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nerdallwritey · 5 months ago

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Just to Ruin Me

Summary: “You don’t have to tell me any of this right now,” you said. “A lot has changed in the past few hours and there’s no rush in sharing these things with me. I know how hard it was to talk about your past the first time.” “It was necessary, though,” Astarion looked over at you, his expression determined. “You needed to know what we might be up against. And you might need to know this too.” “If you want to tell me, then I’m happy to listen, but please don’t force yourself for my sake.” Astarion released a puff of air from his nose. “You keep doing that.” “Doing what?” “Asking me what I want. Letting me choose.” OR The morning after you spend the night with Astarion, you learn another thing or two.

Pairing: Astarion x f!reader Rating: 18+ Word count: 12.5k CW: smut, reader is new to sex, piv sex, vaginal fingering, dry humping, mentions of Astarion's past trauma, blood drinking, mild angst, soft Astarion, porn with feelings, reader is an idiot (and a bard), so is Astarion (not a bard, just an idiot), the other companions are also idiots, but don't piss of Shadowheart Spoilers: Minor spoilers for Act 1 (in-game dialogue, plot points, etc.), as well as Astarion's plotline Also posted to: AO3 FAIR WARNING: This is PART 2 in my series, "Beauty and the Bard." Find Part 1 here. Find the masterlist here.

a/n: Thanks to everyone who read Part 1!!! Your kind comments and encouragement spurred me to write Part 2 and I hope it's a sequel that lives up to expectations!! I know the summary is a little angsty, but I promise there's more banter to be had. Everyone is still a goof, after all. Please enjoy :) (Thank you to @kermitwazowski for beta reading!) As a reminder, the last part ended with the following few lines: “For now, you were content to sleep under the stars in Astarion’s arms. It was the best sleep you’d ever had.”

Taglist: @a66-1 @khaleesiofthewolves @khywren @lollipopsandlandmines @minestrones

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the best sleep you’d ever had.

Though you’d grown accustomed to roughing it in the last few weeks since the nautiloid crash, waking up in the forest was still a shock. It had its charms, sure, like the fresh air and the breeze blowing in off the mountains, but the appeal was starting to wane. Especially after one too many nights of having to take a dip in the frigid lake next to camp to rid yourself of gnoll blood.

This morning however, you found yourself surrounded by blankets and pillows from your camp in the middle of a clearing surrounded by large pine trees, all of which had been thoughtfully arranged by the figure trancing beside you. Your own sleeping figure sighed comfortably, unbothered by the lack of a mattress or a hot bath, just a nice deep sleep-

Astarion whacked you in the face.

Your eyes shot open.

“OW?” You scrunched your nose and blinked a few times to get your bearings.

It was still dark. The forest around you was painted a delicate shade of periwinkle. You’d hazard a guess that it was just a little before dawn.

At some point in the night, you’d rolled onto your back, away from Astarion, who was now curled to your right, his back facing you. He must have just rolled over, explaining the harsh wake up from his forearm. You smiled softly and instinctively brought your hand to rub your forehead where he’d made the unfortunate contact.

Blinking a little more, your eyes were beginning to adjust. From this angle, you had a clear line of sight to the large scar that overran a majority of his back. You squinted in the dark to try and get a clearer view of the terrible thing, but came up short due to the shadows of tree branches being cast from above. Still just a mandala of jagged lines and brutal curves. When you got your hands on Cazador, you’d…

No.

No, that wasn’t your fight.

But you’d be gods damned if you wouldn’t be there for every bloody moment Astarion faced him, giving support however you could. Though you had to admit that it would be so gratifying to corner the bastard and cast a quick little Otto’s Irresistible Dance… Assuming you’d be strong enough to cast it by then… Gods, he’d look so fucking stupid just before Astarion plunged a knife through his heart-

Enough. Battle strategies and sick, twisted (but satisfying) revenge fantasies later. Right now you noticed that the shifting of the shadows on his back wasn’t from a breeze shaking the branches above you, but because Astarion himself was trembling.

Your first instinct was to reach out and touch him, but you quickly retracted your hand. Based on the short whimpers he was letting out, it seemed like he was having a nightmare.

How was one supposed to wake someone from a nightmare again? With Astarion you’d have to be extra careful; you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d stowed a knife somewhere within these blankets that he might reach for in a surge of waking fear.

That… would not be pleasant.

You shifted to sit up and look around.

Ow.

A dull throbbing made itself known between your legs.

No, that was great. Spectacular, in fact. You’d have to stop and assess later.

Gingerly, you got onto your knees and peered around at your surroundings. Astarion had done a decent job of cleaning up the clearing to make room for this blanket nest, so there wasn’t a poking stick to be seen within reaching distance.

Not that you were going to poke him with a stick… but the thought had crossed your mind. You were still tired! You’d been fucked for the first time last night! There was a lot going on!

You shook your head to clear the stupid overlapping thoughts and set to looking around for a wayward pillow. You spotted one in the far corner and made your way over to it carefully but with some haste to end Astarion’s unconscious suffering.

You crawled back over to him. And then backed up a little. Just in case.

“Astarion,” you sang quietly.

Astarion continued trembling, but you heard him inhale sharply. A good sign?

You raised your voice a little, but kept the same musical cadence. “Astaaaarioooon.”

Nothing.

Okay fine.

“Sorry,” you said quietly, then threw the pillow at Astarion, hitting him squarely on the back of the head. You leaned forward to grab your own pillow as a protective shield as he gasped and shot up.

“What the hells? What’s happening?” Astarion rolled onto his back and frantically looked around until his eyes landed on you.

You smiled sheepishly and waved at him lamely from behind your pillow. “Hi.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes, confused. He shook his head, then lifted a hand to the back of his head where the pillow had hit him. “What did you do?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“Oh, I know what I was doing,” his tone was sarcastic. “What were you doing?”

You looked down at your lap, guilty. “I couldn’t remember how to wake someone up from a nightmare.”

“So you assaulted me?”

“I didn’t know if you had a knife!”

“Why would I have a knife? What is happening?!” He sat up fully and brought a hand to his forehead as if he were in pain.

“Are you okay?”

“Thankfully, I’ll live,” he opened his eyes and looked at you, his hand still on his forehead.

You huffed. “I meant with the nightmare.”

Astarion sighed and closed his eyes again. “It’s far too early to discuss this.” He tilted his head up towards the sky, which was getting brighter with every passing moment. A practiced smirk appeared on his face and he looked at you once more. “I’d much rather know if you’re okay, darling.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“We had a lot of fun last night, didn’t we?”

“Seeing as how I’m always a lot of fun, I don’t understand why you’re posing this question.” You looked down your nose at him.

He hung his head and sighed exasperatedly. “Will you simply allow me to work my charms on you?”

You tutted. “Is that what you were trying to do just now?”

“Attempting to, yes.” Astarion crossed his arms. “I’m usually irresistible.”

You snorted. “Okay,” you said, a small smile appearing on your face. “I’m going to ignore your lack of an answer about your nightmare and will elect to wait until you’re ready to tell me about it yourself.”

Astarion pursed his lips.

“But go ahead,” you rearranged your legs, wincing mildly as you moved to sit cross legged, “charm me.”

A look of worry flashed over Astarion’s face when he saw you wince, but the concern was quickly overtaken by an all too self-satisfied grin. “Feeling it this morning, are we?”

You rolled your eyes. “I knew you’d be happy about this.”

“Positively delighted, my sweet.” He leaned forward and kissed you gently, bringing a hand up to your cheek. You brought your own hand up to lay against his. He pulled away and appraised your face smugly. “I was completely enamored by your performance last night.” You were about to open your mouth to say something, but Astarion interrupted. “Don’t even think about mentioning that you’re a bard and that of course you’re good at performing, or something like that.”

You closed your mouth. You were going to say something like that. Instead you said, “You were pretty good yourself.”

He brought his hands up to make air quotes. “I’ve ‘ruined you,’ from what I recall.”

You groaned. “I just said that to make you cum.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, my dear.” His face was still smug, but he motioned for you to come closer. You scooted forward and he lifted you slightly to sit on his lap.

He leaned up and kissed you deeply, his tongue swiping your bottom lip for entrance. You moaned in response and opened your mouth for him. Though the rest of his body was cold, his mouth was warm and inviting, and you leaned in further to try and get closer. You wrapped your arms around his neck and tilted your head slightly to get a better angle. You’d been mildly distracted last night; had he always smelled this good?

When Astarion pulled back suddenly, you couldn’t help the whine that escaped at the loss. He hummed in satisfaction, and his voice was low and seductive when he spoke.

“Every part of your perfect body whispers temptations-”

You giggled. “What?”

“Shush dear, I’m charming you.” He cleared his throat, “-it’s as if the gods made you just to ruin me.”

“So now I’ve ruined you?” You raised your eyebrows teasingly.

“Wait, no-”

You leaned your forehead onto his and laughed. “And that one usually works?”

He blew out a puff of air. “You’re an unusual one, I’ll give you that.”

You shrugged, pleased with yourself.

“But yes,” Astarion continued, “I’ve made plenty of previous lovers swoon with that particular line.”

“Show me what else you’ve got, then,” you challenged.

Astarion tilted his head in thought. “Let’s see… I can’t use the ‘cried from your lips’ line because I used that one last night…” You scoffed joyfully, mockingly scandalized that he’d already used a line on you. He met your eye and smirked. “How about this one: When I’m with you, I feel practically alive, yet I crave only to die again, with you.”

The sultry tone of his voice did send a pang of want through your body, reminding you that you were only wearing Astarion’s shirt and nothing else. You shifted uncomfortably.

“How romantic,” you said, trying to keep your voice nonchalant. “I didn’t think you liked dying the first time.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes, sensing your deflection and smirked, looking down at where you sat on his lap. He rolled his hips, which made you inhale sharply. “I see that one did do something for you,” he leaned forward and kissed your neck.

You exhaled slowly, “I blame that stupid sexy voice of yours.”

Astarion growled against your throat and you shivered, bringing your hands up to his back.

“Astarion,” you sighed and he hummed in response, licking over the twin wounds he’d left the night before. You sat up a little straighter. “Wait.”

He immediately pulled back and looked at you with concern. “What is it?”

“I just thought of something,” you said.

Astarion raised his eyebrows and nodded, wanting you to continue.

“Can I borrow your fangs?”

“My-?” His tongue instinctively flicked over his teeth.

“Because I want to leave a lasting impression on you,” you tilted your head at him to show off the marks he’d left on your throat. You shimmied your shoulders a little for good measure.

“I’m leaving,” Astarion made to get up with you still on his lap and you laughed loudly.

“No! No! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I wanted to try a dumb line on you, too!” You threw your arms around his neck and hid your face in his shoulder. You felt him kiss your hair.

“You’re lucky I don’t travel with you for your personality,” he joked.

“I’d say ‘I’m a lot of fun’ again but I think you’d actually stop talking to me.” You pulled back to look at him.

“And you’d be right.” He kissed you chastely and then adjusted you on his lap. You winced a little again and he looked genuinely sympathetic. “I might have a way to ease the pain from last night,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

You smiled at him. “Yes.”

He smiled back. “Good.” He positioned your arms over his shoulders. “Hang on, my love.” You crossed your arms where they hung behind him and waited to see what he would do.

Without warning, you felt one of his cold fingers slide through your folds. You hissed at the sensation and looked at Astarion.

“Supposedly, massaging the area can help,” he was trying to sound knowledgeable, but the look in his eyes was one full of lust. Then he tutted, looking down. “You could be wetter, darling.” His thumb began to circle your clit.

Your eyes rolled back at the sensation, and you leaned forward again to rest your forehead on his shoulder.

“Do you want my cock again, love? You took me so well last night, I was so proud of you,” he’d moved his mouth next to your ear and was speaking with the same sultry tone that he had a minute ago. You whimpered at his praise and rolled your hips to get his thumb to press you harder. Astarion let out a low groan. “That’s it, you’re getting so wet for me, you’re so good.”

After a few more tight circles, you practically sobbed when you felt him take his thumb away from your clit.

“Shh, shh, I know,” he cooed, “but we want you to feel better, remember?”

You let out a frustrated sound. “I already was feeling better.”

Astarion chuckled. “Trust me, would you? Impatient.” His tone was nothing but fond.

His other fingers began massaging the area around your entrance. You winced and bit your lip.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” you confirmed. “I assume this will get better?”

“That’s the idea,” he kissed your ear and you nodded against his shoulder.

You rolled your hips, attempting to get friction where you needed it.

“Just a little longer,” Astarion said, moving his fingers gently around your cunt.

You hummed an acknowledgement and kept rolling your hips, trying to combat this weird form of edging that was happening.

Finally, Astarion ceased his massaging and brought his thumb back to your clit. You let out a long shuddering breath and squeezed your eyes tight, adjusting your hips to roll against his thigh.

“There you go, my love,” Astarion said, voice still in your ear. “I’ll make you cum for behaving so well.”

You whined loudly as his thumb picked up the pace. You began rolling your hips at an equally fast pace. “More,” you whined, willing your climax to approach faster.

“Not right now, darling. Let’s give you a break there, shall we?” Astarion used his free hand to pet your hair.

“But you asked if I wanted your cock again,” you whined.

“And while I’m pleased to hear that you’d like it again, let’s relax and get you off like this for now, okay?”

You groaned but nodded, squeezing your eyes shut again and focusing on the pleasure Astarion was currently providing. “Harder,” you instructed.

Astarion pressed down harder on your clit with his thumb. He swept his index and middle finger through your folds, coating them in your slick. He quickly swapped those fingers with his thumb, changing the sensation by swapping one finger for two and adding more of your arousal to the mix.

You keened and gripped his bicep. “Harder!” You instructed again, desperate and approaching the edge. You could feel the coil in your stomach preparing to let go.

Astarion pushed again and brought his lips to your ear once more.

“I just thought of something, precious thing,” he murmured.

You blinked at him, your eyes unfocused and half lidded.

“More of a question, really,” he clarified.

You squeezed your eyes tight, nodding. You were on the precipice of your orgasm and could feel it fastly approaching. You slammed your hips against Astarion’s thigh as he continued to rub your clit brutally.

“Do you believe in love at first bite?” He leaned forward and kissed your throat, then began to suck a new mark into the flesh there. Contrary to his pun, he wouldn’t drink from you without your expressed permission first.

It did, however, send you crashing over the edge. You moaned loudly, Astarion’s name tumbling repeatedly out of your mouth. The vision behind your eyelids was white and you reached out blindly to grip Astarion’s shoulders. His lips detached themselves from your throat and found your own. His tongue was immediately in your mouth, swallowing your moans and shouts of his name.

When you came down, you disconnected from the kiss and opened your eyes, a lopsided grin on your face.

“Thank you,” you said. “I do feel better.”

Astarion smirked. “I knew you would.” He brought his fingers, still coated in your essence, up to his mouth and sucked them clean. You watched, mesmerized by the way his cheeks hollowed and his eyes fluttered shut. He pulled them out with a lewd pop. “Delicious.”

You felt your face flush, embarrassed by his display, despite just cumming in his lap.

“You shouldn’t feel embarrassed about this,” Astarion said, reading your expression immediately. “What you should feel embarrassed about is the fact that you came because I told a joke.”

“I did not!” You protested.

“You absolutely did,” Astarion said. “And it was a particularly bad one, too.” He clicked his tongue. “You must feel so ashamed.”

You groaned. “I came because you started kissing my neck!”

Astarion raised his eyebrows, clearly not believing you. “It’s okay, darling, no one here was under the impression that you aren’t incredibly lame.” He gave you a pitying look, then kissed your nose and you laughed. He pulled back and looked at you fondly, a dopey half smile on his face. Then he looked up at the sky.

The periwinkle you’d awoken to was now vibrant shades of orange and pink.

“Are you okay if I move you?” Astarion asked.

“Um… sure?” You weren’t sure why he was asking, and helped to move yourself off of him. You did feel a bit less sore thanks to his help.

He stood up and stretched his arms over his head, then bent to pick up a rag to wipe off his pants.

“Sorry,” you said.

Astarion shook his head. “Comes with the territory.” You were about to make a joke but he held up a finger and gave you a warning look. “Don’t.”

You held up your hands innocently.

He tossed you the rag after and then your pants and underthings.

“Clean up,” he instructed, “then get dressed.”

You furrowed your brows, your stomach dropping suddenly. He didn’t expect you to leave right now, did he? He hadn’t fucked you last night, then brought you more pleasure this morning, only for him to send you back to camp like it hadn’t happened, right?

Astarion snorted. He was watching you as he slipped on his shoes. “Relax, darling, I see that face. I just want to show you something.” He held out a hand to help you up.

“Okay,” you smiled, soothed by the pleasant look on his face. “Do you want your shirt back?” You made to lift it over your head.

