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luxurychristmaspudding · 7 months

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Clot | Joel Miller

summary: joel has lost something. but once he pieces himself back together, he'll remember what it is.

pairing: jackson!joel miller x f!reader

ratings/warnings: mature. canon typical violence, mentions of blood and injury. mentions of a dead child (sarah), lots of grief, canon suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts. canon divergent. abby wants a cure and she’ll break up families to get it. joel losing a limb and hating himself for it. wanky formatting as a treat. reader has hair but is otherwise not described. no use of y/n.

wc: 3k

an: i can't edit this anymore, it's making me ugly cry.

Everything is hot, heavy, and delirious,

and Joel has lost something.

A tight band is wound around his head, and it’s making him ache. It’s making his skin pull taught with blisters, wind and throb with thick blood. For so long, it’s all he can feel. Everything else is too dense.

His head revolves like a planet on strings, like it rolls on some unstoppable, destructive axis between galaxies. He doesn’t know if he shifts and pitches it, or if someone else does, or whether it really moves at all. The whole inside of his skull spins, and between deep, deep black and boiling red, he can feel the acid of that spin climb up his throat and dribble out his mouth. It burns and tastes foul, but he can do nothing to stop it. He can do nothing but spin and float somewhere both within and outside his body, and feel - more than know - that something is missing.

There is something viscid around him, like he’s been wrapped and bound, like everything’s too tight and too thick. He can’t hear properly, which isn’t something new - but it’s deeper, soupy. It panics him, tightens the skin around his chest.

He’s sure he’s drowning.

He’s sure he’s drowning, but he doesn’t know how or why. All he knows is that it’s taking him too long to get back to his body, to surface, too long to remember something.

But he is so, so tired. And leaden, everything burning or burned - scarring and flaking and broken and agonising.

When he is something only close to conscious, something a hair away from lucid, he can feel himself twist in clinging sheets, can feel his fingers clutch at a mattress. He can feel broken bones unset themselves in blind fury and fear, can feel bloodlust and scorching wildfires of pain. He can sense loss which grows bone deep, a cavern he cannot turn his face from. High-pitched, too-fast breaths, a wisp of coconut against his chin. Something he hasn’t smelled in so long, something his arms ache to reach out to touch, to snatch, to hold. It’s a desperate feeling. It clings to his chest and cloys his breaths and drips through his ribs, sticky and tar-like, oozes down his body until it fixes him where he lays. He tries to move, he really does. But he can’t match the thoughts with his muscles, can’t see his body, can’t feel his brain. He needs to wake up. He needs to wake up. He needs to wake up he needs to wake up he needs to wake up

he needs to wake up, because he’s failing again. He’s losing again, something is slipping away again. High-pitched, quick, gasping breaths, the clutch of brown curls in his fist, coconut, the wet flash of her eyelashes against his neck, her fear, oh god, her fear, how scared they were, how scared she was, so scared he thought he’d be sick, the clutch of her hands as she pushed against him, as she tried and begged not to move, the blood so much blood the terror in her eyes i know i know i know

tommy help me

come on babygirl, nothing nothing nothing he could do nothing but feel wet, warm blood rapidly cooling in the night air help me don’t do this baby come on please -

Come on, Tommy is saying, come on, we’ve gotta go.

But he can’t. His brother is there, his daughter is here. His body is welded to where he holds his girl in his arms, but his body is nowhere at all. His body is a gaping emptiness of a thing, and he thinks that alone in this vacuum, this grief, this misery, he might consume the whole universe and everything in it.

And he would not be sorry, to destroy the thing that took his baby away. He would not be sorry to destroy the coward who flinched from his own bullet.

He has lost something.

Things are dark for a long time.

There are sounds that reach and pull to him, droplets of rain which patter quietly along roofs and find their way through gaps to drip and run towards him. If he were a body in the dirt, he would grow things. This would be new life.

But he is not. Instead he absorbs and swallows and pays no attention except to the destruction of what is leaking into him. He gnashes at the darkness he is locked within, wrestles with the lumps of his heart.

When the tenor and tone of their voices becomes tangible, he can taste it.

He can taste the cigarettes he used to share with Tommy while their mama wasn’t looking, he can taste canned ravioli from out on the road to… somewhere. He cannot remember. He lets Ellie and Tommy soothe and lull him in and out of consciousness, lets the swell and tangle of their voices sew shut the gaping wound he has become. Something pulls, something tugs, something that is still missing. Joel searches for it in their muffled conversation, but he can’t summon it. Can’t get them to say it aloud until there is a familiar sound, a name, rough palm pressed to his aching head, a squeeze of a smaller hand to his, and Tommy is saying again come on, we’ve gotta go.

For the first time since the floating darkness began, Ellie’s voice stops. She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t sing. There’s no rhythmic sound of her sleepy breathing, no hollow tone of a guitar. The comfort and company he has heard in Tommy’s voice for days stops, too. He drifts in and out on the swell of a tide, grasping for purchase at a starless shore, and then Maria comes to his ear, quietly furious, outwardly heartbroken. He can’t understand what she’s saying, but he understands the intonation.

Tommy has always loved so hard, been so loyal. Whatever the reason he’s disappeared, it must be good. And Ellie must have gone with him.

The knowledge brings him no peace, and his shapeless, fervid nightmares become worse.

Echoes of what Maria had said swirl around his brain like leaves circling a drain, illuminating with each dull thud of his tired heart. They’ve gone… they’ve gone… they’ve gone to…

He tries to grapple with it, he does - so hard. Gone to find - He feels like he should apologise. To Maria, for having some part in whatever idiot ploy Tommy has dragged himself and Ellie away into. To others. Faceless, nameless people who he waits to reveal themselves. To Sarah. Sarah.

He has.

Every night he has apologised to his little girl for failing to keep her safe, for failing to die instead of her, with her. He has been on his knees beside his bed on so many nights, sobbing into his hands with his full body, the grief making his chest so unbearably tight, his throat raw, and even if he screamed for the rest of his life it would not be enough. It would not be enough. He has apologised to Ellie, so softened and so drowned in sadness that she had to forgive him. Pathetic, broken. But there’s someone else, someone else. A dark figure slouched in the corner, the dark smell of blood. Dark, dark, dark.

A small girl in a hospital gown, a gunshot echoing in an underground parking lot. The smell of her hair, pine needles lingering even after a wash. The heat and pressure of her against his chest. No blood cooling in night air, but holding her just as tightly. The ache, the ache, the grief years in advance of what he’d have to confess, what he’d have to admit to her. They were gonna kill you. I cannot fail again. A tiny person curled up in a stream of light and grass, the twitch of something long broken in his heart. He knew, he knew even then I'm taking a ride with my best friend I hope he never lets me down again it’s okay babygirl it’s okay it's me i’m sorry i understand it's me i love you. The crack and bright of her grin through an astronaut's helmet, the scramble of limbs through a window. She’s not my kid, not my kid, my kid, my kid, my kid is dead, yeah she’s mine. My girl. Mighty and fierce and blood of my blood flesh of my flesh as close as she can be to -

The twitch of a limb which is no longer there. The phantom ache and strike of pain which should not be able to breach air.

Without opening his eyes, he can tell. He does not know how long he has been out for, what drugs they gave him, but now, through this crack of bright in his skull he is beginning to understand. Sarah letting him go, Ellie bringing him back - come on, old man, you gotta work it out soon - it’s gone. His leg is gone. The dark, slouched figure in the corner. Smell of blood -

Where are you?

His breathing is so quick, so agitated, so panicked and wheezed, his body spasming so tightly that he hears Maria call for the doctor, for something beyond the grasp of his comprehension. He has lost something. He is useless - he will be nothing, he will rot. The people of Jackson will place him outside the wall because they would rather watch him crawl in circles in the dirt than let him back in, useless old man. If he has only one leg, he cannot keep people safe. He cannot patrol, he cannot ride, he cannot walk. He cannot stand to have anyone look at him like he is half a man, have Ellie look at him like she does not know who he is, have you, have you -

have you have you have where are you where are you where are you he wants to grab Maria’s hand where from its place on his mattress to ask her where are you but the doctor where is pressing something sharp into his where are shaking arm you. Hold him still, he says and Joel is powerless against the hands that find him. Useless old man who can no longer fight, no longer protect, and he is so disgusted with himself, so betrayed and overwhelmed by his body that he understands why you haven't been around because you must feel the same.

