
You hand blindly slaps against the wall, trying to steady yourself as your breathing quickens. You can't see anything. You can only feel.
Feel the wall go warm under your touch. Not the searing heat of the stones—a calm sort of heat. Foreign, unfamiliar, but inviting.
It pulses beneath scorched fingertips. A heartbeat, out of sync with your own. It's predictable.
Both hands clutch the wall. You breathe hard and fast, wanting to let the warm heartbeat consume you.
You press your naked body against the wall. Your cheek, wet and still slick with soap, is met with that warmness and steady rhythm.
Something sings in your ear. A tinny chirp of a metal songbird that lies just beyond the wall. A hum of something. The traumatic memories are reigned back, just to focus solely on the strange noises the wall emits.
A blanket of warmth covers you. Too intentional to write off as just in your head, but you don't want to open your eyes in case the bathroom still has trees surrounding you.
You're safe, a tiny voice echos in your ear. Too soft to seem like an actual voice talking to you, but your gut tells you it has something to do with the wall you're hugging. You're okay.
Once the bathroom starts feeling like a bathroom again, you do what you always do when faced with unwanted memories. You store it away. Bit by bit. You cling to the wall, focus on your breathing, storing trauma after trauma into smaller and smaller boxes until it's no longer clouding your brain.
"Uncontrolled thoughts cost lives, Seraph." The Ancient One is stern and unforgiving, her voice whispering in your ear. Shame grips your by the neck, forcing you to act. "Do not disappoint me."
"I'm in control," you whisper shakily back to the wall, to yourself, to the phantom in your head. Breathing becomes easier. The roar of alien dogs sounds like water again. Human flesh evaporates out of your mouth. "I'm in control. I have to be."
The wall doesn't answer back. Your phantom doesn't either.
Lights flicker back on gradually. Easing you out of your cocoon of darkness. The warmth still surrounds you, even as you peel off the wall.
You finish the shower quickly, wanting nothing more than to try to sleep your weariness off.
The bedroom is cast in the hazy yellow glow of the lamp in the corner. A small pile of clothes sit on the edge of your bed. A set of pajamas and a worn t-shirt and sweatpants that look to be your size. You place the t-shirt and pants to your nightstand before donning the silk pajama that feels cool to your touch. You close your eyes, trying your hardest not to look at your hands as you button up your shirt.
You can't summon the stones' power through sheer will alone. There's a code to it, like all magic. It's backwards, yes, but not unbreakable. Magic is your specialty. You are the leading expert of magic theory and cosmology. It will take time to learn, but it can be done. It must be done. It has to be done.
You will sacrifice years if you must. You will go home and you will break every bone in your body to make that happen.
You feel the presence of someone approaching your door. Rory. Alone, it seems. You cross the room to open the door before he has a chance to knock, startling him.
"Can I help you?" you ask.
At this distance your nose can smell the layer of sweat coating his skin, can feel his nervousness radiating outward in waves. He isn't scared of you, per se. The more he stares at you the more salty skin you can smell.
"I'm just—I had a few questions if you don't mind me asking?" He swallows his nerves, no doubt reciting a script he made in his head. "I had a talk with the Doctor. He told me what you said when you first talked to him, stuff about magic and dimensions—"
"I appreciate your concern, but I'm not in the mood to argue with you right now." Your saintly patience is worn to the bone. The bed's siren call is beckoning your healed body to seek it's warmth and comfort. Stopping this conversation before you get worked up is the only option you're willing to pursue. "Have a good night—"
"You have it wrong! I'm trying to hear your story. Unlike the Doctor I'm actually willing to listen to my patients even if their claims sound impossible."
You're tired. You're angry. The lights in your room flicker once. Power jumps at your fingertips, ready to split your skin apart again.
"Good night, Rory."
The door would've slammed shut if Rory hadn't stuck his foot between the door and the frame. He makes a pained shout, but doesn't take his foot away. "Just answer me one question! Just one, I promise."
You inhale sharply through your nose. Patience is a virtue and holy are you not? "Spit it out."
"That red robe you had, you made it, didn't you?" He lets out a frustrated huff, trying to move his foot. "How did you do it?"
Out of all the questions you were prepared for him to throw at you, he settled on something unexpected. Too close to home.
You swing the door open, much to Rory's relief. You consider lying to him. "Why are you asking that?"
Rory braces himself on the frame, putting his weight onto his good foot. "My mother was a seamstress. Taught me a bit of the trade growing up and it saved a lot of ripped garments over the years. I guess I'm just curious how you made it, when you made it, how long it took…?"
The question grips you by the heart and compels you—no longer a solider, a monk, or a leader, but an artist—to answer. It catches you off guard. The endearing way Rory asked slips past the anger and willingness to smash his foot with the door and into the part of you that was trained to help. To soothe the ache of curiosity that you indirectly caused.
"You promised one question," you start with a hollow tone, "but I'm not in the mood to argue over semantics. To answer, I hand stitched everything. Dyed the fabric myself, made the pattern. Took me about a year to finish, right on my thirteenth birthday."
Countless sleepless nights, using magic to bind your blood and flesh into the fabric's fibers, allowing the robe to react with your magic. It wasn't just a project to keep your mind busy, but a direct continuation of your family tradition. Making garments—magical or not—are a source of pride for a celestial witch. Each stitch was marked with a vow, the patterns you embroider have to reflect your journey with your own magic. You sit with needle and fabric in hand, marking each stitch with intention; mediation under the guise of sewing. Since your robes serve purpose as magical armor, you went with a minimalistic design. Sleek, modern, foregoing the traditional beads, gems, and glamor that is associated with your family. Your robes are not meant for glamour, but for war.
You were born with fire as your bassinet. Whatever knowledge you knew about magic had to be fought for, not handed on a silver platter and praises like your younger siblings.
And yet. Even as you held hatred for your family name, even if you are regarded by your extended family as a stain to the lineage, you want nothing more than to be honored by them. An order too tall to ask for; too foolish to wish for. And a fool you are for thinking that a robe with fancy calligraphy will ever make you one of them.
You grip the door handle, the steel a few degrees off from scalding. "I hope I satisfied your curiosity."
"You did." Rory nods once, his hands loosening from a fist that was held to steel his nerves. "Good night, Seraph. Sorry to disturb you."
He scurries away before you can bid him farewell. He retreats down a few doors, disappearing to—what you assumed to be—his shared room with Amy.
Turning down the lights and crawling under the covers, you feel that same warmth you felt in the bathroom curling around your body. The same heartbeat, the same hum of something as you close your eyes.
Your night is a dreamless one, but you sleep all the same.
— — —
"You've been quiet for too long."
Amy rests her hand atop of Rory's head on her lap. She plays with a curl of blond hair around his ear, observing her husband's face. It's one of her favorite past times outside of adventuring with her crazy Doctor. Dimming the lights in their shared quarters, washing up and changing into a worn band t-shirt and lounge shorts, her husband's head in her lap as they talk about their day. Except this time, Rory doesn't spare her more than a few clipped responses to her surface-level questions. Instead he's staring absentmindedly into her torso. It's a face she knows well; he's overthinking himself to death. Of what, Amy has no clue.
"If you're not going to talk then can you at least look at me?"
Rory huffs against her stomach, nuzzling further into her. "It's been a weird day."
"All the more reason to talk about it instead of glaring a hole into my stomach."
He shifts his head to look her into her eyes, blue eyes softening in mock offense. "I'm not trying to burn a hole into your stomach. Not on purpose—"Amy playfully rolls her eyes. "—I'm thinking. About a lot of things."
Amy finds the spot on Rory's head that makes him putty in her hands. Her blunt nails scratch against his scalp, coaxing him to speak his mind. "You can tell me. I won't tattle to the Doctor."
"It's not the Doctor I'm worried about." Rory goes quiet again, collecting words on his tongue until he can put them in the right order. "There is this…thing I can't get out of my head. A nagging thought that wouldn't go away. If I said it out loud you'd think I'm crazy."
Amy sits straighter. "Is it about Seraph?"
Rory is quiet for a moment before asking in a low voice: "What else could it be?" Rory mutters rhetorically. His body curves around Amy in a way that betrays his uneasiness. "It's nothing. Seriously."
Amy rolls her eyes, pinching his cheek. "If I didn't spend the majority of my life with you, I might've let that slip. But I did spend fourteen years with you and I call tell when you're hiding something. Spill it Williams."
He doesn't let the words spill unfiltered. Carefully, he asks: "Do you think Seraph is magical?"
Amy lets the question hang for a heartbeat, not sure if Rory wants to hear honest thoughts or hiding a bigger, dangerous question; a trait the Doctor seems to rub onto both his companions.
"I think that there's always an explanation to the unexplainable."
Rory huffs out a laugh. "You're sounding like the Doctor."
Amy resumes to brushing his hair with her fingers. "It would be easier to think magic exists, doesn't it? It would save the Doctor a lot of trouble if he had a book of spells to consult whenever his screwdriver doesn't work."
"Seraph being magical would answer a lot of questions."