“Keep it for now, dear,” Astarion said. “I rather like that on you, truthfully.” The collar was slipping off your shoulder as you pulled on your pants, and you made no move to adjust it, opting not to put your bra back on yet.

“Do you want to wear my shirt?” you teased.

“Tempting, but I fear I’d look better in it than you do.”

“Excellent point, don’t do that.” You adjusted the ruffles on Astarion’s shirt and felt a light breeze on your cleavage through the lacey opening at the collar.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he said. You looked up and caught Astarion staring at your chest.

You laughed as he cleared his throat, then gestured deeper into the woods with his head. “This way.” He held out a tentative hand and you took it eagerly, bringing the back of his palm up to your face to leave a gentle kiss. Astarion squeezed your hand slightly at the contact, and began heading further into the forest, away from camp. A pleasant silence hung between the two of you and you rubbed your thumb absently along the back of his hand.

It wasn’t long before the trees started to thin and you heard the sound of rushing water somewhere close by. You emerged from the trees to find a cliff overlooking a ravine below. On the other side of the ravine was more forest, and beyond that, you could faintly see the Sea of Swords. The sun peeked out over the horizon, bright reddish orange in the distance. Its glow was a welcome sight and you found yourself in awe of the view.

Astarion let go of your hand and sat, dangling his feet over the edge of the cliff. You hesitantly stepped forward and sat beside him, opting instead to sit with one knee up, the other leg crossed beneath it. Astarion sat back on his arms. The sun reflected off his skin in the most beautiful golden and magenta hues. His hair, somehow still perfect despite your night together, was being jostled lightly by the breeze. He’d closed his eyes and tipped his head up, basking. You couldn’t help watching him as you rested your cheek on your bent knee.

He didn’t open his eyes when he said, “I try to come out here every morning.”

You sat in silence, continuing to watch him as you prepared to listen to whatever he’d say next.

“After two hundred years in darkness, you forget how lovely the sunrise is,” he said. “I don’t ever want to miss another.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine what that must have been like,” you said softly.

Astarion hummed in acknowledgment and opened his eyes. “I’d catch glimpses while lurking around the city for too long before dawn, hopping from shadow to shadow until I made it back to Cazador’s manor.” His eyes didn’t waver from the sun in the distance. “But there were moments where I’d catch a glimpse of it over the Chionthar.” His tone became sardonic. “The promise of a new day emerging! Something that I would never get to participate in.” He sighed. “I’d linger as long as I could in those moments.”

You nodded, picturing a hopeful Astarion hiding behind buildings and in alleys, trying to get a fleeting look at a phenomenon that occurred every day, one that you took for granted. Your heart ached for him.

He continued. “I never quite told you what Cazador made his spawn do for him.”

You tried to recall what Astarion had said to you before. Only that he’d been made to go out into the city and bring back “the most beautiful souls” he could find. Then Cazador would make him either drink from a disgusting dead rat, or abuse him for refusing. The thought made you visibly shudder.

“I know that you had to bring people back to-” you lowered your voice, as if saying his name might summon him, “-Cazador, against your will. And that he’d kill them.”

Astarion nodded his head once, remorsefully. “I never told you how we lured them.”

You could see pain etched into his features. You reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder. He flinched a bit at the contact, but settled when he looked over at you.

“You don’t have to tell me any of this right now,” you said. “A lot has changed in the past few hours and there’s no rush in sharing these things with me. I know how hard it was to talk about your past the first time.”

“It was necessary, though,” Astarion looked over at you, his expression determined. “You needed to know what we might be up against. And you might need to know this too.”

“If you want to tell me, then I’m happy to listen, but please don’t force yourself for my sake.”

Astarion released a puff of air from his nose. “You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Asking me what I want. Letting me choose.”

You cocked your head sympathetically. “And I take it two hundred years as a slave hasn’t really afforded you any choice.”

“Correct,” he sighed. “As a spawn, your vampiric master has complete control over your body and your actions. Even in moments where I wanted to defy or fight back, I was powerless to do anything.”

Your heart jumped into your throat. You hadn’t realized that was how it worked. Having no control over yourself or your actions sounded like a complete nightmare and you were glad that you’d hopefully never have to experience it. Knowing that that had been Astarion’s entire existence for the past two centuries made you sick to your stomach.

“I’m sorry,” you said, just as you’d said the last few times he’d shared glimpses of his past.

Astarion’s eyes were closed once again as he inhaled deeply, then exhaled. He continued to bask in the rising sun for a few silent moments and you watched as it slowly rose higher into the sky.

“That nightmare I had,” he said, his voice coming out quiet, “I’ve had it before.”

Again, you said nothing and waited for him to continue.

“I actually had the same one the night you let me drink your blood for the first time.”

“Oh, please don’t tell me that drinking my blood was some sort of revenge plot against me for haunting your nightmares.”

Astarion smiled a little. “No, it wasn’t about you. It was about Cazador.”

“You know, I’m really starting to dislike this guy,” you said, knowing how difficult this was for him and trying to keep his mood up with another little joke.

“You and me both,” he sounded tired. “In the dream, I’m in the forest. Cazador appears and recites the rules of being his vampire spawn.” He held up his hand and recounted them on his fingers: “‘First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures. Second, thou shall obey me in all things. Third, thou shalt not leave my side, unless directed. Fourth, thou shalt know that thou art mine.’”

You listened patiently as Astarion recited each rule almost mechanically. You scrunched your nose with each passing instruction and rolled your eyes dramatically when Astarion finished.

“What a prick.”

He smiled again. “With an archaic speech pattern.”

“I was going to mention his archaic speech pattern.”

The smile faded slowly as Astarion returned to his thoughts. “The dream ends with Cazador telling me I’m his forever. That I can never escape.”

You let the words hang in the air for a moment. “And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am,” he said humorlessly. He laid down fully on his back, the sun high enough to bathe him completely in its glow. He rested his arms behind his head and angled himself to look at you. “I realized, if I could walk in the sun, what other vampiric laws could I break?”

You looked down at him, admiring the light glinting off his bare chest. “So you decided to test your theory on me? I’m touched.” You held a hand to your chest, pretending to be deeply moved.

“In all honesty, I thought you were the least likely to kill me if I got caught.” He smirked at you. “And it would seem I was right.”

“I wouldn’t have let any of the others kill you,” you said firmly.

Astarion chuckled. “How sweet. My brave little protector.” He reached over to pinch your cheek.

You swatted him away. “Hey, who saved your ass from a bugbear yesterday?”

He shrugged. “I would have been fine.”

You leaned forward and shoved him lightly, making him laugh and throw his arm forward as a shield.

When his laughter died down, his face grew a touch more serious again. “When you so graciously assaulted me this morning, he’d just finished telling me rule number three; that I can’t leave him unless he tells me to.”

You thought for a moment. “Which begs the question,” Astarion looked over at you expectantly, “how did you end up out here? From what I recall, the sun was still out when the nautiloid reached the Gate. You didn’t have the tadpole yet, so how’d you escape?”

“I wouldn’t say it was much of an escape.” His eyes shifted up to the sky, his expression thoughtful. “I was looking for new victims for Cazador. It was dusk and I had just been given the order to go out and hunt. I was weaving through shadows, avoiding the setting sun, but there’s only so many places one can hide from a giant tentacle that won’t burn you to a crisp. One of the tentacles caught me when I attempted to flee down an alleyway. A complete accident.”

“If it helps, I tripped while running away.”

“Of course you did.” He sighed. “Figures it would take an alien invasion to finally free me from his clutches. Not some,” he waved his hands in the air, gesturing to nothing in particular, “heroic figure sent by the gods to save me and smite that horrible man down to somewhere further and more vile than the Nine Hells.” His hands fell ungracefully to his sides.

He wasn’t wrong. How could any god worth their salt claim to be holier than thou when such suffering was occuring right under their noses? And you were pretty sure, based on tales you’d heard of Mystra and Shar from Gale and Shadowheart, that the gods hadn’t planned for the nautiloids or the rise of the Absolute. Yet if it weren’t for any of that, Astarion would still be trapped in Baldur’s Gate and your adventure thus far would have looked very different.

“If I’d known, I would have done something,” you said, knowing it was more complicated than that, but still wanting to help somehow.

“Darling, if I’d met you in Baldur’s Gate, I would not have hesitated to take you to Cazador.”

That hurt.

You said as much. “Ouch.”

“Well,” he sounded angry, though he directed it up towards the sky and not at you, “I wouldn’t have had a choice! Sure, it would have been a little novel, given how inexperienced you are, but regardless, I would have handed you off to him as soon as I’d made you finish.”

Ah. So that was how he lured people. It made sense, now that you put the pieces together; Astarion was so experienced because he had to be. Of course unsuspecting victims would fall prey to the allure of an eternally beautiful vampire, especially the one laying next to you. Of course the promise of pleasure from someone that sexy would be the obvious thing to agree to. It was a wonder your paths had never crossed before the nautiloid.

“Once,” Astarion broke the silence that had fallen between you, his tone distant, “in the first decade of my slavery, I found a darling boy who I couldn’t bear to bring back to him.” He finally looked over at you, his eyes full of sadness. “So I ran, instead of hurting that sweet man.”

You reached for his hand, then thought better of it. All his snide “don’t touch me’s” on the road now held a new, terrible weight.

“After Cazador caught me, the bastard sealed me, starving, inside a dusty tomb, all on my own, for an entire year. A year of silence”

A hand flew to your mouth. “Astarion…” you felt your eyes begin to prick with tears and did your best to will them away, fearing that they might make Astarion stop sharing.

He went on. “Months of scratching my hands raw, trying to carve my way out, more months of not moving at all. Months wishing only for death.” He took a deep breath, then blew it out shakily. “So no, I wouldn’t have hesitated, had we crossed paths.”

You opened and closed your mouth several times, attempting to find words that could possibly compose an appropriate response to the horrors you currently refused to picture. “I have no words,” is what you finally settled on, followed by an, “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing can make up for that,” he said quietly. “Not even Cazador’s death.” He paused. “Well, it would help a little, but the coward deserves a fate worse than death.”

“Can I hug you?” you blurted, unable to stop yourself.

Astarion blinked a few times, then sat up. “What?”

“I just… you’ve been through such hell and I want to hug you, but I don’t want to touch you without your permission.”

He looked you up and down and saw the sincerity evident on your face. “I… suppose.” He pulled his legs up from where they were still dangling above the ravine and turned to face you head on.

“Thank you,” you said, still attempting to keep your tears at bay.

You leaned forward and weaved your arms beneath Astarion’s, hooking your arms up and placing your hands on his shoulder blades. You settled your face between his neck and shoulder and could feel that his arms were frozen rigidly in place in front of him. You took a shaky breath and stayed still, allowing Astarion to move at his own pace.

His arms finally settled around you and he bent his head so his cheek rested against your hair.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, relishing in the other’s closeness. You moved your hands back and forth across his back absently. When you caught yourself, you pulled back to look at him and asked, “Is it okay that I’m touching your back?”

Astarion chuckled softly. “Yes, my dear. It’s rather nice, actually.”

You smiled and nuzzled your nose into the crook of his neck. Seriously, did he always smell this good?

Despite the pleasant distraction, something was nagging at your thoughts.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmured into his skin.

Astarion sighed dramatically. “If it has anything to do with my fangs, I’ll rip your throat out.”

You snickered to yourself. “No, not another dumb joke, I promise.”

“Then by all means.”

You pulled back once more to look at him in the face. His eyes widened when he saw your nervous expression. You avoided holding his gaze, feeling a little small.

“Do you… want to be with me?”

Astarion looked taken aback. “What?”

“I mean… well…” You were having trouble sorting through your thoughts. Who were you to make this moment about yourself when Astarion had just been so open with you? And why couldn’t you trust him in what he had told you last night? Still, you had to know. You’d made it clear how much you cared for him and how much sleeping with him had meant to you.

Given his past experiences, it made sense why he’d sleep with you, but you wanted to hear him say it. If this was all some ploy to manipulate you into doing what he wanted, even without Cazador’s instruction, you needed to know now.

“Was I… just another conquest?” you asked, your tears reemerging. “Because if that’s the case, then I think we should end whatever this is.”

Astarion’s face was now inches away from yours. He moved a hand from your back and shifted it up to wipe a wayward tear that had escaped. He said your name softly.

“No, my sweet,” his other hand started rubbing soothing circles into your back. He pulled back a little. “Well, yes.”

You scoffed, another tear rolling down your cheek.

Astarion was quick to correct. “No, no! I mean, at first, yes, it was my plan to seduce you and sleep with you.”

You let out a small whimpering noise and he tried to catch your eye. You kept your gaze glued on something in the distance, unseeing.

Astarion cleared his throat. “You- You’re valuable; someone willing to feed me, someone who advocated for me to stay with you all, even though you knew vampires were dangerous, someone who would protect me in battle, even if it meant sacrificing something important to you.”

Try as he might to get your attention back on him, your face remained blank as you stared into the distance.

“I wanted your continued protection.” He shrugged. “Habits from two hundred years of charming people kicked in and I thought I could secure that with sex.”

That got you to look at him, a sour expression on your face. “Have you met me?”

Astarion chuckled. “Yes, I have. And that’s what threw me for such a loop.”

You humphed.

“When I realized you’d be more of a challenge, I modified my plan.”

“I don’t love the direction this is headed.”

“Stay with me, darling” he said, “I promise I’m going somewhere with this.”

You exhaled and nodded for him to continue.

“I did want to give you a good first experience, that much was true, but I will admit that I was still planning on using you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You realize how bad this sounds, right?”

“Will you-” he sighed. “Let me finish, damn you,” he brought his forehead to yours briefly, then pulled back. “So imagine how stupid I felt when I realized I genuinely felt something for you.”

That made you smile softly.

He groaned. “And yes, it is because I find you to be… a lot of fun.” The last phrase sounded like it hurt coming out.

Your soft smile transformed into one of smug satisfaction. “And when did you come to this conclusion?”

“Well first of all, look at you.” He smiled slyly and you playfully pushed his face away from yours, just as you had last night. After a moment, Astarion looked up, as if searching through his thoughts. “I suppose I’ve always found you to be amusing. You were so easy to fool in the beginning. I mean, the very first day we met, you thought I had one of those brain things cornered.”

“I had no reason not to believe you! And then you held a knife to my throat!” “Ah, memories,” he sighed wistfully. “But then we started traveling together, and I don’t think I’ve ever laughed more. Killing those goblins outside the Grove, fooling those trolls into working for us, taking out those Paladins of Tyr… you always had a sarcastic comment to contend with my sarcastic comments. Which is saying something.”

You snorted. “As if I wouldn’t have something to say.”

Astarion nodded. “You do talk a lot.”

You chuckled softly, feeling better. Your arms were still wrapped around Astarion.

“It was when I kissed you.” His tone was thoughtful.

“Hmm?”

“When I really kissed you for the first time, there was something different about it.” His eyes flicked down to your lips momentarily. “Suddenly everything we’d been through came rushing back to my mind and there was this… pleasure I hadn’t felt. In an awfully long time.”

You smiled like a dope, bringing your forehead to his.

“I realized you weren’t going anywhere. And that you genuinely cared about what I thought and what I wanted.” He looked at you almost shyly. “No one in the past two hundred years has stayed.” Astarion pulled back and his inflection became flamboyant and playful: “Not that they had much of a choice, but it was a somewhat shocking revelation.” His tone then returned to one of sincerity: “And no one has cared for me as you have.”

You looked away, embarrassed by the kind words.“What can I say, I’m incredible.”

Astarion blew out a cool puff of air that tickled your face. “Annoyingly, you are.”

You looked back at him and smirked. “For me, it was when you asked me how I’d want to die.”

Astarion snorted. “Pardon?”

“When you asked me how I wanted to die on one of our first nights at camp. I genuinely had the thought, ‘Now here’s a guy who knows how to have a good time.’”

Astarion laughed brightly. You mirrored his grin.

“You said you wanted to be decapitated.”

“How romantic of me,” he said, raising a seductive eyebrow.

“Well it did spark the crush I’ve been harboring this whole time,” you felt your face heat up at the admission. “That, and your stupid beautiful face.”

Astarion sniffed mockingly. “Thank you, not enough people mention that.” Then he looked at you fondly. “But that long, eh? How adorable.” He rubbed his nose against yours teasingly. “And here you thought nothing would come of it.”

“Nothing usually does!” you exclaimed.

He laughed and leaned forward to kiss you once. “Not so loud.”

You lifted an eyebrow and gestured to the empty landscape around you. Astarion shrugged. You lowered your voice despite the lack of other people to bother.

“I am glad something came of it this time.” You settled your forehead onto his shoulder.

“As am I, my love,” he kissed your hair. “Though I have something else to admit.”

You pulled back and looked at him curiously.

Out of nowhere, he presented you with a knife.