Disgusting, useless old man. Puckered with scars, beat up and burnt out and mutilated, and you have left you have gone and it clefts his heart in two, wet as the blood between your teeth as you chomp his chambers and arteries somewhere in Jackson, or worse, elsewhere entirely.

Somewhere else, somewhere else where he might never see you again. Something crawls down tendrils to scratch at his brain but he can’t pick at it enough before the burning and the pain and the panic fades again, the doctor’s needle working its magic.

Soft, easy breathing, your face turned to his, your hair tickling the crook of his arm. I love you. Every morning, your eyes so far away at first flutter and then sharp into his, barreling like no one ever had before i love you. A force he could never try to stop, a choice he never could make i love you the inevitability of the promise you made each other i love you, the soft of your hands on his cracked knuckles, the way his nose fits to your neck to breathe you in i love you.

I love you, be safe.

And through thick, rolling waves of fog, Joel begins to piece it together. He cannot remember what happened, where it came from. Who did it. But you were there. He remembers through dreams he cannot wake from, how you screamed and cried and begged and pleaded from the floor, your cheek pressed into the wood, blood leaking from your hairline. The rivulets of it running across your temple, your cheek, into your eye so it stained the white pink. Your eyes, so wide with terror. How bright, how red, how deep the blood had been. How pretty. The pool and glisten of it as it spread from him, your fingers scrabbling and slipping through it as you tried to reach for his hand.

He remembers how hoarse you had been as you told them your name.

No. Not your name.

Ellie, you’d said. Ellie. I’m who you’re looking for. The thrust of your forearm as you showed them the scarred and gnarled bite mark from the savages who had held you captive for the first years of the apocalypse. The chunk one of them had torn from you in a fit of fury. In low light, it looks little different to Ellie’s, and Joel thinks they must have no idea what the girl he took from the hospital looked like.

Because they took you instead.

They took you instead.

The shock of it is enough to reel Joel awake. Maria is sat at his bedside, keeping vigil over the man who looks so much like her runaway husband. She is the only one who sees him break this time, who witnesses the gaping, festering wound ripped open, the rot of the universe, the decay of his grief. The way he howls and gasps and cries and begs and pleads where is she i don’t know where are they i don’t know when are they coming back i don’t know i’m sorry joel i’m sorry i’m so sorry if i had known if we had known maria i’m sorry

He does not know how long they hold each other for. He does not know when Maria climbed onto the edge of his bed, does not know if there’s anything more that tethers him to this world than his sister-in-law's arms.

When he wakes, he is cruelly alone and limitlessly hollow. The room is small and he can focus on nothing beyond that, beyond the press of the walls and how close it feels and the bloodied rags they are using to blot and clean his stump while it dribbles crimson. It’s still clotting, the doctor says, and Joel doesn’t care. He wants to bleed. He would rather die than stay here in this bed, knowing in his heart that you won't come home, won’t survive this. He won’t wait to see whether Tommy and Ellie make it back safely, because if he loses again, if he fails again, there will be nothing left. Empty shell of useless man.

He empties the thin contents of his stomach several times a day into a bowl they keep at his bedside. They pump him full of drugs and tell him eventually the pain will lessen and we’re already pleased with how you’re healing we’ll just keep you in here for a little longer even through he’s already been cooped up for weeks. He hasn’t been able to remember you for weeks. And it’s not his phantom limb, not his broken bones and torn skin he’s recoiling from.

Your screams as they dragged you from the floor, your own pain. Noises Joel had never heard you make before in all the years you’d been together, patrolled together, been at war together. Something awful and ragged and already broken leaving your throat as they hauled you out the door and up the stairs as Joel could only useless old man watch you be taken, watch you sacrifice useless yourself to save him, your family, Ellie and Tommy. Animalistic, strong, straining the tendons in your neck as you stretched to scream, your ankle flopping at a crooked angle, blood drip drip dripping and swiping along the floor, soaking into the wood and that’s all he can remember.

He couldn’t say anything to you, couldn’t help. Not even a last I love you. He had failed. Because he’d heard it in your scream - i love you i love you please stay alive please live just this last thing for me make it out get back to jackson back to ellie live long and be happy but don’t forget don’t forget don’t forget i love you don’t forget i was here and don’t forget nothing but this could drag me away i love you please be safe be alive - and he had forgotten. He had forgotten your promises in his blood and your cries, in your scar and your lie. You would not leave him. Not over a sawn off leg. But you would leave him so he and your girl would live, so he will. He will. He will push aside the maw of his heart and try to fill the space he knows he is wasting. The shift feels light and heavy in his chest. He doesn't know how to be happy in a world without you pulled tight to his chest every morning, but if it's what you ask, he will do it. He will live long and happy and he will sit at that gate every day to wait for you and Tommy and Ellie to come back. He will spend the rest of his life waiting and telling himself he is okay if that's what you want him to do. Don’t forget I love you. Don’t forget I was here.

Sat on the hospital bed, he opens the gape in his chest so it can begin to devour the universe again, to suck you back into his orbit, bring you back to him. He won’t forget again. And when he can, he will start his vigil. He will live long and happy and wait for you to come back, wait for you to smooth this pain to dullness, this ache, this tightness in his chest that makes it so hard to breathe. Wait for it to ease, to deaden. But for now, all he can do

is sit and wait

for the wound

to clot.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel the last of us #joel tlou #tlou fanfiction #joel miller tlou #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller angst

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mycoblogg · 1 year

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FOTD #091 : spotted cort! (cortinarius iodes)

the spotted cort (also viscid violet cort) is an agaric fungus in the family cortinariaceae :-) it occurs in many different areas of north america, south america, central america & northern asia. this mushroom mostly forms associations with deciduous trees !!

the big question : can i bite it??

it is technically edible, yes - but "not recommended for consumption".

c. iodes description :

"the cap is initially bell-shaped before becoming broadly convex & then flat in maturity (sometimes retaining a broad umbo), & attains a diameter of 2–6 cm (0.8–2.4 in). the cap surface is slimy (in wet weather) & smooth, & has a lilac or purplish colour. the flesh is white, firm, & thin. the colour fades in maturity, & the cap develops irregular yellowish spots, or becomes yellowish in the centre. gills are attached to the stem & packed together closely. they are lilac to violet when young, but become rusty brown to greyish cinnamon when the spores mature. the stem measures 4–7 cm (1.6–2.8 in) long by 0.5–1.5 cm (0.2–0.6 in) thick, & is nearly equal in width throughout other than a somewhat bulbous base. it is solid (i.e., not hollow), slimy, smooth, & has violet or purplish colours that are usually lighter than the cap; sometimes, the stem base is more or less white. the cobweb-like, pale violet partial veil leaves a zone of thin, purple or rusty fibers on the upper stem."

[images : source & source]

[fungus description : source]

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askinkiskarma · 1 year

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➳ inexperienced!neteyam thoughts (nsfw)

a/n: i had a margarita or two and can't focus on monster in me but wow this made me feel so many things, and i needed to share. enjoy besties ;) (thank you to my amazing ines @cinetrix for the images as always x)

wc: 640 words

smut under the cut - minors dni 🔞

➳ inexperienced!neteyam who watches in awe as you push him back until his body collapses on the comfortable mossy ground, the biofluorescent flora lighting both your figures aglow, and he can't help but stare, can't help his lingering gaze as it settles on your body, that moves closer to him, until you straddle him, a playful smirk dancing on your face, eyes alight with mischief and desire and anticipation.

➳ inexperienced!neteyam who feels embarrassed at the way his needy, hard cock twitches against your clothed core, until you reassure him, your hands running over his thighs and up his body, trailing over his defined abs and pecs, until your fingers reach his throat, putting slight pressure on the points you know would cut off his air intake.

"do you trust me, teyam?" he squirms under you, his cock prodding at your entrance, his eyes shut tightly and mouth slightly agape, and all he manages is a soft nod. "i'm going to make you feel so good, teyam. you're going to be good and let me take care of you, right?"

➳ inexperienced!neteyam who lets out a whimpered moan as you sink onto his thick length, marvelling at the bulge forming in your belly, that you ask him to feel as you raise and lower yourself back on him, trembling beneath you as your walls envelop him, moulding after his cock, light you were made for him only.