"But if she was, then we wouldn't hear the end of it from the Doctor. Imagine if all of his problems vanish with a snap of her fingers? He would be livid! No longer would he be the universe's savior."
Rory can't help but chuckle at the thought. The genius Doctor with hundreds of years worth of knowledge getting usurped by a wizard—a fictional wizard no less, if Rory's hunch is to be believed. "His antics are too much for the TARDIS to handle on a normal day."
"His ego is too big to handle on a normal day."
"That, I can agree to, dearest wife."
The conversation drifts, much to Rory's relief, to safer waters. Adventures they want to go on, places to visit, alien languages to learn. Amy mentions home with sad eyes and wistful thinking. As much as she loves the Doctor, the TARDIS, and all the magical wonder that comes with adventuring, her heart always lied in Leadworth.
"Sounds like you miss the boring life," Rory teases, turning to stare up at his wife.
Amy closes her eyes, imagining herself back in her childhood bed in her parents' house. Her chipped wallpaper, the powdery smell of her mother's perfume, the cold air of the garden. A home that used to belong to only her and her aunt after her parents got eaten by the crack in her wall. A house that never felt like a home until the Universe reset with her parents by her side again. The kitchen smells like baked goods instead of canned soup. Her parents were no longer a hazy figment of memory, but real, tangible and alive.
The TARDIS always had a funny way of messing up her sense of time. It is the very nature of time travel to get turned around when thinking about the past and future while existing in the present.
"Mum's supposed to take me to this shop in Evesham. The TARDIS could plop us back to the exact time before we're supposed to go, but to me it's been months since I've last saw her. To her, just a few days." She takes a shuddering breath, the childhood loss of both parents in one day too grave to think about for one moment longer. "The Doctor makes it seem like we have all the time in the world. But I lived my life without her. I remember that. Just like how you remember guarding my box for two thousand years. When I think about Leadworth, I think about all the time I've lost with my parents."
Rory brings the palm of Amy's hand to his mouth, kissing firmly.
"Do you want to go back? Right now?"
Amy doesn't answer right away. Her hesitation an answer in of itself. "I wouldn't want Seraph to be stuck with a moody Doctor for an extended period of time. Did you see how he immediately goes to bombard her with questions right after she's been beaten to death a few days prior?" She pauses, correcting herself: "Well she didn't die, but she was close to it."
A small smile curves on Rory's lips. "You're trying to parent the Doctor into having manners?"
She rolls her eyes. "I'm trying to make sure Seraph doesn't jump into the nearest star when the Doctor inevitably irritates her." She pauses. "Although, if I'm being honest, as much as I want to go home I'll feel guilty."
"About what?"
"Leaving Seraph alone in a foreign spaceship with the Doctor of all people. Or worse, if Seraph turns out to be a terrible person and we're not there to help the Doctor."
Rory hums in agreement. Considering the amount of stress and trauma your mind and body endured in such a short period of time, having him and Amy leave would feel like another drastic change. As smart and long-living as the Doctor is, he has zero idea on how to treat any mental wounds you've accumulated since you came here. His knowledge on human trauma response is invaluable and he too feels responsible for your recovery. On the other hand, if Amy truly wants to go back home, Rory would follow.
He settles halfway, affirming Amy's worry but reminding her of the Doctor's care and of your resilience. "The Doctor, as impatient and dramatic as he is, he's still a good man. He's taken care of the universe long before he met us. Seraph is also handling herself well, given the circumstance. If anything she seems more adjusted than the Doctor is at the moment."
"And if she's evil?"
"I trust that somehow, some way, we'll be there for the Doctor if that happens."
And Rory means that wholeheartedly. He may not believe in God or magic, but he believes in the uncanny way that the universe bridges the Ponds and the Doctor together, no matter the distance that has to be crossed to make it happen.
Amy whispers, soft and afraid. "I wasn't afraid before. Of death or getting hurt while away from home. Not like this. Not until a few days ago." The visceral scene of blood splattered grass and your bruised body stains their minds like an omen. Had they not gotten to you in that moment, who knows what fate would've befell you. What's stopping the universe from doing the same to the Doctor? To them? "Is it selfish of me to want a break from it all?"
Rory sits up so that he's eye level with her. "It's never selfish to put your happiness first. If you're really not up to doing another adventure, even as simple as a supply run, just say the word and the Doctor will drop us off, no questions asked. Maybe some questions asked. But he'll get us home. We'll come back when you're ready."
"I know, I know." Amy mumbles softly.
The TARDIS lights dim, painting their room in a natural shade of midnight. A yawn climbs up Amy's throat as Rory climbs in the covers. In the Earth-mimicked darkness, the two find each other, pressing up close until their breaths fan into one another.
Amy closes her eyes, letting the exhaustion win over. "One more day with the Doctor and Seraph, then we go home."
Rory gives a quick kiss to Amy's forehead. "Of course."
It doesn't take long before his wife dozes off in his arms. Her comfortable, familiar weight easing his mind from worry. Not completely, but enough to relax into his bed, appreciating the peace of the end of a long day.
When he finally closes his eyes, all he can think about is the cardboard box hidden beneath his childhood home that he hoped his mother didn't throw out.
— — —
You woke up to the sound of a rapt knock at your door. Amy is dressed for a sunny day with an airy blouse and linen shorts, her hair styled in a low ponytail.
She gives a quick once over, a sense of relief washing over her face when she sees you made it through the night. "Morning. Hope you had a good rest. Are you up for some light travel?"
"Travel?"
"To get some fresh air. Stretch our legs. We're stuck between going to a future version of Greece or this local planetary system with two stars and lots of scrap metal piled to the Heavens. I wanted future Greece, but Rory and the Doctor want to find a special medical device to replace the one the Doctor broke."
Right. Time travel exists while not breaking the laws of physics. It's been hours and the idea still hasn't settled in your head as a truth just yet.
"Yeah, sure. Future Greece sounds cool, I guess." Fresh air does sound appealing. The TARDIS, a technical marvel as it may be, is terrible at recycling air. Every inhale feels stuffy and coats your airways with a hint of stale breath. Every space ships you've been on had the same problem. Inefficient filtration systems are a shared trait across any and all universes. "I've never been to Greece."
Amy's eyes glint with the wonder of a tour guide that's been neglected of human interaction. "Oh, you're going to love it there! Sunny beaches, clear skies, great food. C'mon, I'll show you to the giant closet to pick out some clothes."
She grasps your hand and practically skips a few doors down to a door aptly named: GIANT CLOSET.
The giant closet in question is more of an archive of every clothing that could possibly exist. Giant assumes big, large. This room isn't giant. It's impossibly ginormous. It's a room that staggers extraordinarily high, where your neck aches as you try to fit the top of the ceiling in your field of view. There are shelves with folded shirts, trousers, and shoes. Between each neck-breaking shelf is a large closet with outerwear, gowns, suits, and other fancy items that would've sent your mother into cardiac arrest with how poorly they're organized. There's no rhyme or reason for one piece of clothing to be paired with the one next to it. Everything is just shoved haphazardly on the shelf without thought.
"Cool, right? I'll leave you to it." Amy says, making her way to the door. "When you're done just think really hard about the console room and the door should appear."
The door clicks shut, trapping you in an infinitely large closet that should belong in a mathematical paradox of some kind.
The Sorcerer Supreme part of your brain automatically conjures a series of spells in your mind that would've whipped this mess of a room into organized chaos. The other, fashion inclined part of your brain thinks what the fuck am I going to wear?
As much as you hate to admit, you are a (Last Name) in blood and spirit. Your mother may not have indulged magical secrets, but she did instill a fashion forward sense into you. Through teaching you about silks, weaving, and dressing "properly", she taught you selfhood. Power is not just felt, it is perceived.
Right now, you feel pretty damn powerless.
The first few minutes were spent deciding which shelve to climb up first. Very quickly, you realized that it would take way too long to scale a single shelf and way too dangerous without magic to break your fall.
Perfect opportunity to test out any magic—nope, you're not going to entertain that thought.
You pick up things in the immediate vicinity, throwing them into a pile. Shoes, shirts, pants—anything and everything that would look cohesive when picked together. Between a stack of band t-shirts and shoes was a small jewelry box that you threw into your pile.
Slowly, but surely, you started to piece an outfit together. Something casual, but eye-catching. You experiment with texture, silhouette, seeing how each article of clothing draped over your body. You threw things out. You kept things that made you stand straighter, your head held high. You don't know the fashion trends of a future world that could mirror your own, but you found yourself not caring what the future human race thinks.
Once you found the shirt, the pants, and the shoes that felt right, you picked out accessories. Piecing yourself together with a cotton shirt, leather belt, and rubber soles of your shoes.
The mirror that you propped up from the floor reflects an image of you that you don't recognize. Your travel to this stagnant universe has permanently altered you. Reversed the currents of stress and aging that came with being Sorcerer Supreme. You look younger. You look alive. You're dressed in clothes that you threw together in a futile attempt to regain a sense of self that you lost somewhere between universes.