“I did have a knife.”

You scoffed incredulously and whacked his arm. “I KNEW YOU HAD A KNIFE, YOU BASTARD!” You laughed loudly and pushed him backwards.

He fell back onto his arms, laughing with you as you crawled on top and kissed him deeply.

“Careful darling,” he murmured against your lips, “don’t move.”

You paused your movements, your lips still pressed firmly against his own. Astarion turned his head slightly to look over to his left at the treeline you’d emerged from not too long ago. You pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth and felt him grin. Then you felt his right arm come up and jerk slightly, followed by a “THUNK” sound off to your right.

You waited a moment before you asked, “Can I move?” Your mouth was smushed against his face and your voice came out muffled.

He chuckled. “Yes, you can move now.”

You sat up and looked to your right, the knife Astarion had pulled was now wedged deeply into the trunk of a nearby tree. You raised your eyebrows at him.

He stretched out like a cat in a sunbeam, his voice straining as he went. “Impressed?”

“Honestly? Yes.” You leaned back down and kissed him again.

He hummed and his mouth moved against yours at a leisurely pace, his hands coming up to tangle in your hair. You kissed down his jaw and throat before coming to his collarbone and stopping.

“You’re sure you don’t want to fuck me again?” Your words came out a little shy and Astarion laughed.

He twirled the ends of your hair around his finger. “Delicious as you were, my sweet, I think I’d prefer to take my time with you.”

You pursed your lips, disappointed.

“That’s not to say I don’t want to, darling, but…” His fingers stopped twirling your hair as he thought. “Like you said earlier, so much has changed in the last few hours. I’ve only just discovered that I can sleep with somebody because I actually want to.” His hand moved from your hair to your cheek. “I think I need some time to adjust to that.”

You nodded and bent to kiss him. “I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”

He smiled up at you. “Thank you.”

You spent a few moments just looking at him, admiring how his eyes sparkled in the sun like rubies. You sighed noticeably.

“What is it, love?”

You shook your head. “It’s nothing.”

“Darling…” He raised his eyebrows at you.

“No, it’s inappropriate right now.” You looked away.

You felt his hand in your hair, and his voice was conspiratory, “I love when you talk dirty.”

You sighed again and looked him in the eye. “One of these days, when you’re ready, I’m going to look into your gorgeous eyes as I make you come.”

Astarion sputtered out a surprised laugh. “Easy there, lover,” he gave you a sultry look, “I may just take you up on that.”

You sat up and spread your hands over his chest. “I want to make you feel good, too.”

He brought both hands up to his face and groaned loudly before dragging them back down his face and looking at you. “Come lay in the sun with me, will you?”

You pouted but rolled off of him and curled into his side.

“There now,” he said, arching his chest upwards towards the sky where the sun had now risen for the day, “isn’t this nice?”

You inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the trees and the sounds of the ravine below. You exhaled and closed your eyes, warmed by the sun and comforted by the presence of Astarion beside you. He himself had his eyes closed and looked peacefully content. You nuzzled further into his side, enjoying how his cool skin contrasted with the warmth coming from above.