"f-fuck, you feel so good!" "you like that, teyam? tell me how good i make you feel, tell me what you want to do to me, love."

➳ inexperienced!neteyam who starts bucking his hips wildly as he feels the intensity of the pleasure you're giving him engulf him, as he can feel his orgasm approaching, who is making you see stars as his cock buries deep in you with each thrust, hitting your cervix aggressively with feral, uncontrolled movements that spoke to a desperation you've never seen in him before, and loved wholly, that drove you close to your own release.

your hand reaches for his, taking his thumb and extending it, placing it gently on your clit as you bounced on his dick, the pleasure overwhelming as his girth stretched your viscid walls perfectly, filling you better than you could have ever dreamed. slowly, you started drawing circles and shapes on yourself using his fingers as a brush, teaching him, watching as he learnt fast, faster than you could keep up with. "that's right, teyam. you're doing so well, fuck. make me cum, pretty boy." he whimpers at your words, that he took to heart, because his fingers on you worked a magic you could barely understand, and fuelled by your praise which made his cock twitch inside you, you came, both moaning loudly as thick spurts of his milky release coated your walls, filling you and spilling down your ass and onto his thighs, and you collapsed on top of him, blissfully spent and overwhelmingly full of him, the way you wanted to be every minute of your day going forward.

➳ inexperienced!neteyam whose sex-drive is unending in his quest to pleasure you, to be worthy of your praises that drive him, that encourage and arouse him, who in no time, will have you squeal and cry as he ruts into you, learning every way to make you cum over and over, nothing more pleasurable to him than seeing how good he can make you feel, how many times he can get you to scream his name at one time, how he can outdo himself every night, as he finds new positions, new spots, new ways to use his cock, tongue and lips to fuck you better than you ever even thought possible.

➳ inexperienced!neteyam who becomes experienced quicker than it takes you to cum around him when he starts working his magic on your body.

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mushroominaforest · 30 days

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Following the logic of the viscid/spotted violet court mushroom, we can only assume baby Spearmaster looked like this

#Rw Spearmaster #shitpost

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pastshadows · 9 months

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Shadows of the Past

Chapter 3: Escape & Evade

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.7K

Content: Explicit 18+ - [Intended for mature audiences]

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions.

The forest is dim and obscured by a thick, opaque fog. You’re running through it in nothing but your night dress. The viscid milky haze parts around you as you advance, ducking and dodging around thick trees and willowy branches. The cool air is damp, leaving a sheen of clamminess veiling your skin. Your eyes search frantically through the dense foliage.

A profound sense of dread grips you, and tears stream down your reddened cheeks. You’re trying to scream, but your throat is tight, and sound can’t escape your constricting esophagus.

You catch the faintest glimpse of him before he disappears into the dense, chalky vapour like a ghost.

You try to call out to him as you swiftly change directions. Your bare feet skid on the soggy forest floor. Your muscles tighten and twist instinctively, and you regain your failing balance. When your feet finally find purchase, you launch forward. Sharp stones and sticks bruise, scrap, and cut the soles of your feet. Branches batter at your face, pull at your hair and gouge your satiny skin.

He’s not here.

You turn rapidly, wet hair sticking to your face, and your eyes scan the trees again. Your breath comes in heavy, rapid gulps. The muscles in your legs twitch and tremble with over-exertion.

You catch slight movement in your peripheral vision. Spinning, you sprint as fast as your fatigued legs can carry you.

I have to be quicker.

Gritting your teeth, you bolster yourself and try to force your body to accelerate.

You spot him briefly before he turns and disappears behind a tree.

“Astarion!”

You finally find your voice, and it rings deafeningly, echoing in the murky night air.

“Astarion, please! Don’t go!”

He stands still momentarily.

“I’m here.”

His lips don’t move, and his voice sounds oddly far away. He slowly backs off and dissipates into the thick, pasty air.

Your lungs burn with anguish you have never known. You whirl around, squinting your eyes, trying to peer into that dense pale haze.

Movement.

You push your body forward with all that’s left of your energy. Your muscles seethe ferociously, and your heart feels like it’s about to explode in your chest cavity.

You hurtle out of the thick forest to a clearing with a sharp cliff face that drops off into nothingness. Your breath wheezes as you inhale raggedly, trying to devour the air.

Astarion stands at the precipice, vibrant crimson eyes staring at you with a happy smile.

You catch the first glimmer of the golden rays of light brightening the sky behind him.

“Astarion, no! I’m begging you, please!”

The sun breaches the horizon, the brilliant glowing sphere rising fast.

Much too fast.

Astarion’s skin starts to turn grey, crack and fissure.

“Don’t go. Please, don’t leave me!”

He doesn’t move, that unsettling happy smile is still worn on his lips as he begins to dissolve into ash, being carried away by the wind.

You scream at the top of your lungs, “Astarion!”

“Wake up, my love. I’m here.”

Wake up?

“Wake up.”

Launching your eyes open, you surge upright in a cold sweat. Your heart pummels against your ribs and thrums in your ears. Tears cascade in salty streams down your cheeks.

A cool hand touches your face, cradling it, gently directing your gaze towards familiar crimson eyes bathed in candlelight.

“Easy, darling. It’s just a dream.”

“Astarion?” You gasp breathlessly.

You throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. Your entire body trembles with the remnants of the nightmare. Astarion wraps his arms around you in a tight embrace. His hand comes to the back of your head.

“I’ve got you, my love.” He whispers, “I’ve always got you.”

Desperate sobs wrack your quivering body as you bury your face into his shoulder, and your chest heaves with rapid, shallow breaths.

“Deep breaths, my dear. With me.”

Of course, Astarion doesn’t need to breathe, but he still can, even if it is not required. He would often breathe to keep up appearances purely out of habit. Cazador had forced his spawn to breathe off palace grounds while hunting their marks so they didn’t raise any suspicions, and it was a habit that he hadn’t been able to shake.

His chest begins to move under you as he inhales slow, deep breaths. He pulls you even tighter to him so you can feel it well.

“In and out, with me.”

You try to sync your breaths with his as best you can.

The door swings open, and Gale shouts, “What did you do now, Astarion?”

“A nightmare.”

“Another one?” He relaxes with a sigh, “They’ve been near-constant since she got here.”

Astarion’s jaw tenses slightly, and he starts rubbing your back with slow, comforting circles.

“I’ve got this, Gale.”

Gale bows shallowly, “I suppose you do. I’ll be in my room if you have need of me.”

“Gale?”

Gale glances at Astarion, “Yes?”

“Thank you for… for taking care of her.”

A small smile creeps across Gale’s face, “Of course, my friend. Anytime.”

The door closes, and you’re left sobbing into Astarion’s shoulder. As the nightmare fades from your mind, so does the intensity of your sobs, and you eventually untangle yourself from around his neck.

Astarion wipes the last remaining tears streaking down your cheeks away with his finger, “How long has this been going on?”

You glance away from him, unable to meet that penetrating glare, “A while.”

“How long?”

You shrug, “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

Your shoulders slump, “Does it?”

He left me.

Sadness clouds the sculpted planes of his features, and his brows pull down slightly. He reaches out and slips the strap of your night dress back up your shoulder, such a small gesture but so full of compassion and humility.

“I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”

Astarion looks at his hands, “I had it coming.”

“No, I-”

He cuts you off, “Apology accepted. There’s no need to speak more on the subject right now.”

“How did you know?”

Please tell me I wasn’t screaming in my sleep this time.

His eyebrow cocks, “Know what?”

“That I was having a nightmare.”

“Darling, you were positively screaming my name, and not in the delicious way I want you to be screaming it.”

Fuck.

You groan and cover your face with your hands as you feel your heart leap again. A muffled laugh escapes his lips, and he sweeps the hair clinging to your wet cheeks behind your ear.

“Sorry about your shirt.”

He smirks, “Don’t worry about it, my dear. I am well acquainted with all of your fluids. Although, I would have preferred happy tears, but beggars, choosers, and all that.”

A small giggle rumbles in your throat.

“There’s my girl.”

Astarion always knew how to make you feel better, and he seldom failed to do so, even when you were at your lowest.

“You should get some rest. You do look terrible.”

You huff at him, exasperated. He slips off the bed, and you’re suddenly terrified to let him go, so you quickly grab a handful of his shirt.