As you adjust the belt on your pants, you catch the deep scars along your hands. Angry, welted skin that makes your spine cold as you stare at them.
You pivot towards one of the outerwear closets, the clink of the metal hangers filling the room as you search for anything that could cover your arms. A merlot leather jacket. Sleek, simple, goes with what you're wearing. You can shove your hands in your pockets until you find suitable gloves.
The color is muted, the zipper is sharp against your fingers, but the weight of it reminds you of your robe.
There, you think, standing in front of the mirror. A bit more like yourself.
— — —
You feel the console room before you stepped foot in it. The space around you buzzed with excitement, you feel the currents of energy pass through your body as though it was made of air. The room itself was as large and imposing as you remembered. Warm, hazy orange walls, glass and metal floors, and at the center an alien contraption that you assumed housed all the controls.
Amy waves you over with an astonished smile. "Wow, look at you! I didn't know the closet had those."
You shrug. "I did what I could with what was available."
The Doctor nods in approval. "I'd say you would fit right in with the time we're traveling to. You might overheat in that. Greece isn't exactly known for freezing winds." He tugs at the sleeve of your jacket.
You pull your arm back. "I'll manage."
His thumb caresses the side of his finger, as if the leather is still within his grasp. "Right, of course. Resilient girl you are."
Not teasing, not quite patronizing. No smug authority that he's right. Just…curious to see how things will play out.
The spell breaks with a stark clap of his hands, gathering his companions' attention. "Greece! We've settled on an island yet? Not that it really matters since they're all going to be bridged together. Does it stop being an island if humans connect it to another land mass?"
He skitters around the console, flipping switches, pressing buttons, all the while typing aggressively into a keyboard.
"Since the bridges are man made, I'd say it's still an island," Rory answers.
"But if it's not completely surrounded by water, by definition it's not an island," Amy argues. "The bridge is acts as an isthmus connecting the islands to a larger—"
A bright sound interrupts Amy, shrill and grating. The TARDIS shakes, nearly toppling you to the floor if it wasn't for Rory.
"Keep your hands on the rail unless you want to land face first onto metal."
The ground is vibrating so hard it rattles your jaw, making your words wobble. "Duly noted."
"Santorini, Greece!" the Doctor calls out to the ceiling. "Here. We. Come!"
Dramatically, he pulls a lever down and all at once you feel your nerves set alight. The TARDIS pulses, sings with power that flows and ebbs in the air.
Your hands tighten on the edge of the console, bracing as the shaking worsens. The sparks of energy lap at your skin and trickle into your flesh. Warm, tantalizing energy that makes you feel rather than empower.
The TARDIS is alive.
As if reading your jumbled thoughts, the energy pools toward you. Caressing your shaking body, enveloping you in a comforting hug. It doesn’t seep into your body and get absorbed by you, but simply hovers.
When the shaking ceased, only then did the energy rippled in the air, settling to a stillness once more.
— — —
Salty air kisses your nose before your vision settles from the bright, Mediterranean sun. The TARDIS tucked itself between two houses facing the clear ocean water. Waves crest, salty ocean sprays lightly at your exposed face.
You greedily take in lungfuls of air, tasting the sea, feeling your blood cells enrich itself with pure, Terran air.
Amy makes a satisfied sigh. "Oh, how I missed this view. There's nothing quite like it."
Rory steps beside her. "I'm inclined to agree."
Finally, the Doctor appears in view, foregoing his jacket, tucking his sonic screwdriver into his pant pocket. "I don't about you, but I'm ravenous. I believe there's a spot a few blocks that away—" he points down the street, "—I'm almost sure. Not entirely. It's been a few centuries since I stopped by."
Right, the Doctor is an old, crazy alien. It doesn't come into focus until he casually mentions it to remind you that's he's other.
But you're not ordinary either. Far from it. You are the sole survivor of a family curse that was as old as your bloodline. A curse that had a one hundred percent mortality rate. And now you survive again, from an attack that would've killed anyone else. Having the six Infinity Stones forcibly invade your body should've killed you. The journey to this forgotten universe should've weakened your body beyond repair. The final descent into the dirt should've finished you.
It would be a miracle now if you managed to die at all.
The trek does it job at stretching your stiff muscles. You walk beside Amy, who you're starting to believe is chaperoning you. She tries small talk, stringing words into long sentences even as the flight of stairs you're ascending is cutting the wind in her lungs short. You indulge in pleasantries, all the while documenting the scenery around you.
Fira is a town that breathes to life the further you go. People start to populate the streets—people and other beings. Once or twice you've spotted non-humans intermingling with the crowd. No one bats an eye or seem threatened by their talons and sharp teeth. Hologram adverts wave at you, pressuring you to spend money at their spas or rent a room at an expensive house. Merchants shout over the buzz of noise, trying to argue that their prices are fair to hagglers.
"Is everyone speaking English or can I now understand Greek?" you ask.
Amy's eyes follow a scantily clad stranger with a pearl-beaded swimsuit. "Yes and no. The TARDIS can translate almost any known language in real time. Don't ask me how it works, I can barely memorized the buttons on the console."
Right, somehow a space-time craft that fold infinite space, uses psychic technology, and can translate any language in real time is more believable than the multiverse. Insanity wins again.
The Doctor finally finds the restaurant that he's been muttering about to Rory, who looked completely checked out of the conversation.
It was a small, intimate space. Stark white walls, pale azure tiles on the floor, hand carved chairs that flex under your weight instead of buckling. Amy sits to your right, Rory to your left, and the Doctor across from you; the four of you crowded in a circle around a table. A waitress hands over menus that—to your astonishment—translate in front of your very eyes. Greek letters that were otherwise unintelligible were morphing to familiar ones. The sorcerer side of your brain cross references every single spell in your mental catalogue, trying to piece together how you could make you own telepathic translator.
Obviously it has to impact the brain and optic nerve. Patching two minds together would prove easiest, but lazy. If you want to mirror the TARDIS' technology, you would have to mimic the process. At its core, the TARDIS is a (sentient) computer. JARVIS/Vision is a sentient computer. Tony once explained how all of JARVIS is just a vast language database and the logic was built over time. Start with a database and somehow, someway, use magic. Are you going to use magic to connect the data to your brain? Where would you even store such a databa—
"And for you, miss?"
You blink back into the present. You didn't realize you set the menu down and the waitress had came back, with her, the Ponds, and the Doctor looking at you expectantly. Shit, how long were you spacing out?
"Uh, I'll get the…" You glance back at the menu, trying to find whatever looked caught your eye. It's not like you feel hunger anyways. "Kreatopita, please. With beef."
The waitress takes your order on her small notepad. "Water is fine with you as well?"
"Yeah, that's fine." You could really go for some liquor to make you not feel miserable for the next few hours, but you don't want to bloat the bill. Can you even get drunk anymore?
Amy nudges you with her elbow. "You're okay? You were quiet for a minute there."
"Fine, I'm fine. Just overwhelmed. These past few days, y'know…"
That seems to convince the table.
Conversation flows between the three travelers. Stories about past adventures, the markets that caught Rory's eyes, small things that you tune out. You slouch in your chair, in your new clothes, staring out into the window where the ocean sits at the horizon. Still, stagnant, quiet.
It hits you all at once that you're merely on a planet that imitates your home. The colors are right. The temperature is the same. The air smells, tastes, fills your lungs the way it should. But it's missing that turbulent frenzied energy that was background noise to you and you alone. You can no longer feel the comforting resistance of magic whenever you flex your fingers a certain way. New York, Hong Kong, London, Kathmandu are all cities that were touched by magic; their histories manifested with the Sanctums; lives touched by the spiritual wisdom bestowed by Sorcerer Supremes of long past. If you asked the Doctor to take you there, all you're going to see is a shadow of your former cities. You can imagine the imposing, regal architecture of the New York Sanctum replaced by a brick apartment; a liquor and deli; an expensive restaurant that will sell overpriced steak and caviar.
You are the only memory of that history; of the culture that only exists because of magic; of magic that only exists because of the movement between two (and more) parallel universes, their energies exchanging and channeled through sorcerers. Proof of that knowledge is stubbornly rooted inside your body with no way out, not unless you want to rip yourself apart.
Food was served in moderate portions. Amy ravaged her meal in less than ten bites, shoveling spoonfuls of her dish without fear of choking. Rory chastised her brutish behavior, but can do nothing to stop it without getting up from his chair and restraining her.
You feel the Doctor's glances and do your best to pretend your attention is still on the window behind Amy. You don't inhale the food. You take small, robotic bites. Chew, swallow, drink, repeat. Whatever you swallowed enters the aether of your stomach, never to be felt again.
The Doctor pays the bill by tapping his sonic screwdriver on a sleek, paper-thin device. When pressed by Amy, the Doctor reassures that he paid with real currency as accepted by the time period they're in. Translation: the Doctor possibly committed this time period's equivalent to credit card fraud.
— — —
It's late afternoon and the markets are crowded as ever. You keep pace with the Ponds, having already memorized their energy signatures, you could pin point their location if they were a mile away.