Before you could even register that you were still tired from your early wakeup call this morning, you’d drifted back into a comfortable sleep.

~~~~~

You were awoken some time later by a lick to the face.

You shut your eyes tighter and groaned. “Gross, Astarion, I’m trying to sleep.” You threw an arm over your eyes, the sun now directly overhead.

“Did you find them, boy?” A voice shouted from the distance.

Your eyes shot open and found Scratch panting above you, wagging his tail excitedly.

You sat up quickly and immediately leaned over to shake Astarion who appeared to be trancing soundly.

“Astarion,” you shook him anxiously.

He scowled, his eyes still closed. He groaned lowly.

“Astarion, my dear, my sweet, my beloved,” you shook him harder and his eyes opened immediately. He sat up, fast as lightning.

“What’s happening? Where’s my knife?” He looked around frantically until his eyes landed on you. “Ah,” he said, calming, “déjà vu.”

“They’re coming,” you hissed.

“Who?” Astarion narrowed his eyes, thoughts still foggy from his trance.

“No FUCKING way!” Came Karlach’s voice from the treeline.

You looked over and found her with an elated grin on her face and her hands on her knees. She started laughing loudly and you hid your face in your hands.

“You guys did NOT,” she wheezed.

“Hello Karlach,” Astarion’s voice sounded nonchalant beside you. “What brings you out to ruin our beauty sleep?”

“Did you find them?” Shadowheart soon emerged from the forest and stopped in her tracks. She surveyed the area and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Astarion, tell me you didn’t.”

“Did what, darling?” He sounded smug and you looked over at him. His expression matched his tone. “You’ll have to be more specific.” He rested his chin on your shoulder.

“I fucking knew this would happen,” Karlach said, coming down from her laughing fit. “Soldier’s had her eye on you for a while now, Fangs.”

“Karlach!” You whisper-shouted.

“Oh, I’m aware,” you felt Astarion turn his head to look at you.

Suddenly Gale, Lae’zel, and Wyll joined the fray. Scratch ran to them and happily weaved between them as they emerged.

“We heard a commotion, did you find them?” Gale halted when he saw you and Astarion sitting together on the ground, him shirtless, you wearing his shirt. “No,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yes,” Astarion said, tilting his head against yours. You gave him a dirty look.

“Chk! Was that filthy nest of our blankets your doing?” Lae’zel asked, cradling her greatsword proudly.

You groaned and hid your face in your hands again.

“It would appear so,” Wyll confirmed awkwardly.

“You vampires have a disgusting way of mating if that nest was any indication,” Lae’zel narrowed her eyes and lifted her nose in the air judgmentally. “Far too soft.”

Astarion scoffed and pulled back from you. “I’ll have you know that vampires mate in the most satisfying- well, we don’t mate, necessarily, we’re not dogs, but we, well at least I, am always an exemplary lover.”

Shadowheart ignored him and walked forward, crouching down and resting a hand on your shoulder. You looked at her. “Are you okay?”

“What?” you laughed in disbelief. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“He didn’t… coerce you into something, did he?”

“Excuse me?” Astarion sounded insulted. “I always ask permission first, darling.”

“Your charms can be quite overwhelming at times, Astarion,” Gale said.

“And wouldn’t you like having my charms turned on you, wizard,” Astarion sneered.

“Well, let’s not jump to any conclusions,” Wyll held up his hands, gesturing for the others to relax.

“Everyone!” You raised your voice. All eyes settled on you. “Nothing happened between us that I didn’t expressly and happily agree to.”

Karlach started chuckling again. “Good for you, Soldier.”

“Thank you, Karlach,” said Astarion.

You narrowed your eyes at him.

He shrugged. “What?”

You groaned and stood up, wiping grass and forest debris off your clothes. You adjusted Astarion’s shirt on your shoulders, making sure you weren’t showing off too much to your companions.

“Is there a reason you all came out here? Or was it just to mortify me? Because mission accomplished!”

“It’s midday,” informed Wyll. “We grew worried when the two of you seemingly vanished and didn’t return.”

“Halsin and the tieflings are coming to camp tonight to celebrate our victory against the goblins,” Shadowheart crossed her arms.

“Yes, and it wouldn’t be a great look if our leader and the gangly one were missing,” Gale said.

“Gangly?!” Astarion exclaimed, very clearly not gangly.

“You’re- okay, well, I hadn’t seen you shirtless before now,” Gale amended.

“Like what you see?” Astarion teased.

“Astarion,” you scolded.

He sighed and got up, wrapping an arm around you and resting a hand on your hip.

You went red as you watched your companions track his hand.

“Listen, people,” Astarion said, sounding serious.

You saw your companions’ eyes shift to the vampire.

“Don’t give her a hard time. This was my doing.” Shadowheart was about to say something but Astarion raised his voice a bit. “While yes, she gave permission in everything that we did, this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t suggested it in the first place.”

“I could have suggested something much better, surely,” Lae’zel huffed.

“I mean, did you-?” Karlach thrust her hips in the air with her fists at her sides.

“Oh my gods,” you groaned.

“I don’t kiss and tell, darling,” Astarion said, squeezing your hip slightly.

Karlach smirked smugly and winked at you both.

You shook your head and looked up, silently begging any god that was listening to kill you and to do it quickly.

“We should get back to camp,” Wyll suggested diplomatically. “Let these two collect themselves.”

“So what does this mean?” Shadowheart asked, ignoring Wyll.

“Shadowheart,” Wyll warned but she waved him off.

“What do you mean?” You asked.

“Are you only going to sleep with the pathetic vampire moving forward?” Lae’zel stated bluntly.

You and Astarion looked at each other. You saw the slightest flash of uncertainty in his eyes and smiled. “If he’ll let me,” you said.

A small smile appeared on his face in return.

Lae’zel groaned. “K'chakhi. Your loss.” She turned and walked back into the forest, slinging her greatsword over her back.

You bit your lip, feeling guilty about Lae’zel’s feelings, but Karlach soon slid into your vision. “Congrats, you crazy kids,” she laughed and pretended to punch your arm, then followed on Lae’zel’s heels, Scratch bounding close behind her.

Gale walked over, his face stoic. He stood in front of Astarion and held out his hand.

Astarion scowled. “What is this, do you want some sort of handout?”

“I want to shake your hand, you buffoon,” Gale sounded frustrated.

“Gale…” you said sorrowfully.

“No no, think nothing of it,” he waved you off. “The right man won out in the end.”

Astarion took his hand and shook it. “Better luck next time,” he jeered.

“Astarion,” you scolded again. “You both know I’m not something to win, right?”

“Of course you’re not,” Gale nodded. “Apologies, I misspoke. I’ll see you both at camp. Lunch is bread and cheese to save room for tonight’s festivities.” He stiffly turned and walked back towards the trees. Wyll gave him a sympathetic look, then caught your eye. He nodded somewhat sadly and followed after Gale.

“Well that certainly doesn’t feel good,” you said, holding a hand to your chest and breathing deeply.

“Not quite finished yet, love,” Astarion nodded over towards Shadowheart who lingered nearby.

She approached slowly, holding her hands behind her back. Astarion released your hip and moved away, sensing what Shadowheart aimed to do. You looked at him curiously, but your attention was drawn back to Shadowheart as she threw her arms around your neck.

“You’re happy?” She asked softly.

“Shadowheart…” you smiled into her hair. “Yes, I’m happy. Thank you.”

She pulled back to look at you in the eyes, double checking your expression. When she saw that you were genuine, she nodded. She cleared her throat and looked over at Astarion.

She pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Hurt her, and you will never know a happy day again.”

Astarion held up his hands defensively. “I won’t-”

“You have never known the pain of Lady Shar’s wrath, and you’d be smart to keep it that way, so help me gods, Astarion.”

“I got it,” he said flatly.

“Our Lady of Loss would not hesitate to strike you where you stand-”

“I think he gets it,” you said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart narrowed her eyes at Astarion before she looked back at you. “I’ll see you at camp. Don’t dally.” She looked pointedly at Astarion who shrugged helplessly.

When she headed back into the forest, you and Astarion were finally alone.

You let out a heavy sigh.

“That was a lot,” Astarion joined you at your side.

“Wait, did you know those people?” you smirked at him.

“Vaguely,” he smirked back and caught you in a kiss. “At least I don’t have to hold back from doing that at camp now.” He held you close in his arms.

You sighed again and laid your head on his shoulder. “You were right. I didn’t realize so many of them felt something for me.”

“That seems to be because you block out the advances of others.”

You shoved him playfully. “How dare you turn my pitiful backstory against me.”

He smiled and held out his hand. “Come on, let’s go dismantle that ‘disgusting’ nest.” He did his best to impersonate Lae’zel on “disgusting.”

It made you laugh. “Okay.”

You took his hand and let him lead you through the trees back to the blankets and pillows that you’d spent the night on.

When you arrived, you picked up your shirt and bra, feeling mild embarrassment that the others had probably seen them and drawn (correct) conclusions. You removed Astarion’s shirt and threw it back at him, hitting him in the face and quickly covered your chest with your forearm.

Astarion laughed as his shirt fell into his awaiting hands. “Darling, you don’t have to hide from me,” he narrowed his eyes seductively. “I’ve already seen it all.” He tossed the shirt aside and made his way over to you.

“Feels different in the light of day,” you admitted self-consciously. “Worse, I guess.”

“Now, now,” he said, gently pulling your arm away from your chest, “let me see you in the daylight.” You allowed him to move your arm but didn’t look at him. “Lovely,” he breathed, and kissed you hard.

You inhaled in surprise, but immediately gave in and slipped your tongue into his mouth and your arms over his shoulders. His hand came up and began massaging your left breast, his icy touch sending a shock wave through you and making you moan.

Instantly, you pulled away and took a step back. “Careful,” you said as Astarion stared at you wide-eyed, his hand frozen in the air where he’d been palming your breast, “I thought you wanted to take things slow?”

He made a sound somewhere between a groan and a dry heave. “Stop being so nice to me,” he avoided your gaze. “It makes me want to… be nice back.”

“Gods forbid,” you laughed, and bent to pick up your bra which had fallen back amongst the pillows.

All of a sudden, you found yourself face down in the blankets, the wind knocked out of you and Astarion’s body weight pressed firmly on top of you.

“Astarion,” you wheezed, “what are you doing?”

His voice was sultry in your ear, “If you’ll remember, I said I wanted to take my time with you.”

Sexy as that was, you couldn’t breathe. You reached behind yourself and smacked Astarion’s back with your palm. “Living creatures need to breathe, idiot!”

“Oh,” he realized his error and rolled off of you. You had no time to adjust yourself before he flipped you over and hovered above you on his hands and knees.

You blew some hair out of your face, irritated. “Did you just tackle me like I was some sort of prey?”

“My dear, I would never,” he bowed his head and kissed your neck.

“And yet I find myself on the ground, even though I didn’t put myself here,” you tangled your hands in his hair, your voice wobbly.

“You’ve always been rather clumsy,” he murmured teasingly.

You took a deep breath and pushed him away. His lips were still puckered, making you giggle. “Shadowheart told us not to dally,” you reminded him. “And she threatened to kill you, what? Three times?”

“You forget that I’m already dead,” he smiled. “What’s another little death?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

You snorted. “Bad.”

“I thought that was rather clever, actually.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “We should really head back.”

Astarion whined and hung his head. “Let me have you again, woman!”

“But you said-”

“I know what I said!” He lifted his head and looked you in the eye. “And while I appreciate your concern, right now, I very much want to be inside of you again.”

You smiled cautiously. “Are you sure?”

He rolled his eyes and kissed you, lowering his body to roll his hips against yours and making his erection very obviously. You jolted at the unexpected sensation and he pulled back.

“Unless this is too much for you,” he searched your face for hesitancy. “You’re probably still sore and we don’t have to rush anything-”

You gripped the back of his head and tightened your fist into his curls. “Please,” you whispered, “fuck me again.”

A wicked grin bloomed on Astarion’s face and he kissed you passionately, rolling his hips against yours for friction. You moaned into his mouth, but he broke the kiss after only a few moments. “Like I said, love, I want to take my time with you.”

He rose up onto his knees and began untying the laces of your pants. You watched him intently and bit your lip as he removed them fully from your legs. He made quick work of his own and crawled back on top of you. His thumb hooked under your panties and his eyes met yours. You nodded and he pulled them down gently and discarded them close by. He then laid beside you, his eyes heavy with lust.

“Come here, precious thing,” he purred and you inched yourself closer to him. “Turn around,” he instructed. You gave him a confused half smile but did what he asked. He reached forward and pulled your hips back, causing you to feel his still-clothed cock against your ass.

“What are you doing?” you asked nervously.

Astarion chuckled. “Not that, fear not.” He kissed your shoulder as he slid his left arm under you and settled his hand on your lower stomach. A chill ran through you as he nuzzled his head onto your shoulder. “Fair warning,” you could hear the mischief in his voice as his right hand made itself known in front of your face. He wiggled his fingers in a delicate wave, then brought it down between your thighs.

A gasp escaped your throat when you felt his fingers swipe through your folds.

Astarion tilted his head and kissed your throat. “So wet already, darling.”

“You’re handsome,” you said by way of explanation.

He hummed against your shoulder and began to rub your clit. A shuddering breath left your mouth and your eyes fluttered shut. Astarion paused for a moment to lift your leg and hike it back over his. “This will feel good,” he said against your skin and dragged his fingers through your folds again before inserting a digit into your cunt.

You threw your head back in surprised pleasure, which made Astarion turn and nip at your ear. He began pumping and curling his finger slowly inside of you. Your breath caught when his thumb resumed its spot on your clit and whined when his finger inside of you hit a particularly sensitive spot. He adjusted his angle to hit it repeatedly.

“Astarion,” you moaned, your head clouded with nothing but ecstasy.

“Yes, my sweet, you’re gripping me so tight,” his voice was sensual in your ear. “Do you think you can take a little more?”

You nodded, your eyes shut tight.

“Words, darling.”

“Another…” you said breathily.

“Another what?”

Your voice was sing-songy. “Astarion, if you don’t put another finger in me right now, I’m leaving you.”

He laughed loudly before moving his mouth close to your ear again. “You like me too much.” Then he leaned up a little to catch your eye, his finger still pumping between your thighs. “Right?”

You smiled sympathetically, seeing your words had spooked him a little. You reached a hand up to cup his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere,” you clarified. “But I might kill you.”

“Got it,” Astarion dragged his index finger through your folds, then carefully added it to your cunt alongside his middle finger.

You exhaled, moving your hand down from his cheek to his hand resting on your stomach. You laced your fingers together and squeezed when he hit a particularly good spot, getting you to moan out an, “Oh, gods.”

“Like that?” He asked cockily, reaching and curling to hit the spot again.

“Yes, my love,” you sighed, grinning upwards with your eyes closed.

Behind you, you felt Astarion’s cock twitch.

Your eyes opened and you looked back at him.

He smiled back at you sheepishly. “It does that sometimes, darling. When something is particularly arousing.”

Your breaths were coming out short and keeping in time with the pumping of his fingers. “Was it… ‘my love?’”

Astarion let out a low moan and hid his face in your shoulder before reemerging and nodding. “Coming from you while you’re in the throes of passion with me is really… something.”

You laughed between whimpers. “My… loooooove,” you sang, squeezing his hand again. “Your fingers feel heavenly, my looooove.”

“Fuck this,” Astarion said, pulling his fingers out of you unceremoniously and curling you forward with his body so he could shimmy out of his underwear.

“What are you doing,” you winced and whined childishly, “I was so close!”

“Unfortunately, darling, if I’m not inside you within a matter of seconds, I’m going to lose it completely.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” you said, half dazed and still coming down from your almost climax.

You felt his hand bump your ass as he pumped his cock and you instantly went stiff. “You’re not going to…?”

Astarion let out a breathy laugh. “Oh, my sweet, you’re not nearly ready for something like that yet.”

A relieved sigh escaped you.

“We could always work our way up-”

“No, that’s okay,” you said quickly.

“There’s nothing wrong with-”

“No, of course not-”

“But we can-”

“Let’s not talk about this now,” you patted Astarion’s cheek.

“Understood,” he nodded and resumed pumping his cock. “Hook your leg back over mine, darling.” When you followed his instruction, he kissed your shoulder once more. You felt the head of his cock glide through your folds until it prodded at your entrance and you let out a shaky exhale. “Don’t be scared,” he muttered, squeezing your hand. “Are you ready?”

You inhaled. “Yes.”

Just as he had last night, Astarion was slow to enter you. This time you heard him whimpering with his mouth so close to your ear.

“Fuck,” he murmured, dragging his fangs from your shoulder to your neck, “still so tight.”

“Obviously,” you said, squeezing your eyes shut, but not feeling nearly as uncomfortable as you had the first time he’d entered you. You let out a satisfied exhale when his hips bumped your ass.

“Let me know what I can move,” Astarion said against your skin, his words barely recognizable.

“You can move,” you said almost immediately, reaching a hand up behind you and twisting it into Astarion’s hair. You moved it over a little to play with the tip of his ear.

He let out a loud groan and snapped his hips forward, probably with more force than he meant to. “Apologies,” he whispered, “that felt heavenly.”

“Keep going, my love,” you encouraged and he caught your eye with a seductive smile.

He continued to pump his cock into your dripping hole and brought his right hand down to your clit. He licked a stripe from your neck up to your ear. “You know, I really did intend to take my time with you just now,” he spoke lowly from the back of his throat. As if to illustrate his point, he slowed his hips to take long, languid strokes out, and then moved back into you at an equally slow pace. His thumb on your clit slowed as he disconnected his left hand from yours and brought it up to fondle your breast. He kissed up your shoulder to your neck sloppily and sucked on the fading bite marks from last night.

You moaned loudly, hooking your foot around his calf and tightening your fist in his hair. “We’d really be dallying, then,” you commented.

He made a frustrated noise. “Don’t even allude to the cleric right now,” he pulled away from your neck. “Unless it’s to tell me I’m a much better lover than her.” He snapped his hips into you, hard.

“I don’t have much of a reference, genius,” you responded breathlessly.

“Right,” he said, and picked up speed at your clit. His mouth returned to sucking on your throat.

“Oohhh,” you sighed. You let out a gasp when Astarion’s left hand pinched your nipple.

“You feel wonderful, my darling,” spit connected him to your neck.

“So do you,” you brought your hand up to cover Astarion’s that was kneading your breast. “You can bite me, if you want.”

He groaned loudly and bumped his nose against your jaw. “Well,” he said between thrusts, “if you insist.”

He kissed your throat before biting down, his hips instantly picking up speed.

The ice that shot into your veins was a shock as always, but melted into a fuzzy pleasure that had your eyes drooping in ecstasy.

Astarion took long pulls of your blood as he continued thrusting, circling your clit, and needing your breast. How he was keeping track of everything at once was beyond you in this pleasant, foggy state.

“Darling,” he pulled away suddenly, swallowing loudly and seemingly out of breath. “May I taste you as you come?”

Your tongue lolled to the side, but his voice snapped you out of it. You nodded up at him. “Yes, please.”

“What do you need?” He licked the wounds on your neck.

“As much as I’m enjoying you taking your time,” you said, “harder and faster.”

“Easy,” a cocky grin graced his face as a drop of your blood dripped down his chin.

His hips picked up a brutal pace that nearly had you reaching your peak, and he pressed further onto your clit, his tight circles picking up speed as well.

“Oh, Astarion,” you moaned loudly, reaching back again to grip his hair.

“Come for me, dearest,” he spoke softly against your throat, but loud enough that you could hear, “I want to hear you sing again. I want to taste how sweet your blood is when I make you cum on my cock.” He continued leaving sloppy kisses against your neck.

“I’m close,” you confirmed, your eyes shut tight and your body tensing.

“Go ahead, love, I’ve got you,” his hard thrusts were becoming uneven, but ever the professional, his voice remained mostly even. “You’re so tight and warm, thank you for letting me taste you.” He kissed your mouth. “Darling.” Another kiss. “Beloved.” One more. “Mine.”

You cried out as you fell over the edge, your cunt squeezing his cock repeatedly, only to cry out again as you felt Astarion’s fangs enter your neck once more.

“Astarion!” You shouted, squeezing his hand and pulling his hair and wrapping your shaking leg around his. Almost simultaneously, you felt Astarion spill inside you as he moaned your name loudly into your neck, his hips pulsing clumsily against you.

The sensation of him drawing your blood was still pleasantly fuzzy, but you could feel yourself becoming light headed. You tapped his arm twice, your signal for him to stop, and he pulled away, leaning his forehead against your temple and breathing heavily.

“Still cumming,” he groaned and clenched his teeth, his hips faltering in their rhythm.