“Please, don’t go. Stay with me?”

Your tone is more pleading than you would like, and your voice shakes with the unmistakable declaration of fear.

“Are you sure?”

“Please.”

You can feel the tears start to well up in your eyes again. You have perpetually relived losing him in your nightmares time and time again. You will never admit it to him aloud, but you need him now.

“Okay, darling. Since you asked so nicely.”

You get up and close the shutters of your bedroom window and pull the drapes shut tight, making sure absolutely no sunlight would be able to filter in. The last scenes of the dream drift through your mind, making you shudder noticeably.

Astarion looks at you with a cocked brow but doesn’t comment further on your strange behaviour. You crawl back into bed, and he slides in easily beside you. He stays above the covers, and you whimper at the barrier between you.

He tucks you in and lays flat on his back, his hand behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Astarion?”

He shifts, rolling over and turns towards you. His face rests on the pillow just inches from yours. Astarion’s crimson eyes drift to your lips with a longing look before meeting yours.

“Yes?”

You can feel your rationality starting to slip. He’s here, right in front of you, so close you can almost feel the chill of his skin and smell that signature scent. His presence is intoxicating.

I’m home.

You sweep his silvery-white curls behind his ear and leisurely run your fingers along the silky skin of his jaw. You search his face for any signs of discomfort but find none.

I should stop.

Astarion runs his thumb tenderly along your bottom lip. Your breath hitches in your throat, and your eyes lock with his. You give him a heated stare, drawing him in. Your heart picks up its pulsing rhythm, and arousal spreads like a liquid flame between your legs.

But it’s been so very long.

His scarlet eyes are half-lidded in a sultry gaze, and you bite your lower lip in anticipation. He leans forward, closing the distance between you, but hesitates when his lips ghost over yours. A moan escapes you at his delicious proximity, and that’s all he needs to spur him on. A low growl vibrates in his throat as his lips meet yours with a hungry fervour.

All rational thought dissolves as he sends your senses spiralling. The coolness of his soft lips on yours, his fingers on the back of your neck, while his thumb sweeps affectionately across your cheek. He is like a black hole, and you’re dragged in, being consumed by him.

His expertly parts your lips, and you sigh, relishing him, soaking in his familiar taste. His tongue explores your mouth, sending waves of pleasure rocketing through you. Every nerve in your body hums, and you drink him in. Your hands grip handfuls of his shirt, and you tug it free from the waist of his trousers. The intensity of his mouth on yours deepens, his tongue teasing and dancing with yours.

The world drops away, and it’s only you and him in this moment of feral passion.

You’re embarrassingly wet, and your clit pulses in tempo with the drumming of your heart. You squeeze your thighs together in a hopeless effort to relieve the intensity of the yearning throb between your legs. A small smile tugs at his lips, and a sonorous, visceral groan resounds in his chest.

He knows. He always knows.

He runs his fingertips up your spine, and you arch your back instinctively. The coolness of his fingers on your heated skin sends a jolt running through you, and you sigh at the sensation of his touch. Your hand desperately squeezes the sculpted muscles of his side.

He bucks his hips into you with a growl, and even through the blankets keeping you apart, you can feel his erection jutting into you, straining against his trousers.

You’re all instinct, passion and desire. You want him, all of him, right now. The longing ache of your clenching core begs for his hard length, and you whimper at your emptiness, hungering to be filled. Your hand falls to the outside of his trousers, brushing his bulging erection.

With a hiss, he breaks off the kiss and jumps out of the bed.

No, no, no, no, no.

“Astarion?”

Astarion squeezes his eyes shut, his jaw clenches, and you recognize that look immediately. You took it too far, allowing your passion and arousal to cloud your judgment.

“Astarion, I’m so sorry.”

“Hush, darling. A moment, if you please.”

Well, this answers one question I had.

You wait for him to collect himself in an awkward silence. His body slowly relaxes, and his eyes finally open to meet yours.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ha-”

He cuts you off, “This is not your doing. The blame is not your burden to bear.”

“I’m still sorry.”

You know your next question is selfish and one you shouldn’t ask of him, but it spills from your mouth before you can stop it.

“Will you still stay? Tonight, I mean.”

“I’m not sure if I should…”

You swallow the growing lump in your throat, pulling your knees to your chest.

“Right.” You shake your head, trying to part the arousal obscuring your thoughts, “Yes, of course. I understand.”

He turns towards the door, and his hand rests on the handle. The muscles in his forearm tense and relax as he stands there pensively. Astarion glances at you sitting in your bed and his hand drops from the door.

“Move over.”

Move over?

You look at him, and your eyebrows pull down as you attempt to figure out what he means. He comes towards you, and it dawns on you.

You shake your head vehemently, “No, Astarion. Don’t do something you’re not comfortable with.”

You are more than used to him pushing himself to do things he didn’t want to. He had learned to say no and mean it, for the most part. Enforcing his boundaries had always proven to be a challenge when it came to you.

No matter how often you tried to nudge him to tell you what he needed, he consistently kept it from you. It meant you had to try and read his mind, which was a formidable hurdle all on its own.

He observes you with a defiant glower, “Move over.”

With a gentle shove, he nudges you to the other side of the bed and settles himself back beside you.

“Astarion, you don’t have to stay. I shouldn’t have asked. It was selfish of me.”

“I’m fine. Truly.”

You eye him with a probing gaze, looking for all his usual signals that he’s discomforted. As you examine him intently, he glances at you and giggles. It’s an adorable sound and eases the tension that thickens the air and the knot in your stomach.

“You can stop stripping me bare with your eyes anytime, darling.”

Your face twists into a scrutinizing glare, “If I could trust you to tell me the truth, I wouldn’t have to strip you with my eyes.”

Astarion shakes his head at you with a sly smile, “Far be it from me to deny you what your heart desires most.”

Ugh.

“You said you didn’t want to stay. You should return to your room if that’s how you feel.”

“I’m quite comfortable, actually.” He makes a show of further settling into bed, in his usual resting position, “You’ll have to force me to leave if that’s what you truly want. You can cast Telekinesis, no? Throw me out if you wish.”

He closes his eyes, and his face relaxes in a serene expression.

Your eyes roll so hard you swear you can nearly see the back of your head, “You’re insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told, darling.”

You grunt your exasperation and make a dramatic show of rolling over, effectively ignoring him.

Astarion merely snickers at your theatrical performance, “Sleep tight.”

Your eyes peel open slowly. Your vision is still fuzzy, with the remnants of sleep clouding them.

A familiar, comfortable weight blankets your body, and you roll over. Astarion is resting peacefully beside you. His arm is slung over you in an embrace you have not known for some time. His eyes crack open with your movement, and he groans tiredly.

“Well, hello.” Astarion’s scarlet eyes are still heavily lidded with the residue of his trance leisurely dispersing.

“You stayed all night?” You can’t hide the surprise in your voice.

You had expected him to sneak out as soon as he detected the tranquillity of a deep trance overtaking you.

“I suppose I did.”

His voice is deep, saturated with sleepiness, but carries a hint of astonishment.

He wasn’t planning on staying all night.

He clears his throat, “You were positively thrashing about all night. You only settled when I held you. How could I leave?”

Was I?

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, beautiful.”

Glancing toward the window, you see only the hints of sunlight permeating the edges of the heavy curtains shielding the room.

You vaguely recall the nightmare.

Astarion’s pristine ivory skin split apart in glowing fissures.

The half smile on his lips as he dissolves into ash.

The wind that swept past carrying his remains.

You cringe inwardly, trying to force the images from yourself. Your stomach growls loudly, reminding you of your hunger.

Astarion undrapes himself from you and turns onto his back, “Gale is making breakfast.”

“Oh…”

You can’t hide the disappointment in your voice, and Astarion lets out a loud laugh.

“Don’t tell me the wizard's cooking still hasn’t improved. He’s got a whole kitchen at his disposal now!”

You suppress a low laugh but don’t bother answering him. He can surely smell whatever Gale is cooking, and, more than likely, he can tell that the quality of Gale’s cuisine hasn’t improved too much.

You roll out of bed with a shiver and throw on your robe.

“Remember, the upper floors are not curtained.” You remind him as he watches with you with a fixed intensity.

“Dually noted, my dear. Who is up there anyway? I can hear someone pacing about.”