Voices shout at you, fruits entice you with their sweet nectar, shiny bobbles glint in the setting sun's rays. You don't spend more than a few seconds at each vendor. You have no need, nothing you haven't seen before.
"Are you not sweating up a storm?" Amy asks, flicking the collar of her shirt to fan her sweaty chest. "You have more layers than I do."
You didn't realize you haven't even produced a bead of sweat this whole day. "My body acclimates well."
Not in this weather, normally. Your body ran warm, courtesy of your natural powers to trap energy efficiently, so you could adapt to the cold but easily work yourself to a sweat if it was above 60 degrees.
You feel neither too warm or cool. Balanced.
Amy doesn't question further. "How do you like Fira so far?"
"Way too many people."
That earns you a chuckle. Amy loops her arm, slick with sweat and sunscreen, around yours. "But it's fun, right? The culture, the food, seeing aliens walking among humans like it's no big deal."
You want to tell her that you've seen such intermingling in your travels, but the retort sits at the back of your throat. They won't believe you. None of them will. "I guess so."
The Doctor and Rory are farther away than you last seen them, caught by the wave of bodies drifting them further into the town. Still within view, for now at least.
Amy doesn't seem to mind, slowing her pace to a leisurely stroll, stopping by vendors to see what they offer. Mostly hair pins, jewelry, fruits that look nothing like the ones on Earth, shoes, swimwear, and so on. You keep to her side, waiting patiently for her to finish talking before moving on to the next shop, watching the Doctor drag Rory farther into the town until their bodies are indistinguishable from the crowd.
By the time the two of you reached the end of the street, the sky is turning a bright, fiery orange.
A small yawn escapes Amy. "You don't suppose you can use your energy sensing powers to find the Doctor and Rory, can you?" She wiggles her fingers for emphasis.
"Already ahead of you." You make a turn, following your sixth sense. If you focus hard enough, the particular vibrations of the Doctor's energy can be heard by your ears. Almost like a song, but not quite.
You seem him standing in front of a storefront, standing on a flat metal panel. A circle of light surrounds him, with a voice booming around him: "Memory Lane. Scan your important memories, now at a discounted price. We remember, so you don't have to."
Light bends in front of the Doctor. Rippling into focus is a magnificent city of bronze, blazing to life under a golden sun. You hear laughter, the padded footsteps of phantoms, the sounds of vehicles passing by at breakneck speeds. It doesn't take a genius to know what you're looking at.
"Is that…your home?" Amy wonders as she approaches the Doctor's side. She stands just behind him, peering over his shoulder.
There is awe, swelling as brilliantly as his projected memories, alongside the grief that brings water to his eyes.
"Arcadia was not my home, but I hoped it would be," he says after a pause. "Still wish it could be."
You hover behind, far enough to not disturb the moment. Close enough to feel the rays of projected sunlight hit the highest points of your face.
The Doctor is mourning a home that he can never return to. Does it still exist? Is he exiled? The city destroyed or worse, the entire planet? It doesn't really matter to you the circumstances for his grief, but the fact he grieves at all surprises you.
Part of you wants to step onto the plate of metal and glass to project your own memories; to see your mother's face the last you saw her, love and hurt tangled to seamlessly that you'd learn to accept that your mere existence is its own pain; to your mentor whose guiding hands shaped you into the warrior and leader that you are; your younger siblings that you would sacrifice yourself a thousand over for; a peaceful time in your life where each breath doesn't have guilt attached to it.
The Doctor steps off the device, fixing his composure into something neutral. That line of sadness still marring his face as he turns to face you. Not Amy, nor Rory beside him, you. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. You already know what question is at the tip of his tongue.
It's half invitation, half dare. He won't coerce you to reveal your most important memory to the entire street, but the curiosity eats away at him. This can prove your innocence. Show him what happened at Wakanda. Show what Thanos did to you. Reveal the truth, bare and obscene, with all of its blood; the sounds of bones being crushed; the sight of your own body melting in the presence of pure cosmic power.
And with that reveal, display your deepest failing for the entirety of Fira to see. For the Ponds and the Doctor to see.
You feel lightheaded at the thought. Is it worth scanning your memories—the company probably hoarding the data to use for profit no doubt—to prove yourself to a man you met for less than a day? Why did you let him convince you to stay with him? You should leave, turn around and never look back. Find your way back home without him, the Ponds, or anyone holding you hostage.
The easiest choice would be to get on that pad and stand there. It's only a memory.
Yet you stand frozen in place, breath shallowing in a way that means danger is lurking beyond your vision. Everything in your body screams proceed with caution.
A weight settles on your shoulder. Amy's presence barely registering in your mind.
"I think we had enough for today, yeah?"
You flex your hand, subconsciously reaching for the comfort of your magic to materialize, only to realize a second too late that nothing would appear.
The Doctor doesn't look disappointed like you'd expect. If anything, whatever tension he held when you and Amy approached has released itself. His back is straightened, his body loose, almost relieved.
He holds your gaze for a moment, then breaking whatever spell you held him under. He clasps his hands, announcing to his companions: "Let's return, shall we?"
You don't look at Amy or Rory or the Doctor. You keep your eyes locked somewhere between the end of the street and the feathered outlines of a tall alien ready to snap your neck.
Your force your feet to move in heavy steps, trailing behind Amy. The TARDIS' beacon of energy is a tether that you follow. The ocean breeze laps at your damp neck, the leather of your jacket feeling a bit too close too suffocating for comfort.
Amy doesn't bother with idle small talk. Whatever she sees on your face is enough to keep her gaze forward, her feet a half-step quicker than your drag.
The sun sets leisurely, unaware that its residual heat is only making the shame in your chest burn hotter and hotter.
You are powerless.
— — —
"We'll be back shortly," Amy says as she presses you into a firm hug. Her voice softens. "I mean, it will be short for you, but a few weeks on our end."
Slowly, you return the hug. Not as tight as hers. "Be safe."
You feel her smile. You don't have to see it, you just know. "I will, Seraph."
Rory stands by the door, suitcases in hand, strapped with an overfilled backpack. The door frames the scenic view of Leadworth and the Pond residence as its center. It looks more like a postcard than anything. Perfectly cut lawn, pristine paint job, and a bright sunny day as its background. Rory gives you a side hug, rubbing your shoulder roughly. "Don't let the Doctor drive you mad."
"Too late," you mutter.
He chuckles in a way that brings out his human charm. Amy skips over to pick up her backpack and suitcase, waving so hard that her arm blurs into splotches of color.
The Doctor leans back on his console, suave and not at all sad that his trusted companions are leaving for an extended period of time. Of course you know he's sad. His heart is bleeding with melancholy as Amy gives one final wave goodbye.
"We'll be back before you know it," the Doctor says with certainty.
The door to Leadworth closes and with it the only sane people you had the fortune of interacting with. The console room is silent for a beat. You feel the emptiness of two less companions, the warmth and humanity starkly missing now that it's the Doctor that remains. The two of you stare at the door, almost thinking it will open back up again. It doesn't, of course.
"So, what now?" you ask, still staring at the door.
A heavy sigh escapes the Doctor's nose. "Well we could just jump forward in time to when they call us."
"Or?"
"Or we can get to know one another."
You hum. "Tempting. Except every time you talk to me we end up arguing."
He makes a face that lets you know that he's going to be arguing with you. "I don't argue with you. If anything you say things that illicit responses that can come across as arguing."
Your smile is equal parts venomous and pissed off. "Real classy, Doctor. Put the blame on me rather than admitting you're terrible at talking to people with different worldviews." You could've end there, but the petty part of your brain overtakes a second. Your smiles eases slightly. "Sounds very bigoted of you."
"Except you—" He rises, finger hovering to point at you, but it dies as quickly as it appears. He collects himself with a deep breath. "You were teasing me."
"Observant as always."
He's quiet for a moment, studying the way your eyes seem to sparkle with unnatural brilliance; the lights of the room trapped and reflected like shards of a diamond. Inhuman. It didn't always looked like that before. "You vex me is all. Everything about you. Can't really blame me for being skeptical."
Your eyes sharpen, causing the light to shift just so.
This isn't going anywhere, you think with bitterness.
It's not like you have control over the stones. Concrete evidence of magic is what you need, but you need to find a way to test it and prove it with the good ol' scientific method. Which wouldn't be too hard if you weren't in a universe that defied any and every fundamental rule of physics. Would the Doctor help you then? A part of you doubts it. A big part.
Why are you still here anyway—
"A truce."
It takes a second to understand what that word meant. Amnesty for the crime of being unknowable and magical.
You raise a skeptical brow. "A truce…"
"Anything about multiverses, math, magic, impossible things—everything that gets us heated is off the table. At least for today." His eyes flicker to the console screen and back to your questioning gaze. "At least for the next few hours while we get supplies."
You see it for what it is. An olive branch covered in a residue of an apologetic tone. Your petty heart wants to turn on your heels and lock yourself in the library (that you know for certain exists because if you were a long-living alien with a knack for knowledge of course you have a library) until you find a way to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, you have magic.