After another moment, his body finally relaxed and he pulled you closer into his chest, catching his breath. “That was… amazing,” he sighed happily, leaning forward to lick the remaining blood from your neck. “If I knew blood could taste that good-” His voice trailed off. “Well, I’m sure I’d do something about it if I could.” He seemed pleased with his own answer and hummed contentedly behind you.

“I’m glad it was to your liking,” you said, looking back at him with a smile. He bent forward and kissed you happily. “I’m like a fine vintage,” you teased.

Astarion pursed his lips. “You’re far from vintage, darling, you’ll have to work on your wine related japes.”

You laughed and a comfortable silence fell between you. Astarion rested both of his hands on your stomach. Which growled suddenly.

“What’s that like?” He teased, licking a wayward drop of blood from the side of his mouth.

Your body tensed. “Oh gods, bread and cheese!”

Astarion blinked at you. “Are those some sort of new deities I’m not aware of, or-?”

“No, that’s what Gale said we’re having for lunch.”

“And that’s important because-?”

“Because we DALLIED and there’s a PARTY tonight and now Shadowheart is going to KILL us.”

“I see.” Astarion remained still, fixed in place. Then suddenly he was pulling out of you at a breakneck speed and reaching for his clothes.

You winced a little at the sensation but scrambled for your own clothes, wiping yourself down with the cloth Astarion provided again and got dressed in what was probably record time.

Incredibly, you both looked presentable.

“We do make a gorgeous pair,” Astarion cocked his hip and smirked at you, going in for a kiss.

You swatted him away. “Enough flirting, loverboy, we can talk about us later!” You started reaching for blankets and pillows.

“Us,” Astarion stood on the sidelines, testing out the word on his tongue. “I do so like the sound of that.”

“Help me, would you?” You threw a pile of blankets at him, hitting him in the face and blowing his hair back.

He groaned. “It should be a crime to rush after you’ve just made love to the most amazing woman.” He came up behind you and smacked your butt teasingly.

You stood up straight and tried to look angry. “We are going to die if we don’t head back right now.” Astarion wasn’t buying your anger, so you turned bashful. “You made loooove to me?” You clasped your hands together by your face. “You think I’m amaaaazing?” You twirled some of your hair for good measure.

Astarion sighed. “Be serious, woman, we’re going to die!” His voice was exasperated but he smirked at you. He bent to pick up more blankets and pillows and you did the same until you both had piles you could barely see over and nothing was left behind.

“Ugh, I’m going to have to do so much laundry,” you muttered. “Seriously, how did you manage bringing all this out here?”

“Well first, everything was folded neatly.”

“We don’t have time.”

“And second, multiple trips, darling.”

“We can’t afford to leave camp EVER again.”

Try as you might to rush back to camp, you still had to maneuver through a forest and be careful where you stepped. The pair of you moved as quickly as you could, which wasn’t as fast as was probably necessary to avoid Shadowheart’s ire.

“Soooo…” You broke the silence after a few moments.

“Gods,” Astarion rolled his eyes, “what?”

“‘My love,’ huh?” You waggled your eyebrows at him.

“What about it?”

“You liiiiiiked it,” you teased.

“I-” You could see that he thought about arguing but decided not to. “I’m not used to the pet names turned on me. It’s… nice.”

“You’re cute,” you said, looking over at him affectionately and nearly tripping over a tree root as a result.

Astarion snickered, then made his face serious. “I’m the furthest thing from cute. I’m a horrifying monster.” He lowered his voice as if that would back him up.

“Yeah, but you like being mushy.”

“I do not.”

“You do!” You moved closer to him and bumped his hip with your own. “You were so sweet to me yesterday. And just now.”

“It’s different with you,” he said quietly.

“Oh?” You raised your eyebrows.

“It’s… um… This is stupid, I hate it.” He tried to walk ahead of you but you caught up easily.

“No, no! Please.” You gave him a reassuring look. “I, of all people, will not judge you.”

He sighed. “It’s just… nice to feel like something is mine.” He was quick to correct, “Not that I own you but… I don’t know. You’re not a victim. Not a target. Not just… one night it’s better to forget. You’re something entirely new.”

You smiled over at him. “I like you too, weirdo.”

Astarion humphed. “Whatever.” He moved closer and bumped your hip with his own. The two of you shared a fond look, then turned back to the path ahead.

If Shadowheart was going to kill you, at least you’d die together.

You both quickened your pace to try and avoid that fate, but it was a lovely thought.

Soon, you began to make out the bright colors of your tents through the trees and the sound of your companions chatting by the fire.

You turned to Astarion. “See you on the other side.”

He nodded, determined. “It’s been a pleasure servicing you, darling.”

“I hope she kills you first.”

You shared a laugh before you took a calming breath.

And stepped into camp.

526 notes · View notes

arting-block · 8 months ago

Text

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

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

Summary: Recovery and revelations.

Genre: Romance, AU/Crossover

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

Words: 26.2K (yes you heard that correctly)

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

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

previous chapter |

[KAMPOT, CAMBODIA 24 YEARS AGO]

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

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

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

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

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

This is for her own good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The same warning, the same displeased look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But a planet would only take you so far.

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

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

A strong vessel, perfect for a powerful witch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— — —

[PRESENT]

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

It wasn't crippling, but always there.

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

Lighter. You feel lighter.

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

“Get comfortable. Don’t exert yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

Scattered thoughts pass through your mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why did you wish to leave?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re stuck.

Thump, thump, thump.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They each wave to you awkwardly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caution, you thought.

“Five days.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

Maybe you shattered your eardrum on the way here.

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

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

Truth, your body says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Understanding.

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

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

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

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

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

Breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— — —

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

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

“What was that for?” he demands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doctor, I think I found some—”

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

“Doctor would you please—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rory looked expectantly at the Doctor as well.

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

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

— — —

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

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

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

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

That certainly woke you up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? What did he mean by that?”

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

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

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

— — —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just how long has it been? Weeks? Months?

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

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

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

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

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

— — —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And very intriguing.

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

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

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

I want to go to med-bay.

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

You were still freaked out, but curiosity eventually won.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Martha” had grooves and was painted beige.

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

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

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

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

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

Your body has healed remarkably since your waking. Soreness ebbed to stiffness and the nerves damaged had slowly, but surely, been repaired. Your hands haven't had the same luxury as the rest of your body. Still stitching itself together. Deep lines along your veins that had barely been scabbed over. Even if weeks passed the Doctor believes it will take a year before your skin will finally close. Until then, gauze will cover them, keeping them safe from further damage.

You hope your body will pull itself together soon. Residue energy from your universe—though terribly unlikely—could help speed things up.

Air shifts behind you.

Confused, you turn to see the med-bay materialize, even though you didn’t summon it. Footsteps were heard behind the door and before you knew it, the door swung open.

The Doctor hung in the doorway, equally as confused.

“There’s a lot of doors out here. Gets kind of confusing,” you say, as if it was the perfect explanation to your whereabouts. You slipped past the Doctor and into the room.

The Doctor followed you, still utterly confused. “You could’ve at least told me you wanted to wander. You could get lost in there.”

“But I didn’t. It’s not that hard to figure out how to find your way back,” you say, plopping down on the squeakiest mattress. “Amy failed to mention how the TARDIS can warp space and is telepathic. Is it sentient? Did someone die here?”

A ghost, an emotional one especially, could explain the weird ship without delving into magic. Still spiritual, but not touching sorcerer territory.

“Kind of, and no. If you knew your way back, why did you take so long to return? I had to get the Ponds out there looking for you.” The Doctor grabs several rolls of gauze and some ointments.

You paused for a moment. Then, you answered honestly, “It was repetitive. I could walk for a mile and have the med-bay appear the second I command it.”

I didn’t feel lost.

For the first time in weeks—months even, you managed to entertain yourself without interruption. You had time to focus, shift your mind into a peaceful state. Even if it was temporary. You take any victory with stride, no matter how small.

The Doctor unravels your gauze with surprising carefulness. You don’t see him much on account of your sleeping habits and his tenacity to leave the TARDIS for long periods of time. In the rare glimpses you do see, the Doctor is erratic as much as he is smart. Constantly bumping into corners, fumbling instead of walking, always in motion even when seated.

It’s only when he engages in his namesake is when the Doctor is gentle and slow. Mumblings are few and his focused gaze is hidden behind his brown, wild hair.

When the entirety of your right arm is revealed, it’s still as raw and tender as yesterday. Most of your skin seemed to remain intact, save for the deep, exposing gashes along your veins. A burn describes skin that's peeled and blistered. A cut would aptly describe the wounds you have. It’s clean, burrowing deep into muscle like butter. It winds and twists around your arms, only stopping around your bicep. From there, the only damage you see is dark, almost purple markings that extend to the middle of your chest and back.

“It could be worse,” the Doctor notes, sincere and light-hearted.

A small chuckle escapes, but your words are dull. “It definitely feels worse.”

The Doctor reaches for the ointments, weird smelling pastes, and a saline solution. The saline is bottled in a dark, glass bottle written in a script that barely passes as English. After submerging a cotton round, the Doctor dabs the solution along the open wounds. Cold liquid cascades down, kissing the raw edges of your tissue. Up and up the cotton goes until all sides are discolored with flecks of blood and old ointments.

You don’t mind the silence this process brings. It’s never awkward or boring. The cleanings don’t burn or sting anymore and the Doctor’s focus allows you to observe him. A habit you’ve gotten since you were young, always cataloging features of the people around you. Doctors, policemen, civilians.

When the Doctor moves to get the next set of items, your eyes briefly meet. He doesn’t seem alarmed at your staring, even when he catches you often. He commented once how you often look at people more when they face away from you. You suppose he’s referring to the times where the Ponds interact with you. For a moment—perhaps for the first time—you really observed his eyes. A clear, muted green that easily slips into blue. The skin and features surrounding his eyes are young and prominent. It’s easy for his eyes to blend into his face and go unnoticed. But at this distance, you see him for who—what he is.

“You’re old.”

It’s a second too late and you realize how terribly you’ve worded your scattered thoughts.

The Doctor looked startled. He immediately turns to the reflective bottles beside him and twists his head around, capturing his features on all sides. Before you could take back your words and verbalize what you actually meant, he scoffs, never taking his eyes away from his reflection.

“Old? Me? Humans age, it’s natural, it’s supposed to happen.” You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or just rambling to himself. Then, he turns to you with concern, rubbing his throat. “It’s the neck isn’t it? Amy tells me that it’s the first place that starts to change. Or is it the hair? She tells me it doesn't suit me. Or was that Rory?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, trying to cut in before he misunderstands further. “I mean, sort of—I just mean that you’re older than you appear. You still look young, but you’re for sure older than us, the Ponds and I. You’re immortal. At the very least not human.”

Now that you’ve verbalized it, everything about the Doctor’s behavior and being makes sense. Apart from the odd clothing and overly loud personality, there’s something off about him. It really shows when the Ponds are also in the same room as him. It’s not scary or uncanny. So subtle that most wouldn’t be able to tell. But you’re not most.

It’s the misplaced, dated slang. The sense that he knows too much and isn’t afraid to show it. How he constantly refers to the Ponds as “people” but sometimes slips into “you humans”. It seems he catalogs every sensory input, from the subtle change in the air to the pumping of his heart, because his brain has the capacity to do so.

The sheer happiness radiating off the Doctor is infectious. His wide grin and twinkling eyes, joyous that you’ve caught on.

“What gave it away?” he wonders, an echo of childlike curiosity. He tilts his head, leans ever-so-slightly towards you.

It’s clearer now. The weight of centuries lingering in the depths of his iris. How could you have not noticed sooner? It’s familiar. Being an apprentice of the Ancient One; having spent countless months—maybe years—traveling between worlds where time is merely another dimension for you to alter. You’ve met and befriended a god whose age transcends the thousands and more so deities who have made you their sworn enemy.

You remember the first time you’ve met Rocket. How despite his appearance as a normal mammal, you could immediately spot his wisdom before he uttered a snarky question. The way the Collector carries himself and how his brother regards you as less than. But time always manifests. Maybe not in the grooves of one's skin or the white strands of hair, but in the eyes. Always.

“I’ve seen enough to know. You hide it better than most.”

The Doctor’s smile doesn’t fade. He still has your wrist in his hand, a gentle but firm grasp. When he squeezes it subconsciously, he finally remembers why he’s there with you.

Something crosses his face. A thought that makes his brow twitch and his focus falter. “And what are you?”

It shouldn’t surprise you that he asks. You survived a shock of radiation that would’ve no doubt vaporized any other being. Your body heals at an accelerated rate to the point where it takes less than a week for you to walk again.

It shouldn’t surprise you, but you’re caught off-guard nonetheless.

Your throat tightens, your tongue feeling like paper in your mouth. “I’m a person. With thoughts and feelings.”

The Doctor stares a moment longer. His lips settle into a more neutral state, and he thinks over your response. You wait for a response, but he turns away. He then grabs a tube of blue paste, the one that smells like burnt rice, and resumes his care.

You watch as his fingers glide over your hand. Starting with the middle of your palm and working his way out. To the lengths of your fingers, then the tops of your hand and up your forearm. The paste is dense and hard to manipulate. The tips of his finger catch on the sharp, dry flakes of skin and it stings.

His response is delayed, so much that you’ve returned to watching his work on your arm in deep thought. When the Doctor speaks in a calm, observant voice, it glides through the silence. “You used the word ‘person’. Not ‘human’ or some snide comment that humans normally respond to when asked. Your first thought was to make me emphasize, to humanize yourself without saying it.”

The Doctor’s analysis cuts straight through you, pinning you in place. The way he says it is so matter-of-fact, as if reading from a book that is lying in front of him.

To have the observation made by someone you know little about—

Your answer is rushed, almost shamed. “It’s just that…some people seem to forget. They’re more concerned about what I can do for them, feelings are second.”

You couldn’t blame the masters for doing so. You often took the hardest jobs, throwing away your childhood one mission at a time. Perhaps it was easier to treat you as a powerful soldier, pushing you to your absolute limits, because it’s easier than acknowledging that they’re enabling your suffering.

The Doctor doesn’t comment or try to analyze the words you say. Fresh gauze winds itself securely back onto your wounds. Your left arm was cleaned and wrapped at the fraction of the time it took your right. At the speed he was going, the Doctor still made sure to not harm you further.

You don’t say anything when he piles the glass bottles into a drawer next to the sink. Nor do you acknowledge him when he goes towards the door. You feel his heavy stare and the questions that hang in the air.

You don’t move from your spot until long after his footsteps fade away.

— — —

In your travels you’ve come to know two things. One: you do exist in other universes. Two: none of them are sorcerers. None of them get their magic. They all seem to live ordinary lives, plagued with little threat, and return to their homes safe and sound. Sometimes there’s trouble in the form of being late to appointments or the forgetting of pants. It’s a break from fighting demons in realms without time. Perhaps you offer alternate versions of yourself fantastical dreams. In return you get to live out a life where you chose differently.

You’ve come to treasure these dreams. It was a break from the norm. So when you start to lie down and the TARDIS lights dim, it wasn’t dreams you were experiencing.

Instead of the normal dreams, ones where you live vicariously through the various alternate lives that you have, you have memories. Exact recreations. No autonomy; nothing you can do but simply watch.

— — —

Guilt festers. It grows and grows until you can do nothing but wallow in your anger. Anger is new. What used to be bottomless sadness that leaves you heavy has now been replaced by bubbling rage.

You’re glad no one on board shares your gift of sensing energy. Behind every neutral look, every small grin, every dry-humored joke were storms of emotion. It hurts, physically pains you that you allow your grief to evolve.

You deserve it. All of it.

There was a point in time where the voice in your head sounded like yours. Then your mother’s.

Wanda now whispers, her voice echoing in your ear like nails on a chalkboard.

— — —

There’s a pattern to the dreams—memories, rather.

If one night you experience a pleasant, mundane sliver of your life, the next will be filled with agony. Sometimes you’re lucky, and get a dreamless rest. But those are few and far between.

You’re not in bed, lying on a dingy cot that squeaks with any miniscule movement. Glowing orange walls are replaced with light green paint and white trim. Disinfectant morphs to a sweet, ambery vanilla from the candles your mother collects.

The air is warm with the bristling of energy, and sunlight caresses every surface in the living room.

You shouldn’t be here.

“Are you okay?”

A childish voice, one that rings through the air, in the silence of your thoughts.

Snapping your head down, you meet the scrutinous gaze of your younger brother. Younger than you remember when you’d seen him last. He sits on the old Persian carpet your father loves dearly. No one is allowed to play on the good carpets, lest they ruin the intricate design underneath. Elio sits with his trucks and action figures scattered around him.

But your parents are away and you let him play as long as you’re watching.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m just tired from traveling. Probably be even more tired when I go back to the Sanctum.”

“You’re leaving again.”

You feel his pain before his face betrays him. He knows it, hiding his eyes as he stares at the dozens of toys lying around him. Too many for one boy to play with.

You were gone for three months, trapped in a universe that is comparable to Hell on Earth. Nearly missed your father’s birthday and Master Hamir’s annual potluck; the latter you don’t really care as much.

No matter how sore your body is or how much work awaits you at your office, you make it a point to see your family after each mission. Always.

“Not for a few hours at least. Seems like you’re stuck with me.”

For someone who’s age hasn’t passed the double digits, Elio doesn’t let his emotions show. You don’t blame him. Since you’ve gotten promoted, your visits have gotten shorter and shorter. Soon, you’re going to be regarded as just another adult in his life.