“Gale’s mother lives up there.”

Astarion shoots upright in bed, laughing hysterically.

“The wizard still lives with his mother?!” The amusement dances over his face, “Why am I not surprised?”

You click your tongue in disapproval, imitating him, “Astarion, don’t get any smart ideas.”

He cocks his eyebrow at you in a devious, snake-like expression, “Oh, darling,” his hand goes to his mouth melodramatically, “I would never dream of mocking him… much.”

You shoot him a warning scowl.

“Fine!” He throws himself back to a lying position, “I shan’t mention it.”

“Good. You better not.”

His eyebrow cocks, “Is that a threat?”

“Do you want it to be?”

He looks at you suggestively, “Depends. What would be my punishment for disobedience?”

“Astarion!” You scold him.

“You’re no fun.”

He hops out of bed and straightens his wrinkled clothing, tucking his shirt back in, “I’ll see you later?”

You nod in agreement as he walks to the door. He hesitates before opening it, looking at you to see if you’re appropriately dressed.

Astarion opens the door and peers down the hall. No doubt checking that no rays of sunlight snuck through the heavy curtains. When satisfied that he’s safe, he winks at you and strides down the hallway, vanishing into his dark room.

You waltz down the stairs with more energy than you can recall having in years despite the dreadful nightmare. The manor is usually brightly lit at this time of day, and the darkness takes you by surprise for a second.

The joys of living with a vampire again.

You give Tara a chin rub before heating some water and making yourself some fresh mint tea.

“Good morning, Gale. Would you like some tea?”

You faintly remember seeing his concerned face last night through your blurry vision.

Did Astarion actually thank Gale, or was I still dreaming?

Gale smiles, “I would love some, thank you. I made breakfast. Help yourself."

You look at the soupy porridge and decide to change the subject.

“Thank you for coming to check on me last night.”

“Always.” He hesitates, “Although it seems our nocturnal friend got there before I.”

Your stomach knots slightly at the intonation of his voice. He sounds a little disappointed that he hadn’t gotten there first.

“You can’t compare yourself to him, Gale. He can hear a rummaging mouse a mile away. He likely heard the second my heartbeat started to pick up.”

Gale chuckles slightly, leaning back in his chair while you put the mug of hot, steaming tea down in front of him.

With the mention of mice, Tara peeks out from behind her fluffy tail, “The vampire better not hunt my mice!”

The aggravation in her voice is tangible, and you snicker.

Astarion’s voice echoes through the halls from his bedroom, “I don’t eat vermin!”

Gale’s eyes widen, and he leans in, lowering his voice to a whisper, “Can he really hear that well?”

“Yes, Gale. I hear everything.”

Gale’s eyebrows shoot up, wrinkling his forehead, and he flushes red, looking sheepish.

I don’t even want to know.

You bring your tea to your lips to hide your amused smile.

Gale’s eyes drift to the floor, “Well, that’s certainly disconcerting.”

You reach out and quickly pat his forearm comfortingly, “Don’t worry, you get used to it… eventually.”

Your fingertips plod along the rough spins of the old books stacked on shelves from the floor to the high, ornately carved ceiling in the library.

Candlelight flickers around the room, and dancing shadows caress the walls. Gale’s collection of rare tomes and books was impressive. You have spent many days and nights curled up in here.

Picking a leather-bound book, you sit on the plush couch, curling your legs up under you, and lose yourself in the story.

You feel Astarion sit beside you on the couch before you hear him, “Do you have nothing better to do all day than sit in the dark and read by candlelight?”

“What exactly did you imagine I do all day, Astarion?”

“Oh, I don’t know, darling. Skip merrily about in the sun looking for kittens, puppies and children who need a hero to save them?”

You scoff at him, “My hero days are behind me.”

I was never a hero.

“Finally, some good news!”

You give Astarion’s leg a nudge with your foot in response to his pretentious tone, and he smirks happily at you. Astarion looks around the library scrutinizingly.

“The wizard has quite an impressive collection.” He shoots you with his best warning glower, “Don’t you dare tell him I said that.”

You smile and wink, “Your secret is safe with me.”

Astarion slides his hand across the cushioned seat, and his pinky brushes against your bare foot. Keeping your eyes on the page, you gently nudge his finger in reply. He beams, and his cool hand envelopes you, his thumb pressing firmly into your sole, massaging it.

Your eyes drift closed at how good it feels. Your heartbeat kicks up a notch, and you sharply inhale. A devious, haughty half-smile quirks the corner of his mouth up, and his crimson eyes shimmer provocatively.

“Are we going to talk about last night?”

You shake your head, “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I beg to differ, my dear.”

“Let me rephrase that then. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He sags into the couch, leaning back, staring straight at the ceiling. His thumb still skillfully massages the sole of your foot.

He sighs, “There was a time when you would talk to me about anything.”

You slam the book closed and pull away from him, jumping off the couch, “Yes, there was, and then you fucking abandoned me in the dead of night!”

Gale walks in with his book in the crook of his arm, “Sorry. Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” Astarion says sharply.

“No, I was just leaving.”

Gale’s eyes shift between you and Astarion scrutinizingly.

A disarming smile widens on his face, “If you’re going into the city, would you mind if I joined you? I have a shipment of rare books that needs collecting. If it wouldn’t trouble you too much, I could use some assistance carrying them. I may have overdone it a touch.”

“Of course, Gale. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Lovely!” He bows, “I’ll fetch my boots, and we can be on our way.”

You slide your book back into its spot on the shelf and head toward your room.

Astarion’s voice drifts hauntingly out of the dim room, “You can’t run from this forever.”

I know.

You wind through the high lacquered shelves of Blackwell's Fine Books and Good Tomes while Gale speaks to Mr. Blackwell. It smells pleasantly of sandalwood incense with a slight hint of vanilla. The light in here is dim. Closed shutters garnish the windows to keep the sun’s bleaching rays off the rare texts.

You’ve been here before with Gale when you were searching for books, tomes or any documents relating to vampirism. You never stopped searching for a cure, even after Astarion left.

“It’s nice to see you again, Saer.”

“Good afternoon, Aldous. How are you?”

Mr. Blackwell’s son assisted in the shop from time to time. Aldous had been intrigued by your rather odd fascination with vampires. He had agreed to keep an eye out for anything that may be of interest to you. He was mostly pleasant and well-mannered but obviously born of privilege.

“I’m well, thank you. Looking for more information on vampires? I’m sorry to say we have not received anything new on the subject.”

“No, I’m just here with Mr. Dekarios today.”

“Ah, yes, he had us procure quite the shipment.” His eyes slink over you in a way that makes your stomach churn, “My Father and Mr. Dekarios tend to gossip for quite a while. Perhaps I could interest you in a drink? The Tavern of the Flagon Dragon is not far from here, and I’m sure my father would not want our esteemed guest to be bored.”

Esteemed guest? Spare me.

“No, thank you, that’s quite alright.”

He gives you a haughty look. He was an attractive man from noble money, and you expect he doesn’t get rejected often. His mouth twists into a wicked grin that makes your palms heat up, ready to defend yourself, but it’s gone almost as soon as it was there as he reins in his expression.

“Saer, there’s no reason for us to be dulled out of our minds listening to the languor musings of these two fine gentlemen. It would be my treat, my lady.”

No never means no to the noble class.

“I said no.”

The intonation in your voice is a little coarser than you meant it to be, but you try to plaster on a smile, feigning indifference to his repeated attempt to persuade you.

“Of course. I did not mean to offend.”

His words roll off his tongue in a pleasant and apologetic tone, but his eyes and body language tell you differently. His hand is squeezed into a fist at his side, and his jaw is clenched so hard you’re surprised his teeth haven’t started splitting.

You can’t help but feel a little proud of yourself.

Someone needs to teach this arrogant arse some humility.

You beam a grin at him, “Of course you didn’t. I best check on Mr. Dekarios. It was nice to see you again, Aldous.”

He gives you a shallow, rigid bow, “Saer.”

You stride away confidently, but you can feel the man’s indignant stare boring into the back of your head. It sends a shiver down your spine as if your body is alerting you to a lurking threat.

As you approach, Gale looks at your cross expression and blanches.

“Well, Mr. Blackwell, I best be going. Thank you again for the chat and your hard work obtaining these for me.”