But the diplomatic prefrontal lobe evaluates that the petty heart will only make things worse. You're the Sorcerer Supreme for fucks sake, not the god of grudges and slights. You can almost hear Loki's saccharine voice looping in your head, reminding you of all the times being petty had only drawn out your suffering. The high road is steep but it keeps your humanity intact. It makes you better. It's what the Ancient One would've wanted.
"Fine." It comes out as reluctant, but you get it out. You accepted the branch as if it were a cursed weapon, just within arms length and weary about how it will affect you. You're not sure if the Doctor of all people is good at keeping their word.
The Doctor's mood brightens. "We leave in a few minutes. Get changed if you want. Or don't, I don't really judge. I practically wear a uniform most days. I'll take inventory of what we need and then we're off!"
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ PLEASE LIKE, COMMENT, AND REBLOG ❤︎
ADDITIONAL NOTES: please tell me im writing the doctor's dialogue in character, i literally agonize over what he says (it's all in my head)
PAIRING: 11 DOCTOR X MCU! SORCERER! READER
GENRE: slow burn, crossover
WORD COUNT: 2.6k
WARNINGS: grief, angst
NOTES: school and mental health kicked my fucking ass. here's two chapters as a formal apology :')
PREVIOUS CHAPTER┊NEXT CHAPTER┊SERIES MASTERLIST
CHAPTER FOUR: watching the first brick crumble
The dead silence rings heavy in Wong's ear. It's wrong. Uncanny in the way a receding tide exposes the ocean floor before the wave of disaster hits. That eerie limbo after the drawback and before the devastation is where Wong exists in this empty courtyard. The full weight of his loss is just an abstract thought in his head. His body is still moving with the grace that's been practiced for years, unburdened by grief yet. People need him. Students look up to him for guidance. He needs to be that pillar of strength.
Like you were before—
He doesn't let that thought finish. He can't.
Kamar Taj is hardly silent at 6 PM on a weekend. Student would clamor to the recreation rooms after their studies to show off their new tricks they learned. The library would be filled with idle chatter, as soft as it may be. Footsteps of patrol officers would echo against the ancient stone walls. Wong is used to background noise as he makes it way through the courtyard and into the war room.
No one is out today. The courtyard that—just a few days ago—was filled to the brim with new students and masters alike. Wong's footsteps were the only sound in the entirety of the temple. Everyone was either back in their homes across the globe or in the Sanctums to maintain the magical protection wards. Only the Elders and the masters were present at Kamar Taj. Wong wasn't one to be late to such an important meeting, but he figured circumstances give him grace for his unusual tardiness.
When Wong opens the door to the war room, he was greeted with silence from his fellow high command sorcerers. Grief was a veil that hushed the entire room of powerful mages that would've jumped at the opportunity to speak their minds. Instead, downcast looks, fidgeting hands, and the sour taste of defeat written on every single face.
Finally, someone acknowledges his arrival. "Master Wong," Rokda greets monotonously.
He tilts his head in greeting, but doesn't offer a verbal acknowledgement. A gesture that would've been considered rude, however the given circumstances means no one has the energy left in them to care. Wong walks to the only empty chair in the room, the one next to Throne, who looks just as disheveled as him.
"You're late." Throne doesn't turn to look at him, instead keeping his eyes on a sheet of parchment. His usual bright and fiery greeting has been dulled to a low timbre.
"Something important came up," Wong says.
Master Thone huffs in disbelief. "What could be more important than—"
Wong cuts him off. "Therula called."
Throne clears his throat as the other masters nod in understanding. As second in command, both Wong and Throne felt as though they should get Therula and Ernestor (Last Name)'s blessing before proceeding with a funeral for you.
"Well? What did she say?" Vinland asks softly.
"She spoke on behalf of the family—we have their blessing to continue with the funeral."
A thread of tension eases from the room, just slightly enough for everyone to breathe a little easier.
A beat of silence before Song Rokda clears her throat. She stands from her chair, elegant and poised as ever. Her deep purple robes look inky black in the dim lighting of the room. Her dark hair flowing down for once, framing her aged features. All eyes fall on her.
"While I think organizing the funeral is an important topic, I fear we have a much bigger issue on our hands." She pauses a breath, eyes distant as she addresses the biggest elephant in the room that no one, not even Wong, can fully look at. "We lost half of our community. Our efforts should be focused on reinforcing what's left of our numbers."
"I say we pull incoming recruits from Everhaze, Hwanung, and T'Bhano," Throne suggests, fidgeting with the ends of his long mustache. "The interest in the mystic arts has risen considerably the last few years."
Vinland scoffs. "Their interests are with the research the Burning One collects in her library. Not much of a fighting type. And fighting types are what we need to keep Earth safe."
A murmur of agreement ripples through.
"You can say the same thing about us when we started," Wong says. No one who starts out as a sorcerer is immediately ready for battle. Except for Throne who was already a battle-hardened warrior by the time he was recruited. He turns to Rokda. "You're right, rebuilding is key. We each take turns at each sanctum to guard while the students have time to grieve. Adapt curriculum's and help out neighboring communities. We need all the help we can get."
A snide voice cuts through. "Are we going to avoid the other elephant in the room?" Damien is reclined in his chair, his hands folded over his lap. "Our Sorcerer Supreme is gone. Shouldn't our main priority be having a new leader?"
Wong's gaze sharpens at the younger master, his voice icy. "In case you forgotten, we didn't just lose our leader. Half of the entire world is gone. These are unprecedented circumstances and now that we have also lost the Eye of Agamotto, we cannot be hasty in selecting a new Sorcerer Supreme."
"Damien's right," Rokda mutters, her brow furrowing, reluctant to even breathe the same air as the young sorcerer. "In the Burning One's absence, she would appoint Stephen Strange as primary protector of Kamar Taj and the sanctums. But with our luck, he's gone too."
"Then we pick the most powerful one between us," Damien says with the overconfidence of someone who should not come within one foot of authority.
Rokda sneers in annoyance. "You're naivety betrays you."
Throne grunts in agreement. "Power doesn't make one a leader. What the Burning One lacked in pure strength she made up for with intellect and honesty."
Before Damien could shoot a response, Wong interrupts. "Let's not argue at this moment. At least have the funeral before thinking of selecting a new leader. Tonight, we draw straws to see who would be the primary protector of the temples and sanctums. We rotate every week until the selection process for Sorcerer Supreme gets decided. Tomorrow morning, 9AM, we have a discussion with the remaining students to gauge how we should move on."
"Perfectly thought out as always Wong," Throne says in approval. "All in favor of calling this meeting quits?"
A chorus of agreements ring before everyone takes their leave. Sparks of magic illuminate the room as portals open, leaving Wong, Rokda, and Throne alone in the room.
Rokda leans towards Wong, her dark eyes peering at him. "Have you given thought about it?"
"About what?" Wong echos, confused.
Throne chuckles, his deep voice ricocheting off the stone walls. He gives Rokda a knowing glance. "He's not up for it."
"What the hell are the two of you talking about?" Wong asks, annoyed.
Rokda hesitates. "You and Stephen were the closest to her, and Stephen isn't here. It's only natural that leadership falls to you."
Wong could've had a hundred tries to guess what Rokda would've said and he still couldn't have guess that. Only natural. As if everyone one in Kamar Taj just assumed it as fact. Stephen getting leadership, Wong could understand, but him? He can give speeches, yes, negotiate truce between two warring clans, sure, but lead the entirety of Sorcerer Society? Him? Whilst still grieving his two closest friends? Surely not.
"You've been a sorcerer longer than any of us, including Seraph," Wong points out. "Seems fitting for you to be considered as well."
"I'm flattered you seem to think so, but I'm a doctor, not a fighter." Rokda stands, smoothing her robes as she does so. "I was trained to specialize in fighting disease and curses. Throne and I may have twenty years of sorcery above you, but everyone associates the three of you as competent sorcerers. Stephen may be the more advanced student Seraph taught, but you were the one she sought advice the most. She trusted your judgment, almost as much as the Ancient One. We don't need another warrior, we need a leader."
The praise sits warm in Wong's chest. It's true that you often come to him in dark hours, when you think no one can listen to you, but Wong never sees himself as a wise counselor giving his king decades old advice. You would talk to him about the nightmares, the ones that make his skin crawl at the secondhand mention of. You didn't need advice, as you were more than capable of making rational decisions than he, but Wong listened. It's what he is good at. More than that, you saw him as equal—everyone in your care as equal to you.
You would've thought he was capable of leading Sorcerer Society. You made sure of it, continuing the training after the Ancient One left. He sat beside you in meetings, he joined you in countless battles, he and Stephen carried the weight of responsibility without asking.
"Trust your gut," you would've said with a knowing smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes, "not the one in your body, the one in your heart that feels funny when you have to make a decision."
His metaphorical gut in his heart is telling him to think about it.