No. You already are. The Elio in front of you is not the one you’d left behind once more.

The floorboards creak, signaling the arrival of another member of the family. A pink ball of energy, with a fury that rivals your own.

“Elio! I told you not to take my stuff!”

Lene’s shrill, whiny voice is almost jarring against the silence of the estate. Her puffy cheeks and wrinkled princess gown makes it known that she had just woken up.

Elio doesn’t bother to look up from his toys. He responds in a calmer manner than his younger sister, “(Y/N) said I could play with your toys as long as you were still asleep.”

At the mention of your name, Lene freezes. Her face was so full of surprise that her eyes bulged out of her head.

You’re situated on a couch right beside the entrance of the living room, yet Lene’s face morphs into shock at you. As if she’s seeing you for the first time.

“I thought you left already,” she mumbles, her gaze wide and unmoving.

You stare back, unsure of how she would react.

And react she did. Not a second later, her nose scrunches up and tears begin to form. “Does…Does that mean—”

Lene couldn’t finish her sentence before a sob escaped her. Tears that are almost comically big started to bead off her eyes in droplets. Her shrill voice got louder with each cry. Immediately, you scrambled on the floor to embrace the small girl. Her tiny hands wrapped around you and you feel your shirt getting damp.

“I’m not leaving for a while, okay?” you cooed softly in her ear. Scooping her up in your arms, you start to rock her, holding her tightly. “(Y/N) is gonna leave tomorrow morning, so that means you have the rest of the day with me!”

Your words did nothing but make your sister sob even harder into your chest. You can barely make out her words between each hiccup. “I-I already sl-slept all d-day!”

Glancing up at the window, you can see the sun making its descent.

Not again.

“I’m gonna visit again soon, you’ll see me again,” you promised, trying to speak over her wails. Still, it feels empty when you say it. “Mommy and Daddy will come home soon and you can ask them to visit me in Nepal. Or what about New York? Don’t you wanna see New York?”

If it wasn’t for the fact that Lene is burying her face in your shirt to muffle her cries, you would for sure lose hearing in one ear. She shakes her head violently, gripping onto you tighter.

You rock and bounce, still remembering the motions when she was just a small baby. You still see her as such, even now that she’s bigger than most kids her age.

Her cries mellow into loud hiccups and her pudgy fingers grip onto your crisp shirt like a vice. You feel the wet patch where her tears fell, but you continue to rock her in your arms.

“Are you really gonna leave tomorrow?”

You almost didn’t catch what Elio said. His voice sounded so small. Far away. His face is downcast, picking at the fibers of the rug beneath him.

“He misses you a lot, you know. Looks up to you, more than anyone else.”

Your father’s disappointment hits you hard. As stoic as Elio always seems to be, you know how much you mean to him. How much he means to you. How you fight tooth and nail to make it home for the holidays, birthdays, and everything in between.

To the world you’re Seraph. The Burning One. Master of the Mystic Arts.

It’s hard to see yourself as anything other than that.

It was difficult to maneuver on the floor with a crying child in your arms, but you managed to lie down on your back next to your brother. Lene’s cries dwindled to violent hiccups as she curled up on your side. You turn your head towards your brother who avoids your stare. Stubborn. You pat the empty space next to you.

Elio hesitates. For a moment, he stays rooted in his spot, contemplating. At this angle, you can clearly see the hurt on his face. Can feel the hurt. A constant stream of deep longing that pours and weaves between the space of spiritual and physical. Between dream and reality.

With the wobble of his lip, Elio scoots to your empty side and hugs you tightly. The river of emotions is more intense, almost washing over you. It didn’t take long for his tears to follow. It's a silent cry, one that shakes his body but no noise escapes.

His grip is tighter, his hold on your bruising. The lack of outward passion and vigor doesn't diminish the intensity of his feelings. More so than the normal person.

It's why he doesn't run to greet you at the door anymore. Why he tends to play next to you rather than with you.

You don't know whether he naturally keeps his emotions to himself, or if it's something he learned from you.

“They don't want a hero,” your mother once snarled at you. Her wrinkled eyes would pierce through you, full of hurt. “You're their sister. Act like it.”

You don’t remember how long you stayed on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Your shirt was drenched with tears, spit, and snot but you didn’t move or push them away. If anything, you pulled them tighter against you.

You didn’t cry. Your chest didn’t ache nor did your stomach cramp from the guilt. You can’t allow yourself to. If you keep crying helplessly whenever you leave, it will only hurt you more.

By the time the sun dipped past the horizon, your two siblings had long exhausted themselves. You wait an hour more before gently carrying them up to their rooms. With a help of some magic, you managed to tuck them in their beds without so much as a single stir.

A buzz came from your phone, along with it a sense of dread.

Master Rokda: The Elders request a debrief of your mission on Earth 75-C. Do not keep them waiting.

When you meet your parents at the front door, they don’t comment on the fact that you’ve put on your sorcerer attire. You promised to be gone for an hour and be back for dinner.

You pretend not to notice the crestfallen expression of your father or the lack of emotion from your mother.

— — —

Energy still fires in your blood. Taunting you.

You should try. The very least you could do is try to harness the power you absorbed.

It’s easier to move now that most of your body has healed. Sleep is now in tune with your circadian rhythm meaning you can stay awake for longer. Your hands are still tightly bound with gauze with only your fingers being exposed. The Doctor replaces the wrappings everyday so you can clean and examine the progress.

The Doctor had warned you that your arms wouldn’t heal the same, even with the technology he possessed.

You shake your head, clearing unnecessary thoughts.

Try. That’s all you have to do.

Taking a deep breath, you perform some basic maneuvers that maximize the flow of energy throughout your body. Stiffness in your legs and arms are expected, but the strain is difficult to push through. Your muscles still remember the placement of your arms, the amount of force with each step, the way your lungs expand in your chest.

Your body is used to taking. Greedily absorbing any energy you come into contact with. It’s hard to reverse what you’re used to. To release rather than to hoard.

The power of the stones sits stubbornly in your body and around your soul. Once frenzied and bubbled, the energy slowly settled as the days passed. Burrowing deeper, melting into any space between your cells.

You feel your body warm up. Heartbeats quicken and your breathing gets deeper. Your tempo doesn’t change, only the force behind each punch and step. Again. Again. Again. You focus on precision. Every valve of your heart, every cell moving in your body. The way your nerves spark and burn around your arms, down your spine, surrounding you.

Again.

It’s slow at first. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. A flow of heat blooming from your soul, bleeding into your physical body. Streams of static curl alongside the blood flowing, and it creates a strain against your movements.

As if something’s holding you back.

Fluid movements slow. Muscles start tightening as the stones’ power solidifies. No longer a scalding plasma, but a physical force that locks your body.

Again.

Muscles beneath your skin grow taut. Sweat accumulates, forming a film around you.

Again.

It’s starting to hurt. The fluid precision is slowly morphing to choppy, erratic motions.

Aga—

The tension wins out against your body, locking you in place. You drop to the floor, gasping as your knees knock painfully on the floor. All at once you cease movement; not even able to twist your neck or limbs.

You’re trapped.

You can’t move. You can’t move. You can’t move.

All at once, the orange walls turn into the familiar grasslands of Wakanda. It’s hot. It hurts.

A scent that is so sickeningly sweet and leathery that hangs in the air like thick smoke. It mingles with the ash on your clothes and you can’t breathe.

Screaming. You hear it in front of you. Around you.

Breathe breathe breathe—

You can feel it—God you can taste it. Your own flesh searing off. It’s in your mouth, all over your body. You can’t breathe. Why can’t you breathe? Why can’t you move?

You don't see the old creaky cot you’ve been sleeping in or the mirror next to the porcelain sink. You’re still on the field—no in the jungle. It hurts, it burns, everything is killing you.

I want to leave. I want to leave. I want to leave—

The air hums with energy. The floor rattles and shakes. Someone’s—something’s panicking.

Your body caves in on itself and your cheek smashes against cold flooring.

You feel the strong pulses of energy flowing beneath you. It’s erratic. Alive. Your body tries to siphon it off. No, that’s not right.

The energy is coming to you. It’s warm. Your hand reaches out, trying to meet it halfway.

You see the door slam open, a rush of voices, and a burst of emotions mingling with the warmth.

“You’re not meant for this.”

A voice. Familiar. It’s angry, bleeding with disdain and hurt.

“Can’t you see this is killing you?”

Your mother’s voice sounds so clear. You miss her. Even if most of the words you spare to each other are angry.

“Give up. Give up everything. This life isn’t meant for you.”

No. No it wasn’t.

Only when you closed your eyes, and your consciousness slipped away, is when the taste of your flesh finally leaves your mouth.

— — —

When you finally came to, it had only been a few hours since the Doctor had found you on the floor.

He had parked the TARDIS beside the Ponds’ house, hoping to pick them up from their family reunion. The moment the three of them entered the console room did the TARDIS suddenly start acting up. Lights around the room started to flicker and the room seemed to pulsate with urgency.

It wasn’t long before the med-bay materialized and the Doctor found you lying on the ground.

There was a dazed look in your eyes, as if you were caught in a dream-like trance. Only when the Doctor came did the TARDIS return to normal.

A quick scan of your body revealed nothing out of the ordinary. A temporary paralysis brought out by excessive movement. Or so the Doctor says based on what you told him.

You were trying to gain movement back and became engrossed in your exercise. Not an outright lie, but you didn’t want to remember what transpired.

You’re tired and you make it known.

Thankfully, no dreams come to haunt you. Or the night after that.

— — —

A full week has passed. At least, according to Rory. It certainly felt longer.

You’re glad they respected your space and need to grieve silently.

You reap what you sow.

Today the voice is the sweet, gentle cadence of your mentor. Late mentor.

Yesterday the memory was of an afternoon brunch with Stephen and Wong. Warm pasta with the side of your favorite juice. A rare day when the three of you forgo the sorcerer attire and wear something casual. Of course, you and Stephen transmutate your robes into jeans and a sweatshirt. Wong tends to spend his limited paycheck on “real clothing”.

It’s only fitting that tonight’s memory is a violent contrast to yesterday’s serene moment.

You knew it wasn’t real. All of this. The blood, the panic, the body, was all just a cocktail of chemicals made by your brain.

You’re fine. You’re in bed, you’re safe.

The Ancient One lies a few feet from you. Her golden robes slowly turned a dark crimson from the gaping wound in her stomach.

You’re screaming. The air cuts your throat, your lungs burn with the force you exert. An ear-splitting screech that pulls your entire body with it.

Everything feels sluggish as you desperately try to crawl towards her. Your hand tries to stop the bleeding but the wound cuts through her whole body. The blood is cold, gushing around your trembling hands. You can’t stop shaking.

Something in the air crackles. A twisting feeling in your chest.

“Does it pain you?” Kaecilius asked, bent down to the other side of the Ancient One’s body. In his hand was a bloodied time shard.

You can’t force a word out. Pitiful sobs leave you; tears slide onto the sickly skin of the Ancient One’s forehead. Every shuddering breath makes it harder to control your body. The Ancient One’s skin is cold, infecting your skin with chills. Why is it so hard to breathe?

It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s—

Kaecilius hovers above you while the other Zealots stand by awaiting orders.

No other master is around to help you. They’re guarding the Sanctums while the Ancient One tracked her former student.

Except they knew you were coming. They knew that the Ancient One would try to fight Kaecilius one-on-one.

She made you wait with the other Masters in the Hong Kong Sanctum, but something in your gut told you something was wrong. A cold feeling that spreads all over your body.

It was too late.

Kaecilius knew you would come. He aimed the very shard in his hand towards you.

He knew the Ancient One would come to block it.

Your hand trembles in a way that makes you angry—boiling with rage.

“I’ve heard many stories about you. How the Ancient One sends you away on long, grueling missions into the multiverse. How she makes you take powers from dimensions above without indulging the true secrets to her powers.” Kaecilius gently raises your chin upwards, forcing your eyes to lock. “You can be something greater. Join us and together we could bring Dormammu to Earth. He is a savior. Our savior against time. Against death.”

At this distance, you can see the flecks of brown in his light blue eyes. No regret whatsoever for the deaths and damage caused by his selfish actions.

There’s a sharp sting where your nails dig into your palms. Suddenly, everything hushed. The crushing despair and endless anger swirl in your chest.

“What are you going to do about it, Seraph?” Kaecilius taunts.

Your body jerks awake, chest still struggling to inhale.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Glancing at the metal plating of the ceiling, you reminded yourself of where you were. Not in one of the Sanctums, or your lush room in Kamar Taj, or your room in your parent’s house. You’re a very long way away.

You throw the blankets off your clammy skin. It’s cold, unbearably so. Every hair along your body stands and your skin rises with it.

Forcing your body upright was a feat in itself. Your limbs are still numb with sleep and your head throbbed in pain. Bringing your hands to your temples, you tried to stop the panic rising or spreading to your head. The last thing you need is to lose focus.

He’s gone.

Dead, along with the others. You made sure of that.

You took a long, deep breath. The stitches along your ribs throbbed as your skin stretched. You let the breath go with a shudder. Repeating the process again, this time with less resistance. Again, again, again until you can stop the shaking.

Control yourself.

Fear would only make you vulnerable. Others could die by your inability to control it so you smother the fear, the panic, the guilt until there’s only an ache left behind. A cavernous hole in your chest that weighs you down.

The room is suffocating, the walls are too close, you can still smell the blood—

You need air. Real air. Not the recycled stuff coming out of the vents. Rising out of bed, you try to find some way out.

In your unrest you always find yourself wandering down the corridors of the living machine. Endless halls, geometric interiors. An almost sentient being confined in a box of wires and metal.

Although you are in the depths of space, the TARDIS tries to mimic night on Earth with its lack of lighting.

Your vision is hazy and grainy, greatly increasing the risk of your tripping over. Placing your hand on the wall, you let the worn pads of your finger feel the traces of the TARDIS circuitry. Energy, old and powerful, dances beneath the wires and metal. As if to sense your apprehension, the walls slowly glowed a soft orange.

“Thank you,” a hoarse whisper of appreciation. Your throat is still dry and swollen.

Warmth envelops your spine and the rhythmic pulsing of energy beneath your fingers. A thanks back.

With each step you take, the more your body seems to wake. Keeping your fingers on the wall, you let the TARDIS be your guide. There’s no words communicated between you, just instinct and feeling.

The hallway is short, only one soft turn at the other end. You can hear a faint clattering of metal just beyond.

It takes you a long while before you reach the entrance of the console room. A wide room with various lights, colorful wires, meta, and glass. At the center of it all, a large contraption with a mix-match of levers, knobs, and buttons. It was unlike any spacecraft you’d ever encountered, and you’d seen many. You were sure Rocket would curse at the lack of standardized spacecraft mechanisms.

Beside the entrance of the room—the front door to the TARDIS—was a large hole filled with more wires and more circuitry. You try to stay as quiet as you can so as to not disturb whoever was tinkering. As you approached the hole, to your surprise there was no one inside.

The air shifted behind you.

“Can’t sleep?”

Spinning around you were face to face with the Doctor; in his hands a wrench and some alien-looking parts.

“You scared the fuck out of me,” you grit, loud enough for the Doctor to hear.

“Hey, what did I tell you about that, hm? No cursing. My box, my rules.” The Doctor passed you and tentatively stepped into the abyss of wires. The hole was only chest deep, but he bent down so he could fully disappear.

You followed him to the edge, but didn’t step inside.

Sensing your staring, the Doctor turns slightly towards you, locking eyes for a moment. Turning back around, he unscrews a few bolts. “Are your arms bothering you again? I have some medicine stocked up in the back of the cabinet next to the sink.”

Sitting down, bringing your knees to your chin. Phantom pains still come and go, especially after a rough night of sleep. No doubt the Doctor put two and two together.

You pick at the exposed wires jutting out. The rubber casing rolling between your thumb and pointer. Bright red. The color of your robes, the color of blood. “You’re right, can’t sleep. I should be too old for nightmares and yet, here I am.”

The Doctor stops his tinkering, standing upright so he can peek up at you. Pity clearly displayed. You try not to scowl.

“No one’s too old for them. Dreams are a reflection of your life. Nightmares, as much as we hate them, do have their purpose.”

You grunt, half agreeing. Because to him, dreams are nothing more than a cocktail of bad memories and hyper-active imagination. Nothing you say will change that.

So you wipe away the discomfort, the guilt that bleeds into anger. You remember why you left your room in the first place.

“I’ve been walking on my own for a while now. A week at least.” You continue to roll the wires and pick at the copper sticking out. You feel the Doctor’s eyes on you, but you don’t mind him.

The Doctor catches on to what you’re implying. “You want to go outside. On Earth?”

You shake your head. Because what good would it do to bring you to an empty imitation of the real thing? “I don’t mind going on a different planet. I just…I’m starting to go a bit crazy walking down the maze outside my room.”

“Thought you liked walking aimlessly for hours on end,” the Doctor says, leaning against the edge. His voice balances along the edge of teasing. “I have a box that travels through space and time. Anything you want—anywhere you want, I can take you. Any historical figure, any future figure. We can go to the first pizza shop, y’know because you’re from New York.”

A breath of a laugh escapes. “Very observant of you Doctor. Truth be told, I don’t want to get back to Earth. Not for a while at least.”

You try not to think about what you left behind.

They’re resilient, you often have to remind yourself, They will survive. They have to.

The Doctor, either choosing to ignore your sullen words or just happy to have the chance to show you something new and fun, immediately gets out of the man-made hole with a broad smile. His hand, warm and inviting, takes yours and sweeps you off your feet. Giddy and mischievous, the Doctor tugs you along to the convoluted and intricate console.

You’ve peered at it a few times, often when you perched yourself atop the staircase or in passing when walking through the TARDIS. Never this close.

Knobs, dials, metal, plastic, glass, and other random items welded or bolted together. Either true engineering feat or complete nightmare, you don’t know. The way the Doctor immediately goes to press buttons and pull levers at such a speed to where there’s a gentle breeze when he zips past you is fascinating to see. The more you look, the more puzzling the mechanisms. Do your eyes deceive you or are you looking at a rotary phone that is bolted to the side of the console?

“Time and space, all within our grasp.” The Doctor rushes to your side and whips out a swiveling monitor and a mechanical keyboard. “Since it’s your first time traveling, I do have to lay down a few ground rules. Firstly, do not wander off no matter how many times Amy encourages you to.”

The Doctor types out something on his keyboard, the monitor displaying characters in some alien language. Pictures of a planet and charts of data appear along with some notes.

“Two, never ever drink what’s being offered. More often than not it’s going to make you puke and have an aneurysm.” The Doctor spins around to smack and pull whatever’s in front of him. All of which is nonsense in your eyes. When he turns back to you, his gaze is serious and his finger points between your eyes. “Third, the most important. Always have fun!”

A lever with a cherry red handle is pulled down and the room shakes with energy. The TARDIS pulses, sings with power that flows and ebbs in the air.

Your hands clumsily find purchase on the edge of the console, bracing as the shaking worsens. The sparks of energy lap at your skin and trickle into your flesh. Warm, tantalizing energy that makes you feel rather than empower.

The TARDIS is alive.

As if reading your jumbled thoughts, the energy pools toward you. Caressing your shaking body, enveloping you in a comforting hug. It doesn’t seep into your body and get absorbed by you, but simply hovers.

When the shaking ceased, only then did the energy rippled in the air, settling to a stillness once more.

— — —

The door to the outside opens, and the bright light from a foreign sun momentarily stuns you. First, you feel the crisp air kissing your face. Next come the smells of dirt, ocean, and salt. Shouts of street vendors, ships docking in the bay, and children laughing.

You open your eyes and the light settles. Colors bloom into your vision with colorful signs, exotic tapestry, and anything that could possibly be eaten or made being sold in crowded huts. Clear, open blue sky and buildings that remind you of the bustling coast of Greece. Vendors of varying species, colors, and size all hustle anyone walking in hopes to purchase their goods. An entire city, alive and thriving off the coast of a foreign land on a planet across the Milky-Way.