By the look of the small chest, it’s not even a large shipment, but you already knew that. Gale would never ask you out to carry his things for him. He would use magic to do the heavy lifting as he always did.

Gale leans close as you depart the store, “You look rather sour. What happened?”

“Noble hubris knows no bounds.”

Gale chuckles, “Young Aldous, I take it?”

Exasperated at the interaction, you nod, “The man can’t accept no for an answer.”

“My friend, I have no doubt you will teach him the meaning eventually.”

“Someone has to. Gale, what did you really want to do out here? That’s not nearly enough books to require both of our fine magical talents.”

“Things seemed… tense. I thought it best to get you out for some air before you burned down my library.”

You laugh and wait for him to continue. You know what’s coming next.

“And I was hoping we could have a chat. Far away from overly sharp vampiric ears.”

There it is. The real reason Gale asked to join me.

You nod, “I was wondering when you were going to bring this up. Come on, let’s find somewhere to sit.”

You and Gale sit on a stone bench near The Lady Dreaming, one of many enormous statues you could find throughout the city. The sun is hanging low in the sky as night prepares to extinguish its golden light.

“Well, my friend, how are you holding up?”

Running your fingers through your hair to get it out of your face, you look at him with sad, downturned eyes, “I’m a mess.”

“Quite the unforeseen turn of events, eh?”

“I thought he was gone for good, Gale.” You sigh, “I gave up this fantasy. I wasn’t prepared for this.”

“I’m not sure anyone could have prepared for this, my friend. Be gentle with yourself.”

Gale’s hand gives your shoulder a light squeeze, and his brows knit together with worry.

Fidgeting with your hands, you give Gale a woeful expression, “What am I going to do?”

“What do you want to do?”

Be his again.

You shake your head, “I don’t know.”

“You still love him, yes?”

“Always.” Your voice comes out in a whisper as if admitting a secret.

“Then what makes you hesitate? I have seen you run headfirst into far greater danger with far less favourable odds.”

“I don’t know if I can ever forgive him.” You pick at your hands in your lap, “Much less trust him again.”

“You’re still angry with him.”

You rise from the stone bench so suddenly it makes Gale jolt and scan the surroundings for danger, a behaviour remaining from your adventuring days that has never gone away. You pace back and forth, your boots slapping loudly on the paved stone ground.

“You’re Gods damned right I am!” How could he do that? How could he just so easily leave, as if I was nothing as if we were nothing?! After everything we had been through… how could he…”

The flash fire of your rage fizzles out just as quickly as it spawned into life, and your heart suddenly feels heavy and sinks in your chest. Tears brim in the corners of your eyes, escaping the prison you had locked them in.

Gale pulls you into a friendly, comforting hug, “You know, I only ever truly like Astarion when he’s not talking.”

You pull out of the hug and laugh. Gale’s hands rest on either side of your shoulders.

He continues, “But, and I do hate to admit this, it’s obvious that he cares for you deeply. Have you spoken to him about how you feel? Asked him all the questions that have been plaguing your mind since he departed?”

You shake your head, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I fear the answers, Gale.”

“Fear… Fear holds us mortals back so often.” He chuckles with a faraway look in his eyes, “An obstacle we shackle ourselves with that stands in the way of progress.”

Stupid wise wizard.

“Do not let it shackle you in your unhappiness, my friend.”

By the time you and Gale return to the manor, night has blanketed the city in its frosty grasp. Tara wakes up from her bed by the unlit fireplace with a stretch and a yawn. She walks over to you lazily, rubbing herself on your leg.

“The vampire told me to tell you he went out.”

You give her a stroke, “Did he? And what persuaded you to deliver this message?”

“He warmed my milk.”

Gale and you look at each other wide-eyed with mutual surprise.

“Surely, he wouldn’t?”

“Are you telling me the vampire gave you milk, and he even warmed it up?”

Tara glances at you as if you are stupid, “Is that not what I just said?”

You look at Gale with an expression of pure bewilderment and shrug your shoulders, “Apparently, he would.”

Gale’s laugh booms, “The wonders never cease!”

Saying goodnight to Tara and Gale, you go to your bedroom. You light the little brick fireplace with the whisper of a cantrip, imbuing the room with a welcome heat and tawny glow. The fire crackles and pops as the timber starts to ignite.

Sitting on your bed, you think back on the day. Astarion had tried to talk to you, and you ran from it, ran from him and the pain his words might bring.

I have gotten so good at running.

You try and remember when that change took place. When did you get so good at avoidance?

I avoid everything these days - my feelings, thoughts, and memories, even slipping into my trance.

You had never been one to run from your problems before. You had always faced things head-on, preferably with fire in hand. You sigh and push yourself to search your memories, looking to pinpoint the exact moment you decided that hiding or just outright ignoring things was an acceptable solution. Your memories are tinged with tragedy and laced with heartache, and you force them back into the depths of your mind with a shake of your head.

Running again.

Looking at the wardrobe, you slip off your bed and walk towards it hesitantly. Your bare feet pad softly on the chilled floor and your heartbeat spikes. This was one of the things you avoided. This silly, unassuming wardrobe had been opened and shut once when you arrived, and you never dared to do it again.

The hinges creak as you open the door for the first time since you got to Waterdeep, and you peer inside. Everything is as you left it, never to look at it again, until now. Reaching in, your fingers tremble as they brush over the remains of your old life.

You pick up the hefty, carefully wrapped mirror. Gold trim peaks out from the cloth, protecting it from harm. Your heart drums so harshly that you can feel the thumping in your head and hear it in your ears.

Lowering yourself to the floor, you cross your legs, anchoring the mirror protectively in your lap. You carefully unwrap it and stare into the blemished reflective surface. Your image is distorted by the deterioration of time.

How long has he had this thing?

A barely audible soft rasp on your door makes you jump.

Propping the mirror against the wardrobe, you throw the cloth back over it before answering. Astarion is standing there leisurely. The low amber light from the ebbing fire reflects off the vibrant scarlet of his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You blink at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I can hear your heart beating fiercely. I… I was worried.”

You laugh, “Naturally. Untold dangers could be lurking in my room.”

He shrugs, “Perhaps you saw a spider. You always did get squeamish around those and call for me to kill them.”

“Hey! I fought and killed the phase spiders, didn’t I?”

“Oh yes, my dear, I remember it well. You were positively recoiling the entire time, repulsed, and yelping when even the little ones neared. Had I not been there to shield you from them, I worry you, our fearless leader, may have jumped into the chasm to her death to get away from them.”

He laughs hard, “You couldn’t even look at the corpse when we finally felled the bloody matriarch! You made me loot it for you!”

“Made” isn’t the word I would use.”

“Oh? What do you call pointing at it with your eyes squeezed closed, whimpering “Astarion? Please. Astarion, can you?”

Astarion does his best imitation of your whimpering voice.

“That is not what I sounded like!”

“Sure, darling. Of course not. If my memory serves, you even chucked a rock at me when I laughed at you!”

“That’s what you get for laughing at your fearless leader!” A shudder courses through your body, and your face twists into a cringe. “It’s all the legs and beady little eyes.”

“Of course! The legs and eyes trouble you, but not the enormous venomous fangs.”

“You, of all people, should know that fangs don’t frighten me.”

He chuckles, “I suppose they don’t at that.”

“Do you want to come in?”

He smiles, “I thought you would never ask.”

Astarion’s eyes peruse your room. Not having bothered to add additional garnishing, it’s sparsely decorated and furnished, remaining the way it had been when you arrived except for a few scattered books and half-burnt candles. His eyes fixate on the open door of the wardrobe before falling to the floor.

Astarion’s brows rise, and his mouth falls open, “You kept it?”

You follow his gaze. The corner of the mirror peeks out from behind the cloth draped over it—the golden pipping glinting.

“Of course.”

Did he think I would leave it all behind? Leave him behind? Like he left me...

You hadn’t taken many of your belongings when you set out in search of him all those years ago, but you had kept everything he had left behind. His discarded belongings had been the only things you had left of him, and you couldn’t bring yourself to part with them.

He slowly walks to the antiquated mirror and crouches, pulling the cloth covering it away. His fingers gently caress the rough, worn trim with a wistfully nostalgic expression. A small smile quirks his lips up at the corners.

“I never thought I would see it again,” he says in a low whisper.

He was never planning on coming back to me.