Because if he says yes, then what follows is a mine field of uncertainty that he is ill-equipped to travel through. If he messes up, Sorcerer Society will suffer. Shame will eat him alive in the aftermath of his failure. If he succeeds as temporary leader, then what's stopping the elder masters from selecting him as a candidate for Sorcerer Supreme? Nothing.
Focus on what's in front of you, he reasons. Forget the uncertainty. Answer what is being asked of you.
"I'll be willing to do what is needed of me." It's not really a yes, but it's as close to it as he will allow himself to say. "That's all I can do right now."
Rokda and Throne glance at one another. A single, fleeting stare that holds a thousand words. He's seen it a million times, though knowing it's about him sends unease traveling down his spine.
Throne's eyes are downcast. His shaky inhale betrays his performance of strength and warrior's apathy. Grief wracks him too. "Seraph picked you as her first student, even if she wasn't Sorcerer Supreme yet." He smiles fond, his auburn mustache tilting up. "She favored you and Stephen considerably, that has to mean something."
As the two older sorcerers depart with a gentle pat on his shoulders, Wong has a sinking feeling his heart that he will unknowingly accept a fate he didn't chose.
— — —
The meeting the morning after went smoothly, all things considered. Students and masters alike were gathered in the theater plaza, outside in the hazy cold, the events of the last few days still a hot topic to whisper harshly between themselves. The buzz of anxiety, the uncertainty, the silence of waiting for the other shoe to drop. The shoe in question was deciding who was going to lead sorcerer society?
Wong sat between Throne and Damien, trying to appear put together in front of his students. Does he feel put together? Absolutely not. Two hours of sleep, nightmares about his friends dying, his body still hasn't fully recovered from his fight against the Black Order…Wong is surprised he can keep his eyes opened at all. Not even kokut powder—a magical stimulant that's five times stronger than coffee—could fight off the drowsiness.
Throne tilts towards Wong, looking equally as tired. "Holding up well, old friend?"
Wong scoffs. "You look like shit too."
"I'm merely asking because we're about to see who's going to play leader."
"Even if I get picked it would only be for the week," Wong grumbles with a yawn. "If I get picked, my first order of business would be to appoint someone else to be leader and try to sleep my bruised side off."
Throne makes a noise at the back of his throat. Guilt, as plain as day, written all over his face.
Wong's gaze sharpens. "What?"
The older sorcerer doesn't speak right away. He twirls the end of his long beard, trying to avoid eye contact with Wong. "Er, Rokda and I—well us and the other masters—we had decided that rotating new leaders would be a hassle for everyone involved. Y'know with all of the new duties, doubling recruitment efforts, teaching said recruits—"
"Spit it out Darragh."
Throne sighs, cursing under his breath. "Fine, fine. We kind of all agreed that the best leader going forward would be…you?"
Wong could feel his stomach plummet to Hell.
Rokda took the podium at the center of the amphitheater, head held high as always. "Until the funeral of the Burning One has taken place, we will hold selection process for a new Sorcerer Supreme. In the mean time the masters, both senior and high command staff, have decided on a temporary leader to carry the burden of Seraph's unresolved duties." She turns back towards the row of masters, her gaze landing on Wong's panicked face. If she had any guilt, it was well hidden. Stoic as ever, she motioned Wong up next to her with a subtle jerk of her head.
The entire amphitheater was silent as Wong stood next to his co worker. The sea of students stare owlishly at their newly appointed temporary leader. Rokda stared ahead, still as a statue. When the silence stretched for more than ten seconds, Wong realized that he was supposed to be the one speaking.
Fuck. What do I even say? Wong thinks as he fights off the urge to strangle Throne and Rokda, because he knows it was mostly their doing. Gods, everyone is still looking at me.
Gathering every last bit of willpower and sending a quick prayer to his ancestors for luck, Wong greets his new flock. "I know these past few days have been extremely difficult. I know these uncertain times seem daunting to navigate. Rest assured that high command is doing everything they can to make this transition into a new era as smooth as possible." "
He feels lightheaded, the words spilling from his lips without second thought. It seems to do the job. The sorcerers at the stands are whispering among themselves. Good whispering? Bad? Do they think he is incompetent? Surely they can see his nerves on display, his grief and unpreparedness seeping through his skin.
Just say something.
Wong thinks of the countless times you spoke to large, restless crowds. Even when your hands shake with adrenaline, your voice is smoother than aged wine. Your mere presence a pillar of safety and reassurance; nothing will harm them so long as you live. That was the type of leader you were. Resilient. Persevering through war and fire like it never touched you.
"I am not here as a replacement for Seraph." It still stings to say your name in any capacity. To verbally acknowledge that you are, in fact, gone forever is still surreal to even think about. "I am simply picking up where she left off. Her legacy is that of humility and collaboration and I hope to extend it. Please, if you have any concerns, let it be known. I am here to serve you, first and foremost."
With a bow, Wong turns back, walking past his seat. Throne blurts out his name followed by sorry, but Wong doesn't want to hear it. The amphitheater is silent, save for the rustle of branches.
Modern girldadaerion! GIRL DAD AERION!! I REPEAT GIRL DAD AERION!!!! On my hands and knees begging for your thoughts on this please please please 😭🙏 also how is he different as a dad to baby Maegor vs his little girl (the apple of his eye)?? And what would be her name??
GIRL DAD AERION ❗❗ Oh anon, sit down. I've been thinking about it since yesterday when I first saw this ask and just gonna jot some thoughts down before bed.
First, the baseline truth of things: Aerion doesn't soften. Not really. A baby doesn't magically fix him. A daughter and a son don't redeem him. He's still the man with too much money and too many teeth. That man doesn't evaporate because a nurse places a pink, screaming, squalling thing in his arms at 3:47 AM on a random Tuesday.
But something does happen. And it happens very quietly, and very privately, and you almost miss it because Aerion is the kind of man who makes a performance out of everything, except this.
A quick note on context, because it matters for everything that follows:
You were engaged to Baelor for a year. A year. It was a good year, too. Baelor is a good man, and he loved you in the steady, generous way that he loves everything, and you loved him back the way you knew how. You can admit that now. You can admit that you thought you were going to marry him. You can admit that even Aerion, in his quieter and more honest moments, has told you he thought so too—that he was preparing, privately, to watch you walk down an aisle toward his uncle and to live the rest of his life a step behind it.
Then engagement broke off. Because you knew, in your heart of hearts, that it wasn't right, that there was a fracture in your heart and you were never the type to not give yourself 100%. You disappeared, for years, lived your life, and when you and Aerion ran into each other again, like fate, like a curse, you couldnt deny the fact that distance and time have done nothing to smother this thing between you.
That was ten years ago.
Baelor has (to his enormous credit, and partly because he's a man who doesn't know how to be small) forgiven both of you. Slowly. Imperfectly. The family survived the news. You survived it. But Aerion has never gotten over the fact that for a whole year of his life he watched the woman he loves (the only person he's ever loved) love someone else, and the quiet, ugly, not-entirely-unhealthy truth of it is that this—the marriage, the children, the life—is his answer to that. He got you in the end. He will never be careless with you. He will not be careless with any of it.
That's the context. Hold it in your head because it shapes everything.
Aerion, for most of his twenties, was the one who didn't work. He didn't need to. The trust fund is obscene. His job was being dangerous and bored and very, very photographed in the wrong clubs.
Then he married you. Then you got pregnant.
And something in him (the part of him that had always been waiting for a reason to stop performing wreckage) went, fine. Fine, fine, fine. He took a real job. Something high-end, high-finance, the kind of role where his last name opens doors and his appetite for quiet violence finally has somewhere legal to go.
He's good at it, in the way he's good at everything he bothers to try, which is to say... uh, frightening. He wears a suit properly for the first time in his life. He comes home at a reasonable hour. And still watches you across every room like he's waiting for you to disappear, but he has a function now. A place to put the hunger.
It is, in a small and quiet way, the closest he has ever come to peace.
And then Maegor is born.
Lets talk a little about baby Maegor before we get to babygirl. Let me be honest about this boy, too. Aerion loves his son. Deeply. Unmistakably. A fierce, possessive love that startles him the first time it rises in his throat.
When Maegor is a baby Aerion is... tender. He's the one who walks him through the house at 2 AM when he won't settle. He hums. Things he remembers his mother humming, before she died, fragments he did not know he still carried.
You come down the hallway at some ungodly hour and find him in the nursery in bare feet with his shirt half-unbuttoned, swaying in a slow circle with his son's small silver head tucked under his jaw, and he doesn't look up when you come in, but his free hand reaches back for yours without asking, and you go to him.
He lets Maegor sleep on his chest. For hours. Sometimes you come down on a Saturday morning and find them both asleep on the long leather couch in the study, Aerion's book fallen open on the floor, the baby nestled between his collarbone and his jaw like a small hot stone, rising and falling with his breathing. You stand in the doorway and do not move. Something in you (the part that has loved this terrible man against your better judgement for years) folds down to its knees at the sight of it.
He reads to Maegor before he can understand words, in that low, slightly bored Aerion voice that the baby, somehow, finds hilarious. He calls him little dragon in Valyrian. He kisses the crown of his head constantly, automatically, the way a less complicated man kisses a wife.