“The Veskarla Markets from the planet Tresh,” the Doctor says with pure delight, “Haven’t been here in centuries. Met their queen once, she was a very nice lady. Though, she would later put a nasty bounty on me. It’s not my fault that I didn’t know chickens were seen as a declaration of war.”

Amy steps in next to him, observing the scene in front of her. “You really start cracking open history books before going to places. Would save us from all the trouble you keep bringing.”

The Doctor sniffs, fixing his tie. “Reading history is not my style. No, I would much rather experience history rather than think about it from a dingy old book. It’s good for you.”

You ignore the chatter, focusing on securing the black leather gloves you nabbed from one of the costume closets. The cloak you adorn is light with breathable cotton and slightly bigger on you. The color of the midnight sky, swallowing you from head to toe. A stark contrast to the lively colors that surround you.

Taking in a deep inhale, you relish in the soothing the air gives your lungs. The stuffy ventilation from the TARDIS is slowly leaving your body.

“Now remember,” the Doctor warns, pointing between the Ponds. “Stick together. We have fresh meat here with us and I don’t want to get into another nasty skirmish with Treshian royalty. No adventures today. Just simple, fun leisure.”

Rory scoffs, “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

Amy skips over to you and links up your arms. “You boys get more food and supplies. We’ll venture in the markets.”

The two men nod and scurry away into the depths of the city. The Doctor excitedly mouths off any fact he can remember about Treshian wildlife while Rory tries to read off a supplies list. It took only a few seconds before a current of people swept them out of your sight.

You look back at the tall blue box that is parked in a very obvious area. It sat snugly beside two open restaurants facing the main road.

“Wouldn’t someone notice the TARDIS there?” you ask, pointing at the very conspicuous timecraft.

Amy waves her hand dismissively. “Trust me, the Doctor left it parked outside Buckingham Palace when Queen Victoria first ascended the throne. If no one on the streets of London cared, I think we’re safe here.”

That was another thing you were getting used to. The jarring recounts of time-travel that slip into every conversation. A part of you still doesn’t believe their stories or the figures they’ve met. You’re glad that the Doctor decided to simply travel through space rather than time; the mere idea of time-travel feels taboo to even think about.

Weaving through the sea of people is difficult when Amy is speed walking effortlessly, practically tugging you by the arm. Your steps, whether it be from the lack of exercise or grogginess, are far less graceful. A few times your boot hits a stay cobblestone or your shoulder roughly hits a pedestrian. Somehow, you manage to stay linked with Amy.

“Two fish! Great price, the best in the galaxy!”

A vendor with purple hyde and jagged yellow teeth shove two fish in your vision. His many eyes on his face stare expectantly. You peek around the cramped shop, eyeing the walls of fishing rods and weathered nets. Clear basins filled with various marine life are tucked beside the vendor. All the colorful fish were clearly displayed, while the ordinary ones were stored in the depths of the shop.

Before you could utter a reply, Amy manages to haul your body down the block. You force your stiff legs to carry you faster until you’re walking in tandem.

“That vendor—Did he speak English? How come I can read the signs posted?” Your eyes follow the cluttered wooden huts and their weathered signs. On a different planet with various species that no doubt immigrated here, there should be shouting in different languages and tongues.

Amy laughs, bumping her shoulder with yours. “The Doctor didn’t explain? Typical. I can’t explain in detail, but the TARDIS can go into your brain and translate everything for you. Words, shouts, anything really.”

Everything you learn about the TARDIS, both from your own observation and tidbits of what others tell you, makes your decades of knowledge of the arcane feel rudimentary. Science that borders on sorcery would be revolutionary back home. A strange universe indeed.

The two of you continue down the single street along the edge of the city. Vendors continue to shout and shove. There seemed to be an endless, unbreaking street with hoards of people acting as a current to pull you through. The worn shoes you hastily put on were not ideal for walking. The tough soles of your boots feel more stone than rubber. You don’t complain, having needed the exercise after essentially being a human vegetable for a week.

You quickly realized that Amy was looking to do more personal shopping rather than gather items from the Doctor’s supply list. Each shop you stopped inside was ornate and featured odd trinkets. While Amy converses with the vendors, you tend to hover behind like a shadow.

For an intergalactic merchant hub, Veskarla lacked any shops for weapons or machinery. From the hundreds of shops you’ve passed through, there only seemed to be fish, jewelry, or clothes for sale. Any knives being showcased were for decoration only, often using shells for the blade and gold plated wood. Perhaps there was a different district that handled metal and tools.

After passing by a myriad of fish sellers and net makers, Amy finally stops by a large shop. It’s lavish with teal paint and gold trim around the frames of the large glass windows. Large, chunky pearl necklaces the color of iridescent snow enticed your eyes.

Amy lets out a low whistle, taking in the shiny entrance. “It doesn’t hurt to take a peek, right?”

Amy’s sight has caught a beautiful bracelet made from pearls and gold. In fact, the entirety of the shop is dripping with dazzling gems and shiny trinkets. What made the pearls and gold special is that it lets out a twinkling sound whenever there is a breeze passing by. You seemed to have entered a more wealthy part of the markets as now the crowd has dwindled to about half than it was before. The people around you have more intricate clothing with gems and pearls sewn into them. Vesklara is a city of seafood and jewels, judging from how even the lower income district of the town seemed to also carry these goods, albeit at a lower quality.

Immersed in the distinctions between Orthalian gold or Treshian silver, Amy doesn’t notice your wandering gaze. While the crowd had certainly diminished, it doesn’t mean there wasn’t a myriad of beings still pushing their way through the markets. Very little seemed to interest you. Most of the items sold were nothing you haven’t seen before.

After taking a glance around the store, you ended up going back outside. A warm breeze brushed over you, carrying the smell of the sea with it.

You were glad to have a change in scenery. The nightmare that befell you hours before is now at the back of your mind. Being grounded, tethered to a living, thriving city with people and stone to stand on brings an ease back to your body. It doesn’t replace the electric hum of the atmosphere back home, but it does allow you to feel connected to the space around you. You feel the rush of excitement, the displeased customers, the swell of pride for a city that is the crowned jewel of Tresh. So caught up in your musing, you almost failed to hear the stall across from you, across the sea of beings.

A boy, whose back faces you is pleading with a grumpy vendor. His clothes are dirty and ragged with spindly limbs and matted hair. You peer over to Amy, to see her still obsessing over the bracelets.

Without a second thought, you cross between the crowds of people. Limbs and pointed joints shove into your body, but you force yourself through. When you exit out of it, you find yourself next to the small boy. You can see just how frayed the edges of his shirt are. How the deep blue skin in his legs and arms are smeared with dirt and scrapes. His long black braid has leaves sticking out of it.

“Please sir. Just let me try once,” the boy, who looked no older than ten, asks pitfully. “I’ve been saving for a while now and—”

The vendor grunts out, slamming his fist against the wooden counter. “How many times do I have to tell you boy? We don’t serve your kind here.”

You see how the boy’s face crumpled. His shoulders cave and his lip wobbled. “Please…just once. If I lose, then you will never hear from me again.”

The vendor laughs at that. Cruel and full of teeth. You step back to see what the man is selling—or rather promoting.

Proto’s Festivities! Try Your Luck or Buy Trying!

Three red targets are parched behind the counter, similar to ones in amusement parks. There’s scratches and indents, but more so on the wall behind them. When you look to the side, you see a stack of daggers hanging from the wall, blunt from repeated use. What really caught your attention was the ornate items dangling from the ceiling. Pearl necklaces, polished leather shoes, and laced fabrics encased in gold.

“Can I help you lady?”

Your attention snaps to the large alien who stands behind the counter. His face looked like an unholy union between a pig and a snake; reptilian eyes and mouth with a large snout placed in between. The collar of his shirt is stained with grease and the purplish hue of his skin glistened with sweat.

Proto towers above you with a questioning gaze.

“Do you serve humans?” you ask, sharper than you realized.

Proto’s beady yellow eyes scan you from head to toe. A noise, something akin to a snarl, emits from his throat. Scratching at his chin, he answers, “Not my preferred customer. But I suppose money is money.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Then let me play in place of the boy.”

The child’s eyes widened, mouth agape. He takes a small step towards you, a small look of hope graces his features. “Y-You would do that?”

Proto lets out another laugh, louder than the first. It drones on for a few seconds longer than necessary, and he goes to wipe his eye with a pudgy finger. He wheezes, “You—ha—You’re gonna play for him, yeah? You and your tiny human form? Is this a joke?”

You reach out your hand towards the boy expectantly. His hold on the gold coins in his hands tightens, just for a moment. Then, he relinquishes his hold, placing the heavy currency on your palm. The leather in your gloves squeaks when you close your hand.

Slamming the coins down on the counter, you cease the light-hearted attitude of Proto. “The goal is to hit the targets, correct? Money is money. Let me play.”

Proto’s eyes narrow at you in suspicion. Picking up one of the three coins, he holds it up to his face, inspecting every groove minted on the metal. Once he deems the coins genuine, he looks at you with wickedness on his face. A grin that shows the rows of teeth caked in plaque.

His hand reaches for the knives hanging on the wall, picking off the shortest and dullest ones from the set. His face inches towards yours with a condescending grin. “Yes, you simply hit the targets and your efforts will be rewarded. Simple as that.”

There’s a concerning amount of insincerity dripping from his voice; glee and dishonesty practically oozing from every word. Proto slides the knives to you whilst pulling the coins towards him with his other hand.

You take in one of the knives, flipping it in your hand experimentally. There seemed to be no weird center of gravity or any odd characteristics that might give away foul play. You can make do with the dull edge. Looking at the targets ahead, you can easily make the throw blindfolded. You move to raise the knife, but Proto stops you.

His finger wags in your face. “Ah, ah, ah. I didn’t say we could start yet.”

You hear the click of a button, then the whirr of machinery.

The red targets seemed to jerk and slide, the machine beneath them creaking and groaning from overuse. Red circles move from side to side. There’s no pattern to the speed or direction of the targets’ movements.

Your lips curl to a snarl, at which Proto starts laughing once again.

“Oh! Is the tiny human regretting her choices already?” Proto slaps his leg as he wheezes out another belly laugh. “Look at that face! You’re practically seething! Ha!”

This son of a bitch.

You ignore the howling mass of scum behind the counter, focusing on the blurring vision of red targets. Gripping the tip of the knife, you steady your breathing, bracing your knees. A lingering, dull throb still haunts you, but you ignore it. Focus.

Twisting the knife in your hands, you try to find the target with the slowest movement. Judging by the choppy movements and run-down shop, Proto might’ve never had any repairs. You can make out the large patches of rust and hear how the gears catch onto one another. A harsh, screeching sound that barely makes the targets falter. Click, click, click. You stand still, counting the gap between each miniscule falter of the machine.

Ten seconds exactly.

Proto’s laugh continues. He grins, wider this time. “Is the tiny human having second thoughts? I forgot to mention this before, but no refunds. Ha!”

You quell the urge to dig the blade into the gummy flesh in his thick neck. It might take some hacking, but it would be worth it to shut him up.

The squeaks of the machine snap your focus back. You take a steady inhale, clearing your mind of murderous thoughts. This wasn’t about you.

Focus.

Metal scrapes against metal in an awful pitch. The targets blur, and the laughing continues.

You hear the familiar click, click, click.

Inhale. One. Two. Three.

Quick as a whip, your body snaps in motion and the blade lodges cleanly into one of the targets.

A gasp comes from the boy beside you. Proto’s howls of laughter cease.

Another knife finds its way in your hand and you repeat the motions. You eye a target, trying to predict its motion. Whatever force you exerted on the first target had altered the motion of the machine. It was slower and the falter in of the targets’ movements were longer.

Click, click, click. In another flash, the knife lands clean in the middle of another target.

You hear the shuffle of feet and the whispers of passersby.

“There’s no way she would make that shot.”

“Isn’t that Proto? I thought he was still in jail.”

“Come on! Shoot it already!”

A crowd has formed behind you, but your sole focus is the last of the shuffling targets.

Its movements are faster than the last two. Almost a blur of red that dances between one side of the stall to the next. Your body tenses, being still longer than previous tries. Your brows furrow, your muscles flexing beneath your skin.

Proto seethes in his corner, nostril flaring like an animal. The crowd draws nearer, trying to get a better look at what you’re doing.

Excitement buzzes in the air. Fueling you.

The scrape against metal, and the tune of click, click, click.

One.

Two.

Three.

The knife whistles in the air, the crowd goes still. Wood snaps and buckles, caving under the pressure of your throw.

For a split second, your heart stops. Then, a wild cheer erupts behind you.

Under the sheer power of your throw, the target snapped backward, nearly breaking off the machine entirely. Still, your knife sits lodged in the wood, swinging erratically with the rest of the set. The machine lets out one last howl before the rust and age finally forces it to stop. The metal groans and creaks in protest before succumbing to its fate.

Proto’s jaw unhinges, gaping at the sight.

The boy with deep blue skin and rags for clothes is beaming. Tears prick his eyes and he’s jumping up and down in sheer joy. Before you could say anything, the boy leaps into you, giving you a bone-crushing hug. Maybe you were lucky that you heal fast.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” the boy squeals, pressing his face against your stomach. He releases you and points to an item hanging off the rack inside the stall. “That one! I want that one please!”

You follow his finger, trying to find what the boy wanted so bad.

Red robes sewn with a delicate lacing of pearls and gold. Decadent craftsmanship that no doubt took months—maybe even years to create. You dare say more intricate than the attire you’ve seen around the whole market.

You couldn’t fight the smug grin even if you tried. Proto looked furious. “You heard the boy. Give him the robe.”

Proto huffed, looking monstrous and wrathful. If there weren't so many watchful eyes, you were sure that he would try to skin you alive with one of your dull knives. Begrudgingly, Proto marched up to the robes and snatched it off its hook. With a nose-flaring glare, he tosses it to the gleeful boy beside you.

Above the cheers of the small crowd, you hear the familiar shouts of your group.

Amy is jumping up and down, similar to how the boy was moments before. Rory hollers with the crowd, waving his hands in the air.

The Doctor comes barreling towards you, clasping his hands on your shoulders. He shakes you with a big smile on his face. “Bra-vo! Splendid, that was absolutely—positively—brilliant! Well done!”

Hands from the mass of people shake and prod you. Praise and cheer ring hollow in your ears.

When you turn to look at the boy, his toothy grin is aimed right at you. Only for you. Tears flow in rivers down his face, curving around his smile. “Thank you!”

Sincerity, joy, relief. It flows from the boy and straight to your chest.

Only for him do you smile. It’s small and beaten around the edges, but a no less genuine thing. Something warms the hollow in your chest. A crack in your armor, one that makes the pain erode away. Ever so slightly.

— — —

“How on Earth did you manage that? I thought you would be stiff from sleeping all week.”

You take a bite out of your dessert, taking a moment to ponder Rory’s question. “One of the first things I learned when I started training. Knives were much easier to handle when you’re twelve.”

The sky is turning a hazy orange and the shops along the coast of the busy town are still alive. The small café tucked away in an alley deep in the city where their hours of operation start when the sun lowers in the sky.

After destroying Proto’s machine, you walk the boy to his family who live in a small house at the edge of town. Only when you arrived at his front door did he give you his name: Rivolo. His parents were both equally shocked at what the boy delivered and were eternally thankful for what you did. You were simply glad to give the boy a chance to have new clothes to wear. Though, the strain of your body lingers, especially in your upper back.

For the first time, the four of you collect around with food and drinks, talking. It started with little stories about the last few hours when you departed. Rory bought a new weighted blanket with fabric that behaved like water. The Doctor tried bargaining with a seamstress for a new jacket and ended up being kicked out of the establishment. Supply runs and odd occurrences transitioned to earlier adventures. Mostly the Doctor talking about famous historical figures with such clarity it might as well have happened yesterday.

“I did have a knife throwing contest whilst traveling during the Ottoman Empire.” The Doctor takes another heapful of shaved ice and condensed milk. His mouth is full when he speaks: “I still technically have another date set up. You’re going to come with me.”

“Is that a threat?” you muse, picking at your own bowl.

“Most definitely.”

Streetlights that dot along the pier were the first to alight. Then the ones along the edge of town, until the cobblestone streets are bathed in warm light. Stars are beginning to twinkle in the sky and the ocean breeze makes the air drop significantly. It doesn’t stop the people who journeyed here from crowding around bars and enjoying the dusk.

Rory is the first to groan out, stretching his arms over his head. He rubs his stomach, his eyes pinching close. “I think I ate enough for three. God, it feels like my stomach is about to burst.”

Surrounding him were piles of fish bones and dessert bowls. At least he had the courtesy to stack them. Amy and the Doctor lean against one another, the former sharing her husband’s discomfort. You had the foresight to order enough to quell your hunger, not enough to inhibit movement.

“I’ll clear these up, you guys get back to the TARDIS.” You take the hefty load of plates and bowls into your hands with little effort. “I can find my way back. Go before it gets too dark.”

The three of them huff and groan, slowly rising out of their seats as if it pains them to do so.

Amy pats your shoulder with a grimace. “You’re an angel, thank you.”

Rory gives the Doctor his shoulder to lean on as Amy trails behind them. You couldn’t help but watch them stagger down the street.

A family. A unit. Whatever the three hold runs deeper than friendship and would be an understatement to say so.

Walking down the alley, you try to locate the front of the café. With the crowds of people blocking the entrances of any open building made it all the more challenging. You walk in slow, measured steps, careful to not trip over any wobbly stone that pokes out. When you do manage to slip into the right café, the sun has more than set. The chill in the air turns into a cold breeze that flutters your cloak and makes the hairs on your body stand on edge.

You don’t feel safe. If you had the thunderous power of the multiverse behind you, then you wouldn’t feel so paranoid walking through the narrow alley. No weapons adorn your legs, no phone to call for help. You cursed under your breath.

Pulling on your hood, you let the dark fabric cover you completely. You keep towards the edge of buildings, always scanning ahead for any activity. Find a crowd, blend in. Easy enough when the entirety of the marketplace is still buzzing.

It’s hard to pin down exactly where you are. Your eyes squint in the low light, trying to find any landmarks to help you journey back. You don’t realize how lost you are until the crowds slowly disappates and the lamps along the streets get fewer and fewer.

Shit.

You should’ve swiped the knives from Proto. A dull blade is better than no weapon at all.

Straining for any signs of life, you try to backtrack your steps. Maybe if you make your way back to the café, then you could wait for the Doctor to come get you.

Your foot was already pivoting before you caught a faint glimmer of red fabric out of the corner of your eye.

Turning around, you see a familiar cloak with pearls and gold stitched along its side.

Rivolo!

What better way around the city than the boy who lived here? With newfound determination, you follow the trail of red down another alley. Your legs are loose from walking, already catching up to the fleeting figure.

Your feet soundlessly trek the uneven streets, bobbing and weaving through tight corners and miscellaneous boxes lying around. Rivolo seems to dash just out of reach, always dodging out of sight whenever you cross another street.

“Rivolo!” you call out, trying to keep the fabric in your sight. The boy is a few ways ahead, delving deeper into the city. You quicken your pace.

In a matter of seconds, you’ve managed to close the gap between you two. The boy is fast but you have a decade or so of running through the boroughs of New York under your belt. You push through the burn in your muscles. Your hand stretches outward and you catch the scruff of the hood.

With a twist, you reel the boy back and spin his small body around.

Your chest heaves, putting your hands on your knees. “I’m so sorry, I tried calling you but you were too far away. I need some he—”