Walking over to him, you give his shoulder a comforting squeeze. His eyes trace up to the open door of the wardrobe, halting at the neat bundle housing all his things.

“You kept everything…” He reaches out and plucks the faded envelope resting atop his other belongings, “even this.”

Astarion rises back to his full height, and he turns the letter over and over in his hands, examining it. The yellow colour has faded to a light flaxen hue. Creases are strewn over its once flat surface from all the times you had crumpled that letter up intending to dispose of it.

You had spent many nights staring down at it, willing yourself to relinquish it, burn it, throw it in a chasm, or destroy it in some kind of dramatic fashion, hoping it would make you feel better.

You could never bring yourself to go through with it.

In truth, when his scent had long faded from the articles of clothing he left behind, that damn paper still retained it, and it had brought you some comfort during those lonely years.

Astarion deftly takes the old letter out and unfolds it. The ink has paled over time and, in some spots, has run and become smudged where your tears had fallen on the page.

His fingers graze the blotchy blemishes, “Why?”

“It was all I had left of you.”

“I’m s-”

You put your hand up, “I don’t want to hear it.”

Gale’s words echo in your head, “Do not let it shackle you in your unhappiness”

I need to stop running.

“Not tonight, at least.”

He nods, “I understand.”

Astarion’s jaw clenches as if about to say something, but he stops. Folding the faded letter, he slides it back into the envelope and returns it to the wardrobe.

“You should get some rest.”

“Don’t you want the mirror and your things?”

He hesitates at the open door. Astarion gazes into your eyes intensely. They are brimming with profound love and intimacy.

“Everything I could ever want or need is standing right in front of me. Goodnight, my only one.”

The door shuts with a low click of the latch, and you’re left alone again. You return to the open wardrobe and hesitantly finger the envelope. Carefully wrapping the mirror back up, you put it away and close the door.

He is not going to make being friends easy, is he? But, perhaps, I don’t want him to…

As always, big thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. It really does brighten my day, and I hope you're enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing it.

Chapter Master List - Shadow of the Past

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

AO3: Crossposted

Happy Holidays!

#astarion x mc #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion smut #astarion ancunin #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion romance #astarion x reader #baldurs gate astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion baldurs gate #astarion and tav #astarion fanfic #astarion fic #shadows of the past #astarion x oc

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vivasharme · 1 year

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Hsjsfjkfrkhsdkhdshkds lazy map of region concept for rain world

#i’ll explain it later in detail #it’s basically a jungle overrun by scavs #I do have an iteration logs thingy for viscid love but I recently made that her name and she used to be dozen lovers so I gotta fix that #rain world #rain world region #rain world iterator #rain world downpour #rain world art

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januaryembrs · 1 year

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LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant x Reader [1]

description: Steven finds his life slowly turning upside down when the man in the mirror starts talking back, he's sleepwalking all the way to the Alps, and the woman he's besotted with from work finds herself more caught up in all of it than he'd ever wanted. [Last Night in Soho inspired]

word count: 11.1k

trigger warnings: gore, blood, swearing, reader has a dark past that will be explored more read at discretion, third person & no use of Y/N, death, reader will become an avatar eventually,

main masterlist | series masterlist

Authors note: I have been in love with this show since I watched it and have finally started the fic I’ve been wanting to since it came out! The chapters are going to be long and readers backstory is dark but this is a piece very personal to me and I hope you enjoy!!!

She felt someone picking up her limp body. The museum lights had long since been shut off, but through the darkness of the exhibition she caught a tall figure standing over her. Her lids were heavy, vision bleary, yet she blinked a few times to try and straighten her mind that still felt like it was pulsing stiffly in her tight skull. Her voice was no better, the only sound she could let out was a guttural whine as the stranger pressed hard on the three deep lacerations on her abdomen that were now gushing blood like a scene from a 90s slasher movie.

They were broad, blocking out the minimal slither of light as they crouched over her and seemed to be yelling something. Probably scolding her for getting copious amounts of thick blood over the freshly mopped floors, she thought numbly. The sound came to her in something akin to static, a muffled string of nonsense. All she knew was they were talking loud and fast. Or maybe she had a concussion too? That thing had thrown her through that glass wall pretty hard.

She couldn’t see a mouth moving, nor could she actually see their face, just two beams of white blinking down at her.

This couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t be happening for real. She thought maybe someone had slipped something in her drink when she was at the club, but that was two days ago. There would be no reason for her to be feeling the effects only just now. And when she had been jumped on by one of those things she’d sure as hell felt it. She'd seen it with her own two eyes the way her clothes had been ripped as something plunged its claws deep into her, heard the air whoosh out her lungs as it hurled her through the partition wall.

She’d felt, still felt, the open wound seeping so harshly that she knew it was going to be fatal.

There was no coming back from whatever fever dream this was.

She blinked again up at the mystery guy who seemed to be holding her heavy head gently, but the hot, red wetness on his hands that smeared on her cheek said he also knew how fucked she was. He was muttering something, was there someone else here? Oh god, where was Steven?

“Stev-” Came her broken murmur, but the metallic taste crawling its way up her throat cut her off as a blob of viscid blood rolled down her chin.

“He’s here, he’s okay. It’s gonna be okay,” Said the voice back to her, his grasp on her hair tightening as she garbled. The breath, life, was leaving her now. Every time she tried to get air into her lungs, she was met with more of the thick liquid spraying into her mouth, her chest retching for oxygen.

She didn’t have long left, she realised numbly.

The room was blackening round the edges even more now, sped up by the way she felt her hands grabbing his arm in a panic. She’d thought she would welcome the cold hands of Death, it wasn’t a stranger in her home. Death rooted himself in her very soul, and yet as it dragged her under consciousness, she couldn’t help but feel like a scared little girl and she tried to cling onto the mystery figure as if he could keep her from Death’s greedy clutches.

It was sweet poetry, knowing she was drowning from the inside out. She had always known her biggest monster lay within her, in her every cell, festering and rotting her, since the moment she was born. There was really no other perfect way to sum up her whole life than it ending this way, choking on her own body. Grabbing onto a stranger, trying to plead for help as a few precious tears wet her face and she realised she was crying. Scared, vulnerable to her own demise like she had always known she would be.

How do you fight off a monster coming from within? You don't. You can’t. So she didn’t.

No amount of soft words or desperate touches on the figure helped her, it only made the departure messier, a bigger pool of blood for them to find her in.

The world felt surprisingly calm the moment she was snatched ruthlessly into Death’s open arms.

FOUR DAYS EARLIER

“Come the fuck on, Steven” Cursing under her breath, she cradled the two disposable cups of coffee tightly, her rosewood coloured lipstick surrounding only one of the lids. The London air whipped her coat around her shins, frigid and unwelcoming as it was even on a good day.

As per usual, Steven was late for work. The two of them had an agreement to meet each other outside the museum every Wednesday and Thursday, which meant his lateness slid in her own time. She could of course just meet the undoubtedly dishevelled man inside, but what kind of a friend would she be then? Leave him to face Donna’s wrath on his own? No, if he was in for a bollocking then so were she.

Friends didn’t exactly come easy to her nowadays, either. So if waiting in the bitterness for another five minutes meant she could keep this one, then so be it.

She had even taken the time on her commute to work to grab him a drink, the thin, black ink on the sticker reading: LATTE, + CARAMEL, -XTRA ESPRESSO SHOT, -XTRA HOT. she had banked on him being late despite the fact she had left him three messages this morning asking if he was awake (he wasn’t) and called him last night before bed to remind him not to sleep in.

A minute or so before she would have figured he was just calling in sick today, she caught sight of a slouched figure dashing off the bus, the grey knitted cardigan belonging to only one person his age in London. His thatch of messy black curls were a next dead give away, as well as the bags under his eyes that never seemed to budge even if he were to sleep two days in a row. Yet, she couldn’t help but smile at the way he seemed to apologise to a flock of pigeons he nearly trampled on in his haste up the many steps leading to their workplace.

“Donna’s going to serve our heads on sticks to scare away rude customers, you know that right?” She said, handing him his drink, now lukewarm, as he nearly crashed into her own body.