Aerion teaches Maegor piano. Who taught himself, locked in the music room at the estate after his mother died, because his mother had played and he refused (on pain of death, on pain of his own hands) to let the thing she'd loved go silent in that house. No teacher could understand him.
Just a boy with a stolen book and the kind of obsessive stubbornness that would later become something uglier, hammering at the same four bars for hours until they came right. He plays beautifully. He also plays angrily, sometimes, when no one is around. You'll hear something dark and difficult unspooling from the music room at midnight and know, without looking, that something at work has not gone his way.
When Maegor is four, Aerion lifts him onto the bench and puts his small hands on the keys and shows him middle C, and his son looks up at him with enormous serious eyes and does exactly as he's told, and Aerion's whole face rearranges. Just slightly.
He's gentle with him at the piano in a way he's not gentle with him anywhere else. It's the one place his standards ease. Maegor can fumble a scale and Aerion will only tap the wrong finger, move it a key, say again, little dragon, in a voice with no heat in it. The piano is the place where the thing Aerion's mother gave him passes, intact, to the next generation. He will not let the hardness he can't seem to help elsewhere anywhere near that bench. He protects it.
You stand in the doorway sometimes and listen.
The two of them sitting side by side, silver heads bent, four-handed, the boy's small hands picking out a melody while his father fills in the lower register.
You've seen Aerion kill a business rival with a single phone call. You've seen him reduce a sommelier to tears at a restaurant for an imagined slight. You've also seen him, sit on a piano bench beside a six-year-old and say, no, listen — like this, and play a phrase twice so his son can hear how it flows.
This softness doesn't disappear with Maegor. It's there, underneath, for all of his childhood. In the way Aerion's hand lands on the back of his son's neck when he's proud of him, wordless but warm. In the way he shows up to every single school event and sits in the front row with his arms crossed and a face like winter, scaring every other parent in the room, because he will not be the kind of father who is absent. That, at least, he refuses to be.
But.
Aerion believes (in that old, dangerous, hard Targaryen way) that sons must be forged. That softness in a boy is something the world will find and punish, and better for it to be found and punished at home, where at least the wounds can be tended.
So the softness with Maegor gets rationed. Gets earned. The tenderness is real, but it's not unconditional. It comes when Maegor performs, achieves, endures, and it quiets when he fails. Aerion doesn't mean to do this. He doesn't even fully realise he's doing it. He tells himself he's just preparing his son. He tells himself the world is a knife and his job, as his father, is to teach Maegor how to hold himself.
He buys him a fencing instructor at four. He corrects his posture at five. He lets him win at chess exactly once and then never again, because—in his words, muttered to you in bed, "If he learns to expect victory as a gift, the world will teach him cruelty later and I won't be there to soften it."
And there are real moments. True ones.
Maegor is seven and he falls off a horse at the country house and breaks his wrist and doesn't cry until he sees his father coming across the field, and then he sobs, and Aerion scoops him up like he weighs nothing and carries him the whole way back to the house murmuring I've got you, little dragon, I've got you, shh, and doesn't leave his side for two days. He sleeps in the armchair next to Maegor's bed with his tie loosened and his shoes on, and when the boy stirs in the night, Aerion is awake before the first whimper finishes.
Maegor is ten and he wins something (a competition, a prize, it doesn't matter what) and Aerion picks him up and spins him in the kitchen and says that's my boy, that's my clever boy, and Maegor glows like he's been lit from inside for a week afterwards.
Maegor is twelve and you walk into Aerion's study one evening and find them bent over a chessboard together, identical furrows of concentration between their pale brows.
Aerion looks up and sees you in the doorway and smiles (actually smiles, not his usual thin, cutting curl, but something open and a little surprised, like he's been caught) and Maegor, without looking up, says "Mum, don't distract him, I'm winning," and Aerion laughs, and your heart folds in on itself.
Love isn't absent. It's just shaped. Shaped by a man raised by Maekar, all the way down.
And then there's babygirl.
Her name. I've been going back and forth on this and I keep landing in the same place: Visenya. I know. I know how that sounds. But hear me out: Aerion is not going to give his daughter a cute, soft name. He's not a Lyanna-dad or an Alys-dad. He's a man obsessed with legacy, with blood, with the weight of a name as a kind of armour, and he wants his daughter to walk into any room in the world with a name that arrives before she does.
Visenya. Conqueror. The fierce sister.
You push back, obviously. You tell him it's too much to put on a child. He looks at you over the bassinet, faintly amused, and says, "Northerners name their daughters after wolves and winter and ancestors who died three hundred years ago. Don't pretend naming is where we draw the line."
You let him win. Mostly. Her middle name is yours to give, something Northern, something quiet, something that's hers the way the first name is his. Visenya Lyarra Targaryen. Vissy at home.
She's six weeks old the first time he leaves work because she has a fever. His assistant has a small aneurysm trying to reschedule a two-hundred-million-dollar call. Aerion doesn't give a shit. He drives himself. He walks into the nursery and stands over the crib and puts the back of his hand against her forehead like he's trying to leech whatever is harming his girl, and when she fusses and quiets at the sound of his voice, something in his shoulders unlocks that has never unlocked before, not for anyone.
He doesn't push her.
He guards her.
Maegor, he is building. Visenya, he is keeping. Part of it is honestly speaking that old school Targaryen misogyny again. The old bone-deep Targaryen conviction that sons are forged and daughters are kept.
But there's another part of that's simpler and honestly sadder: he looks at Maegor and sees himself, and the thing in him that hates himself can't quite help but extend that hatred, faintly, to the boy. He looks at Visenya and sees you. And the dark thing in him that hates himself has never, ever managed to extend that hatred to you.
So she's safe in a way Maegor isn't. Which is its own quiet tragedy. Which is something you spend years, privately, trying to rebalance.
He reads to her. From the illustrated poetry books in the library. He does the voices badly and she laughs at him and he does them worse on purpose to make her laugh harder.
At three she has memorised a poem he reads her too often and recites it back at him from her car seat on the way to nursery, lisping and grave, and Aerion pulls over. Actually pulls the car over. Stares at her in the rearview mirror for a full minute with an expression you can't later describe to anyone. Drives her the rest of the way in silence. Calls you from the office at lunchtime and says, "Your daughter is a menace," in the voice he only uses when he's very, very pleased.
She paints his nails. Sits perfectly still at the kitchen island in a designer suit while a four-year-old with the concentration of a neurosurgeon applies glitter polish to his left hand, and then he goes to a client dinner and doesn't take it off, and when Daeron makes a remark across the table he smiles with all his teeth and says, "My daughter's work. Careful." And Daeron shuts up.
He teaches her to shoot at seven. Not because he wants a little soldier but because his daughter will never, ever be in a room where she doesn't not know exactly what to do.
He takes her to the private range at the country house and kneels behind her and corrects her stance with the patience of a man who's never, in his life, been patient with anyone else. When she hits the target centre-mass he says, in a pleased murmur, "There. That's my girl." And she beams like she's been crowned.
(Maegor watches this from the edge of the range and his small face does something complicated, and Aerion, for once, catches it, and the look in his eyes afterwards is the closest thing to shame he has ever allowed himself to feel. He takes Maegor shooting the next weekend. Alone. Just the two of them. Brings him coffee in a travel cup like he's a man, not a boy. Doesn't correct him as much. Tells him, at the end, good shooting, little dragon. Maegor doesn't sleep that night from the pure joy of it. Aerion lies awake thinking about how little it cost him to say it, and how rarely he remembers to. You feel his restlessness beside you in the dark and you don't say anything. You just reach for his hand under the duvet and hold it until his breathing evens. He falls asleep still clutching onto you.)
Aerion isn't dark when no one's looking and soft at home. That's not the split. The split is that his darkness and his softness are the same impulse, just pointed in different directions. He's possessive as hell. He's always been possessive. As a young man that possessiveness was ugly and aimless, got him into clubs he shouldn't have been in and into fights he shouldn't have started. With you (and then with the children) the possessiveness finds a shape. It has somewhere to go.
He is, I said it before and I'll say it again, a dragon guarding his hoard. That's the only metaphor that actually fits.
He's coiled, constantly, around the four of you. You are his treasure. Not in a cute way. In the old way. In the way where the dragon sleeps on top of the gold and wakes up counting it and will raze whole kingdoms if a single coin goes missing. His wife. His son. His daughter. The dog, eventually, because Visenya begged for one at nine and Aerion (who had never so much as petted a dog in his life) got her a ridiculous little Northern breed that follows him around the house now and sleeps at the foot of the bed and which he refers to publicly as "the dog" and privately, only to you, by its actual name.
He is softly possessive of his family in a way that is, frankly, unnerving to outsiders and completely unremarkable to the four of you.
He touches you constantly, without thought. A hand at the small of your back in every room. A thumb brushing your wrist when he passes behind your chair at breakfast. His palm resting on the side of your neck when you are standing at the kitchen counter on a phone call, not interrupting, just there, warm, anchored, while you take notes one-handed.