You freeze, the blood in your body running cold.

The person you’ve tracked down wasn’t the innocent boy with a long braid and toothy grin. In the low light, you can clearly see the robe this stranger adorns. The intricate stitching, the same glimmering pearls that twinkle under the light. You reel back, as if the sight of it offends you.

Whatever you caught looked almost human. Its flesh was a ghostly pale that looked sickly under the streetlights. Gaunt face with a long nose and bulging eyes. His iris looks like a small pinprick, wild and focused on you. No hair on his head or on his face. When you observe longer, you see the imprint of scales along his skin.

You narrow your gaze, your voice an echo in the silent alley as a deadly whisper. “Where did you get that cloak?”

The alien eyes you up and down, tilting his head to the side. His words are impish, almost nasally in tone. “Hm? Who are you? You don’t seem related to that Ikrallian boy.”

“I’ll ask you again.” Your hands shoot out, gripping the color of the red cloak. The alien falters at your harsh movements. “Where did you get this cloak? A boy named Rivolo had it earlier.”

He didn’t seem frightened by your tone. Boredom is set in his features, as if you’re inconveniencing him. He ponders for a moment, only for his features to light up in mock realization. “Oh, that’s his name. Did he have blue skin and freakish hair? Y'know, introductions never came up. I could barely hear my own thoughts because of his screaming.”

Pure delight drips from his mouth. The thing in your hands snickers as if he’s letting you in on some inside joke.

Your heart pounds in your ears.

Something poked your ribs, and the man’s mouth curled to a sneer. “Now, now. Usually I don’t like fighting women. Gets too messy and there’s always so much crying. If you just walk away, go back to where you came from, I won’t have to gut you in this alley.”

The familiar heat of rage bubbled in your chest. Tension in your body cramps your muscles, threatening to snap.The knife the man holds starts dragging up towards your ribs, teasing the soft flesh there. The thing chuckles, his breath fanning your face.

“Maybe I should. ‘Cause then you can see your friend…what’s his name again?” He tilts his head up, pretending to think. “Ah, Rivolo. He probably bled out by now. Oh—where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself. The name’s Beetle—”

Your fist connected to his jaw with a sickening crack.

Beetle’s body flies out, landing into the ground in a heap. You take lungfuls of air, trying to cool down. The alien twitches before rolling back to his feet. Blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, but his grin still remains.

Wiping his chin, he hunches down, the knife in his hand gleaming in the moonlight. His nasally, gruff voice cuts through the still air. “Just my luck, a lady who can fight. Now I won’t feel so bad when I drain you on the street.”

His body caves in before he launches himself.

You stagger to the side before you twist around, dodging his slashes. When he gets too close, trying to aim for the spot where your heart lies, you grab his arm and pull him across your body. Using your leg and stiff muscles, you use his momentum against him and slam him to the ground with his arm twisted behind him. In the quick second that he’s off-guard, you stomp on his hand, forcing him to let go of his knife. The knife, you realized, had dark substance caking it.

Blood.

You hear something crack before Beetle’s body rotates beneath you. Dislodging his arm out of his socket allowed him to sweep your body off balance and bounce back up. You land on the ground, your jaw connecting to stone with a pained groan. The stitches under your clothes throb painfully.

Beetle swings his dislocated arm back, forcing it in the socket once more. He laughs at the face you make.

A dull cramp locks your joints. Cold air and strained tissue squeeze your nerves, sending pain throughout your body. You try to brace yourself on your forearms, but a heavy foot stomps on your back, forcing your back down. Your chin collides with stone and your teeth rattle in your mouth.

“I’m starting to like you like this.” He raised his foot from your back momentarily before slamming it down. Air is forced to leave your chest as you cough beneath him. His other foot is planted just beside your head, the other digging between your shoulder blades. “Maybe I’ll let you go just so I can chase you down the street. I’ll let the fear settle in, then delight in your screams when I finally catch you—”

You put every ounce of strength into maneuvering over to his ankle and bite. Your teeth sink into skin, catching the tendons of his foot. Warm liquid gushes in your mouth, spilling between your teeth. A shrill howl of pain and the weight lifts off your back. Beetle falls, desperately grasping his ankle. Blood seeps, coloring the pavement beneath him.

“You fucking cunt!”

You roll to your side, hacking out the bitter blood into the cobblestone. With a grunt, you rise to your full height, swaying slightly.

A mouthful of iron is on your tongue. It mingles with the ocean breeze and sours in your mouth. Your steps are silent and methodical. Half limping, half striding to your target.

The red cloak Beetle wears beckons you closer. Your heaving comes from the barely hidden wrath that bubbles. You reckon you looked more like a rabid animal than a human. When you approach Beetle, you grasp the back of the hood and yank it. His smaller, stout frame unraveled from the flowing cloak and you held it tightly against yourself.

Something warm trickles down your abdomen. Bringing your hand to the bottom of your rib, you feel the cotton of your shirt being soaked. Your stitches torn and the thin skin broken. All the energy you had gained this past week has been sapped, leaving you trembling.

You spare the alien a cold, withering stare. Your bloodied mouth is twisting to a snarl. “Thank every single star under this sky that I am not in full health. If I see your wretched face ever again, I will not hesitate to rip you apart. Bone by bone.”

Kill him, leave nothing behind.

Your voice sounds unfamiliar in your own head. A monotone, apathetic edge, almost clinical in nature.

Another voice rings over. Young, still full of life.

Don’t be the monster everyone expects you to be.

Peter did not understand the beaten path you’ve forged for yourself. Nor did he understand the continuous nature between black and white; to him, good deeds and bad ones are objective without nuance.

Beetle is hunched, body held taut with caution. Gauging to see what you’ll do next.

No matter how much you want to wring his neck like a stubborn piece of cloth, you can bring yourself to spare mercy. Just this once. You will alert the proper authorities and hope that Beetle is injured enough to not stray too far.

Karma will see to it, sparing you of the role of judge, jury, and executioner.

“(Y/N)? Is that you?”

A voice, accented and childlike.

You back straightened, whipping around to the entrance of the alley. A shallow breath escapes your throat and relief washes over you.

“Rivolo, y-you’re safe.” Your voice is raw around the edges, and you catch the unease in his face. You stagger towards the boy, bleeding and hurt. When you grasp his narrow shoulders, you utter a rushed, “What happened?”

The boy maneuvers to your side, pulling your arm over his shoulder. “I went to get food for my family. I was trying to get back home before a strange man tried taking my food. He stabbed me, but it didn’t matter. My species don’t bleed out easily.”

At the sound of his voice, Beetle thrashes around. His head jerked and his mouth frothed in fury.

“Of course you survived. Of course! Even after I went after your heart—just my fucking luck!”

Beetle rolled to his stomach with a murderous gaze. His teeth bared and his back hunched like a prowling animal.

So much for mercy.

You hurriedly unlatched yourself from Rivolo and shoved his cloak in his arms. “Go find the Doctor and the Ponds. Run as fast as you can from here and whatever you do, don’t look back.”

Sounds of bones cracking turns your attention to the heaving alien. Beetle’s finger is shoved in his ankle, forcing his bony finger into his Achilles tendon. Blood gushed out more, spilling over his leg and arm. With a strained growl, Beetle rearranges the fiber in the back of his ankle.

Anger and determination pulse in the air. A warning.

“Go, go, go!” You shove Rivolo into the open street. He scampers away, and you see him retreat out of sight.

You couldn’t anticipate the speed at which Beetle came at you. Without warning, Beetle sent a punch straight towards your stomach. As if his punch was a singularity, your body caved inward, warping around his balled fist. You slam against the wall, not even a moment to think before another punch lands squarely on your cheek. Whipping your head to the side, you feel your skull throb painfully and the vessels inside your face break.

Beetle’s hand wraps around your throat and slams your head into the stone wall behind you. His hold constricts, closing your windpipe as he kneed you in the abdomen. Once. Twice. You try to squirm out of his way, blocking his repeated attack with your hands but you’re losing strength.

You’re getting lightheaded. Everything hurts. Bile tries to climb its way up your body, but Beetle’s hand prevents anything from getting in your body or getting out.

The sickly creature looms over your face. His earlier grin and playful façade completely wiped clean. “Do you know what I hate more than cunts who fight dirty? Hm?”

Another kick. Your organs contort inside your body, trying to accommodate the point of Beetle’s knee. If choking you out won’t kill you, internal bleeding certainly will. You try to muster a cough, only to choke on your own mucus.

His face draws closer, into your ear as you desperately gasp and thrash in his hand. His words sliding across your skin like sandpaper. “An ugly, bleeding woman. No matter where I stab, you’ll always look gross and disgusting when you die. I suppose it isn’t such a loss though. I do enjoy watching your life get snuffed out. And once I dump your body on the street, I’m tracking your little friend next.”

You don’t stop writhing, even when he keeps slamming your head against the wall. Even when he sends another punch to your face, bursting your lip open. Even when the next one lands in the middle of your face and you feel blood gushing out. It hurts, your lungs burn. Your soul rams against the confines of your body, trying to break itself free.

His laugh is cold, void of any real humor.

“What are you going to do about it?”

The words cut through your mind like an arrow. Everything stills, and for a moment Beetle's eyes morphed into a light, steely blue.

Glass and stone contort, fractals that dance in the background with magic humming in the air. A blade made of air and crystal that drips crimson blood, the markings of Dormammu's power etched in your mind forever.

“What are you going to do about it, Seraph?”

The hush of the world around you. A moment where nothing exists but the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your head.

A goal carved its way to the forefront of your mind, silencing all other thoughts, wants, needs.

Make him bleed. Make him suffer—

The heat came first. A thunderous roar that synced with your heart, it flooded your body with a burn. Energy that lights up your cells and singes the ends of your nerves.

Grasping the thin, pale wrist of your attacker, you focus the energy that’s building. It lights up your body with a crack. Beetle’s smug face falters. The bones in Beetle’s wrist snap and crumble. You feel the fragments ripple beneath his skin and his tendons bunching as your grip gets tighter and tighter.

A blood curdling scream rips through Beetle as he jerks away from you. With his weight finally off your throat, you collapse against the wall trying to catch your breath. Releasing the hold on Beetle’s wrist, you stagger to your feet. Every ragged inhale sends shocks of pain from your midsection. Using the wall for support, you lift yourself up. Everything feels numb, your legs and arms feel like static.

You watch as Beedle clutches his swollen hand. When he jerks his body, his hand rotates dramatically, detached from the forearm entirely. You give no warning, no ounce of preparation. Before Beetle had a chance to blink, you were already towering over him.

The first punch made Beetle’s head turn so sharply that you thought you’d broken it. A loud, thunderous sound came, echoing in the narrow back alleys. The sounds of Beetle’s ragged breathing and heartbeat were the only indications that he still lived. The next hit was just as hard, with no time to react. Each blow you deliver slices the space between you, turning his skin to paper and bones to glass. A precision that comes with years dealing with the worst outcome possible. A lingering notion that each blow you deal is fatal.

Sometimes the flesh caves and splits where you hit. Blood splatters on your gloves, making it increasingly difficult to continually land punches. When the blood in his face makes your fist slide off his skin is when you move to kicking his body. Over. And Over. Wherever your foot lands, his body jerks accordingly. Again and again.

Only when you stop your onslaught do you manage to get your heartbeat to steady and your breathing to even.

Your body is a furnace. It trembles trying to keep whatever power lies in your veins. When you move, it feels distorted in a way. Your mind is still hazy from the oxygen deprivation, near floaty in feeling. One foot in front of the other, you move through the stagnant air. The thrashing, bleeding alien tries to crawl away from you. Your hands shoot out from your robes, catching his ankle and dragging him close to you.

Mixing in with the salty ocean air and the blood coating your teeth is a taste you’ve come to hunt for. It’s sweet, addictive and delights you so.

Beetle’s fear is palpable. As he lays shaking below you, he doesn’t tear his gaze from yours.

“You hurt my friend.” Beneath the soft whisper of your words, an undeniable edge of wrath can be felt. “I gave you a chance to run and you used that as an opportunity to attack me. You’ve made your decision and I have no choice but to see it through.”

The scum twisting and groaning doesn’t get a chance to fix his mouth before your foot connects with his sternum. Not enough to break it completely, but enough to knock all of the wind out. You can’t move effectively without the entirety of your midsection erupting in pain. You crept your foot up Beetle’s chest, seeing the realization hit him.

A barbaric move. But it’s clear that Beetle has already done more, if not worse, on innocents. When your foot meets the middle of Beetle’s neck, you ignore the spark of delight at the sight of his terror. You slowly apply more of your weight as thin hands try to wrap around your shoe.

His feet kick wildly trying to land a hit but his strength is weaning. You offer him no taunting words, no remorse for what you’re doing. Beetle was trying to kill you from the start and it would be dangerous to let him wander.

You didn’t want to spill blood on your first day out, but you’re too worked up to care. What’s another death to you?

Beetle squirms, trying desperately to throw you off. Murderous intent swallowing his eyes, directed only at you. Whatever good he managed to do, it will never balance the harm he confessed to doing. He would be better off as fertilizer, the only way his existence would ever be a net positive. You wouldn’t mind if his dying breath lingers in your dreams.

You don’t find it in yourself to care.

Movement dwindles and the fiery passion is slowly dying the longer your foot lingers. Copper and sugar invade your nose in harmony.

Beetle spasms and gargles. His already pale skin gets impossibly more stark.

Just a bit more—

You feel the air shift, a presence just beside you. But you felt it a second too late.

A blur of black and a crackle of light is all you see before a powerful punch sends you flying backwards. Your body tumbles down further into the alley, rocks and sharp debris awaiting you with each hit. Your momentum finally stops when you collide into a stack of wooden crates, splintering the wood upon impact. You let out a pained hiss through your teeth, trying to move.

Moonlight scatters where the streetlamps fail to illuminate. Shadows bend and warp most of your vision, but you spot the imposing figure easily. It’s tall, whatever it is. Humanoid in shape, covered head to toe in fabric. You’re too far away to see any clear details, only a vague, smokey outline where light manages to hit.

Something else invades the charged air. For a moment, the pent up anger and murderous intent evaporates leaving behind something primal.

Hairs on your body stand on end. Dread suffocates you. It surrounds the cloaked figure and you wonder how it managed to sneak up on you.

Your body trembles, nearly collapsing down into the pile of broken wood again. The energy you’ve mustered up has already started to disperse.

Beetle gasps loudly, wheezing with such ferocity you think his heart would climb up his throat. The pungent smell of blood and sweat hangs in the air, encasing him.

The imposing figure doesn’t spare him a single glance or word. No mask or identifiable features could be seen, but you feel the weight of his gaze. An inhuman, powerful energy accompanies it. Grasping the leftover wood that surrounds your body, you force your weakened body to get up. To fight, to stand your ground.

Beetle hacks and coughs. “You were there the whole time?” His voice is raw, his words barely intelligible. “Why didn’t you come sooner?”

The figure offers no words or acknowledgement, never turning its head away from you. Your skin prickles and a dull instinct makes your hand twitch.

Beetle turns his head, ready to mouth off to his companion. When he sees the figure’s hard gaze fixated on you, Beetle’s face morphs to a furious sneer.

“You’re my assignment! Are you kidding me? What about the Ikrallian boy?”

Your ears perk up, your body on high alert. They wanted you here. Beetle may not have realized, but he wasn’t just a simple passerby. Assignment…had they…planned this?

Then it clicked. Maybe it was your proximity to the Doctor, perhaps they believe they could kidnap you to have leverage over him. You did spend a good few hours with him and the Ponds, traveling around the market. Why would they target him? For the TARDIS perhaps? Amy did say that it was the last of its kind. A powerful machine that could travel anywhere would be a target for any criminal worth their salt.

But why Rivolo? Why target him? Cruelty for cruelty’s sake?

“(Y/N)!” A startling loud echo of your name, one that seems to have a series of footsteps that follow. It was behind you. “(Y/N) are you there?”

Before you even had the chance to turn your head to the direction of the voice, you hear the thundering steps halt behind you.

The Ponds are out of breath; Amy grabbing onto your shoulder for support while Rory has his hands on his knees. Their skin glistened with a mixture of sweat and humid air, their chests heaving with exhaustion.

“We…Rivolo…help…” Amy could barely muster up the words, her head hanging low, trying to even her breathing. Whatever relief she had when find you was wiped clean when she got a look at your face. No doubt the blood from your nose had already crusted on the lower half of your face. “What the hell?”

Rory was already tensed beside you two, staring at the two figures in the alley. He cleared his throat, gesturing towards Beetle. “Is this why you couldn’t find your way back?”

You move out of Amy’s concerned hold, putting yourself in front of them. “You shouldn’t be here. Go find the Doctor—”

“There you guys are!”

As if the mere mention of his name summons him, the Doctor rounded the corner also out of breath with the familiar blue alien boy behind him. The Doctor’s arms flail as he forces his feet to stop. “How many times do I have to have the talk with you two? Hm? No wandering! No running off in foreign lands! It’s rule number one when traveling. I don’t expect much from (Y/N)—”

His tangent stopped when his mind finally caught up with the present. His face frozen, looking over your newly battered face. Rivolo cowers behind him, clutching his jacket in a tight fist.

You cursed under your breath. It’s one thing to have to fight, it’s another to look after four individuals who don’t seem capable of fighting. You’d barely healed enough to walk properly and now you could look forward to another week of mindless wandering in the sterile hallways of the TARDIS. Great. So much for a first day outside.

Beetle hauled up his shaking body, his two legs appearing as though they might snap under his own weight. Hunched and heaving, Beetle clutches the midnight fabric that encases the figure. Even from this distance, you can clearly see the pure hatred plastered on his face. “Why wasn’t I made aware of this? I thought the boy was the target!”

It was then that the dark figure finally directed its eye-less gaze to the trembling alien beside him. Beetle doesn’t falter, instead gripping tighter on the fabric to stabilize himself.

When the figure spoke, it was a deep, rumbling sound. Smooth and unhurried. It carried through the salty breeze as if they were speaking right next to you. “Target the young Ikrallian and remain in the city thereafter. Your duty has been fulfilled.”

There was something in the tone of his voice. Such finality, a sureness that everything that has happened was meant to be. Dominos falling into place.

“Target the Ikrallian boy…” you thought, everything rushing in your head at once. I was their target. By attacking Rivolo, it would guarantee that I would try to follow him. Why me? They don’t know who I am.

The eye-less figure slides his head in your direction. You feel its glaze stripping you, peering through skin and muscle. It shakes off Beetle’s grip like he’s nothing more than a speck of dust, stepping towards you. Feather-light steps with only the sound of plated armor clinking together being heard, its glaze holding yours.

You force yourself into a defensive position, trying to lock into every movement. The figure stops a few feet away from you and you can make out the reflective surface of armor underneath a billowing cloak. There’s enough light to show the texture of the cloak and the buckles along its waist, but the place where a face should be is pure darkness. No curve of a nose, or sockets where eyes would be, nor a mouth to speak from. A smooth, glossy surface that reflects your bruised face.

“Who the hell are you?” you hissed. Your warped reflection moves, highlighting the swollen jaw and caked blood across your face. “Did you purposefully lure me out here? Am I some unlucky passerby you just so happen to choose for your sick little game?”

The figure takes a few, slow steps towards you. The way his body moves seems streamlined; no unnecessary sway of his arms when he stands still nor any miniscule movement of his chest to indicate that he’s breathing.

When he speaks, it’s calm, barely passing a whisper. Still, you hear it loud and clear. “We know what you are. Where you are from. What you will become. You will come to shape my past; I too shall shape yours. You will fight me, here in this city. It would mark the beginning of the end.”

“End of what?” you demand. You try to shake off the way his tone makes the hair at the back of your neck raise. The total resolve of his voice, as if whatever you do will make no difference.

“The end of everything.”

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