In photographs of family events his body is always angled toward yours. Always. His shoulder cut in toward your shoulder, his head tilted slightly toward the sound of your voice. You notice it first in a charity gala photograph someone sends you, Aerion in a black tie standing three people away from you in a group shot, and every visible line of him is oriented in your direction like a compass needle finding north.
He walks Maegor into school with a palm curled around the back of his small neck, steering gently, checking the perimeter. He carries Visenya on his hip long past the age when other fathers have put their daughters down, because "she wants to be carried, let her be carried, she is five, not thirty."
At parties he's the man in the corner of every room his family is in. His back to a wall. His eyes on the door. He looks, to other guests, like he's brooding. He's not brooding. He's counting. He counts exits, strangers, hands, the distance between you and him at any given second. This's not anxiety or PTSD. This's a man who has decided, privately, that the people inside the walls of his life will never, under any circumstances, be touched by anything he hasn't personally permitted to touch them.
The dark things he still does (the quiet cruelties, the spreadsheet of names, the calls he makes that ruin other men's ives) all of it has been reorganised around the people he loves. He doesn't stop being that man. He points that man at the world, on behalf of his family, and calls it love, and it is, terrifyingly, a kind of love.
A boy at Visenya's school pushes her at five. Aerion finds out who the boy's father is within the hour. The father loses his job within the week. Aerion never mentions it. You find out eighteen months later from a very drunk woman at a charity gala, and you don't know whether to be appalled or (god help you) turned on.
You confront him about it that night in bed. He doesn't deny it. He says, "She came home crying. What exactly did you want me to do?" You don't answer. He knows you don't actually have an answer. He pulls you against his chest and kisses your hair, and his hand splays warm and broad across your stomach, and you lie there thinking about the shape of the life you have built with this man and how far it is from any life you imagined as a girl, and how you would not, at this point, give back a single hour of it.
When Maegor, at fourteen, gets hazed at school (a minor thing, a stupid thing, the kind of cruelty boys do to each other) Aerion drives to the school himself, sits in the headmaster's office for forty-five minutes, and leaves without raising his voice once. Three boys are expelled by the end of the week. Maegor never knows exactly what his father said. Neither do you. Aerion only tells you, that night in bed: "He's mine. They don't get to have him."
That sentence, right there. That's the whole shape of it. He's mine. They don't get to have him. That's the whole shape of Aerion's love. Every person in his house is his. Not as property, but as territory he has sworn to hold and protect. And the violence that used to run loose in him now runs along the walls of that territory.
And this is where you come in. You're the one who pulls him back. Not the world. Not Baelor. Not his father. You.
You're the one who stops him spoiling Visenya rotten. He would buy her the moon. He has, on three separate occasions, tried to buy her a horse at ages when a horse is plainly inappropriate, and each time you have stood in the kitchen with your arms folded and said "Aerion. No."
You're the one who makes her write thank-you cards. You're the one who makes her do her own laundry from twelve, who sends her to the local state-linked riding stable instead of the private one her father wanted, who drags her grumbling to volunteer at the Northern charity your family has always supported.
Aerion watches this with a faintly pained expression and doesn't interfere, because (and this he has told you, in bed, in the dark), "She'll be a worse person without you than with me. I know that."
You are the one who softens him with Maegor.
The one who sits between them at dinner when the air has gone tight, who puts a hand on Aerion's forearm under the table and squeezes, once, and watches him reset. You're the one who tells him, after Maegor's wrist breaks, "He cried when he saw you. Not the nanny, not the groom. You. Remember that the next time you think he doesn't know you love him."
You're the one who, when Maegor at sixteen slams a door hard enough to shake the house after a fight with his father, goes upstairs to Maegor first, and then comes down to Aerion sitting alone at the kitchen island with a whisky he hasn't touched, and says, soft but stern, "You're doing it again." And he doesn't argue. He puts his face in his hands for a minute. Then he says, "Tell me what to do," and you tell him, and he goes.
He listens to you in a way he doesn't listen to anyone else alive. He's built the whole interior architecture of his adulthood around the single fixed point of your judgement, and he knows it, and he's not ashamed of it. He is, if anything, quietly proud of it. You're the thing he's chosen to orient himself around, and he will not be moved off that axis by anything.
And, to this day, he finds it satisfying that you can still beat him.
Not at everything. Not all the time. But there are things where you match him, and things where you best him, and he likes it. Loves it, actually, in a way that took him a long time to understand about himself.
You argue with him and hold your line. You play chess with him in the study after the children are asleep and you win and his face, when you do, does this thing. A tightening. A quiet, dark pleasure. A low "well played, wife" said into his glass.
Aerion knows, deep down, that he would despise a wife he could steamroll. The women he used to take home in his twenties (the ones who laughed at everything he said, who let him lead in every dance, who let themselves be shaped by him however he wanted) he can't now remember a single one of their names.
He finds submission revolting unless it has been fought for. And you... you have never once, in fifteen years of knowing him, submitted to him on anything that mattered. You meet him. You match him. When he goes cold and clever in an argument you go colder and cleverer, and he feels the Northern steel in you and something in him, something odd and strange, goes down on one knee in response.
He told you once, late, drunk enough to be honest: "You understand me, and no one else does, and half the time what that means is you can see exactly where to cut me." And then, quieter: "I need you to be able to do that. Don't ever stop."
You can cut him. You do, sometimes, when he needs it. You tell him when he's gone too far. You don't flatter him. You don't coddle him.
And he, in turn, has made a study of you. Of what soothes you and what sharpens you. Of the particular cadence of your silences. Of the tiny, tiny tells that mean you're tired or angry or about to laugh.
He knows your body the way a musician knows an instrument he's played for decades. He knows the precise weight of your hand in his. He knows what your breath does when you're about to cry before you know.
You are, in every functional sense of the phrase, the only person he's ever properly known. And he's, in every functional sense, the only person who has ever properly known you—because Baelor, for all his goodness, loved an idea of you that you were not entirely sure fit, and Aerion has only ever, from the first night, loved the real thing, and wanted to know it, and wanted to be known by it in return.
He still kisses you in doorways. Always has. Some habit from the early years when everything between you was still forbidden and stolen and he had to take what he could in the seconds between rooms.
Even now (years in, two children, a life) he will catch you as you pass from the kitchen to the hall, one hand on the frame over your head, one at your jaw, and kiss you slow enough that you forget what you were doing. It's not chaste. It's a man reminding himself, and you, that this is his house and you are in it.
He sleeps with one hand on you. Always. Hip, thigh, your breast, the small of your back. If you roll away in the night his hand follows in his sleep. You have woken up more than once in the small hours with Aerion's arm slung heavy over your waist and his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, and his breathing slow and even, and you have thought (with a kind of wonder that never quite goes away) he found me.
On difficult nights (when a child has been ill, or a client call gone badly, or the weight of that twisted thing inside him becomes to heavy) he comes to you and doesn't say anything and puts his head in your lap.
That's it. That's the whole ritual. You sit on the long leather couch in the study with your fingers in his pale hair and he closes his eyes and you can feel the fight going out of him, slow, in waves. Sometimes he turns his face into your thigh and you feel his mouth move and you know he's saying something into the fabric that he'll not say out loud. You don't ask him to repeat it. You just keep your hand in his hair until he sleeps.
He's never once, in ten years, gone to bed angry at you. He doesn't survive it. Whatever is wrong, whatever has passed between you, must be finished before the lamps go out, and if it can't be finished he will sit awake in the dark beside you and wait until you stir and then put his hand on your hip and say, into the back of your neck, "talk to me." And you do. Because you can't, either. Not with him. The two of you have never been capable of untangling from each other long enough to go to sleep separate.
So, one last image for you, anon, before I shut up.
Visenya is eight. She's had a bad dream. She pads down the hallway in her absurd silk pyjamas (a gift from her grandfather, with her monogram on the pocket, because of course) and she stands in the doorway of the master bedroom. Aerion's awake, because Aerion's always awake. He doesn't sleep the way normal men sleep. He sees her in the dark and doesn't say anything, just lifts the corner of the duvet on his side, and she climbs in between you both, and falls asleep in about ninety seconds.
A few minutes later (because somehow he always knows) Maegor appears too. Twelve years old, too proud to say anything, hovering at the doorway with his jaw set. Aerion looks at him over your shoulder and over the top of Visenya's silver head and jerks his chin, once, toward the bed. Maegor climbs up and curls there like a large, sulky cat, pretending he only came because his sister did. The dog (of course) follows and collapses across Maegor's feet with a long-suffering sigh.
Aerion doesn't move for the rest of the night.
He lies there, one hand on your hip, his daughter tucked against his chest, his son's weight warm against his shins, the dog a lump at the foot of the bed, and he stares at the ceiling and thinks about every man he has ever hurt and every man he ever will, and he thinks: this is the only thing I have ever built that I do not want to burn down. This is the hoard. This is the treasure. Anything that comes for it will have to come through me, and I will not be kind.