“Thanks, Dove,” He said absently as the two of them headed quickly to the entrance, “Yep, I’m aware I’ve buggered us. Bloody weird dreams again,” Steven shook his head as if to rid himself of the odd thoughts. “Sorry though, love. You must be freezing,”

She was freezing, but the way he was quick to worry over her warmed her insides more than she’d care to admit. The nickname crafted just for her, the bird symbolising ‘Quiet innocence’ in Ancient Egypt, as Steven had once told her. Sure enough, the endearing term had stuck quickly, and it warmed her to know she had a special enough place in his life to have a pet name.

It was plain to see just by looking at the twenty-five year old she was smitten with her co-worker. No sane person stands outside in Brittain’s April winds for just a friend. But Steven was different, which she knew was what every naive young girl said about their work crush, but he truly was. Steven had a kindness she had never known someone to offer without wanting anything in return, which he didn’t. He was so sweet to her she understood why he loved the sugary caramel syrup in his coffee so much, she thought often it glazed his every word with a honeyed tone. His face was a blend of a greek god and a lost puppy, a combination she never would have banked on being so damn attractive until she met him.

Even his smell alone of a quiet library, a rain soaked meadow and freshly brewed coffee had her inebriated.

“It’s fine,” The woman reassured as she cut through the main lobby where it was already lively with school kids. A few queued up at the gift shop to pay for their treasures; she smiled when she saw a girl with an Anubis plushie tucked under her arm. “I’m sure she would have found a reason to snap today anyway,”

She adored her job, she really did. Graduating university with a degree in Ancient Languages, working in London’s heart of archeological texts had been a linguist’s version of Broadway. Sure, her talents were beyond soured working in the gift shop, but anything was better than the life she’d fled to get here.

No amount of sneers and dry remarks from Donna could ever drag her kicking and screaming back to that time before she left for Soho.

“What did you dream about this time?” She asked, her black, kitten heels clicking against the freshly polished marble floor.

A ghost of a smile spread across his face, and her eyes couldn’t help but linger on the way his brows lifted, giving away his amusement at his own head. “It was the weirdest thing. I felt like I was flying over London, but not, like, in an aeroplane or anything, like I was flying. Like, me. No wings or anything. Like I’m bloody superman or something.” Steven shook his head again and she gave a small laugh.

“Certainly beats getting the underground. You know, I saw a rat the size of a dachshund this morning, swear on my life. I thought it was about to ask me for spare change,” Steven smiled at his colleague as they entered the Ancient Egypt area. She took a sip of her own hot latte, sweet cinnamon with whipped cream that had long since melted, the liquid already half devoured when she was waiting for him to show up.

“Don’t you ever have dreams like that, then? That feel so ridiculous. It's like, how can my head even come up with it?” Steven asked, and her smile wobbled a little as she saw her manager set her predatory gaze on the two of them. The people pleaser in her wanted to cower at Donna’s furious expression.

In all honesty, she wished for dreams as ludicrous as flying over Piccadilly like a Mary Poppins wannabe. She wished she had Steven’s innocent look on life, that the world around her didn’t terrify her, that it could be as gentle with her as he was.

But that was not real life.

Her dreams were not filled with silly fantasies of flying like heroes. They were filled with dark monsters that looked too much like men to be supernatural, that managed to catch her no matter how many times she ran, begged, screamed. They always caught up to her. Always. Leaving her clawing at the duvet, drenched in sweat and a pulse that could challenge a hummingbird’s.

“Brace yourself,” She ignored his question, muttering the words to him as the blonde came strutting over to them with a daggers look. Ah, Donna. The woman that made her job so joyful, so easy, a delight to be around.

Donna hated her almost as much as she made it clear Steven was on a metaphorical hit list the moment he stepped foot into the museum.

“You pair better have a good explanation,” Donna snapped, dumping a tower of boxes in Steven’s arms.

“Bus times-” Steven said at the same time she came out with:

“Road works-”

They both stopped, hesitating a glance to one another. The blonde looked between them, shaking her head with a furrowed brow and a scornful sigh.

“It’s like tweedledum and tweedledee having you two together,” She muttered, nudging the younger girl towards the stands in the middle of the gift shop, “Dum, you’re stock shelves today, love,” The term didn’t sound nearly as friendly coming from her mouth, nor did it make her chest flutter like it did when Steven said it. It was condescending, rude. Made to make her feel inferior, which it did. She pointed at the man then, shoving a basket of insect themed sweets to him behind the till, “Dee, you’re selling these.”

Donna looked between the two of them one last time, her steely blue glare never wavering, as if checking they could be left alone together without wasting company time, before going to set her unforgiving jaws on some other poor creature.

The girl set her bag behind the counter and got to work organising the merchandise, twisting the ceramic scarabs to all be facing the front.

It was a menial job at best, being stuck stacking shelves as mothers and fathers reached over to inspect the new stock, most of the time messing up the meticulous order she’d put them out in. Kids got their grubby mits all over the glass pyramid paperweights, making her eye twitch since she knew she’d need to polish them up again, only to flash them a smile and ask them kindly if they had the pocket money to pay for it.

They didn’t, kids just liked to fiddle with priceless things and their parents were too busy on their phones to notice.

She was half way through showing two young girls to the sarcophagus themed pencil cases when she caught sight of Dylan at the front counter, leaning in to talk to Steven.

Dylan was a nice woman to work with. She was one of the only people who’d tried to coax conversation out of the greenie the first week she started there, which had been painful for both of them since she had never been known to be sociable. Companionship did not come easy to her and it was only by sheer luck that Steven seemed so similarly awkward in a charming way that she was able to feel comfortable around him.

It was childish really, a silly work crush that she had no intention of ever letting slip. He was too good for her anyway. He was sweet and kind, gentle, innocent. Everything she was not.

Steven Grant deserved someone who could give him the world. Which is why it shouldn’t have come to too much of a stab to the chest when she heard what the two of them were talking about.

“We still on for seven tomorrow?” Dylan asked, her hair falling in those beautiful, tight curls over her shoulder. Dylan was the type who showed up to work every day looking effortlessly gorgeous which clawed at the younger girl more than she cared to acknowledge. She liked Dylan, she really did. She was friendly in a way that was genuine, didn’t have her second guessing whether she meant the compliments she gave to anyone.

Some days she wondered if Dylan pitied her. A plain Jane girl with no family to lean on, trying to make ends meet in a city as extortionate as London and chin deep in university loans. It was enough for any attractive, confident adult woman to kiss their teeth and “Awww”.

The girl watched the two of them, waiting for the teenagers to decide which stationary sets they wanted. They were looking for ‘different but matching’ they had said, not that she was paying much attention to them. Steven’s face was the picture of lost as he stared at the grown woman, seemingly entranced with her face. And she couldn’t blame him. Dylan flashed him a teasing smile, brilliant white teeth poking out from behind her luscious dark lips.

“Seven tomorrow?” He asked, despite nodding happily as if he understood what she was talking about. But his friend didn’t miss the confusion blaring on his face, his eyes as brown as the coffee she’d bought him scrunched up slightly in bewilderment.

“Best steak in town?” Dylan prompted, her smile not faltering though she seemed to also be slightly thrown off that had forgotten.

Their unknowing audience kept her head down, not wanting to watch for a second more of their conversation. She didn’t need a degree to see the way Dylan had leaned in, her body language turned completely towards him as if to tease him with what could come if their date were to go well, her own almond eyes trailing over him with the air of confidence her younger counterpart lacked.

“Oh right, yeah. Yeah,” Steven replied. She could tell he still had no clue what Dylan was talking about.

“Yeah? Okay,” Dylan replied, oblivious to his dilemma, and stepped away from the desk to go tour the new group of school kids waiting in the hallway.

Steven followed her trail hotly before she could leave, “Sorry but,” He stepped towards her to talk a little quieter, almost embarrassed about how forward he was being, “Are you asking me out?”

Dylan stopped, reeling slightly in shock before she wagged a finger to him and chuckled. “You’re funny. I’ll see you then.” She seemed unbothered by his ‘joke’ though she could hear in his own voice he was muddled. The woman walked away with a sultry looking smile, her eyes flicking to her where her other coworker silently arranged the pencil sarcophaguses. “Morning, babe,” She gave the girl a friendly squeeze on the upper arm as she passed. It only made it more difficult to writhe in jealousy knowing the woman he was seeing was downright lovely.

“Morning, Dylan,” She returned the smile, though the bitterness festered inside her. She had no claim over him, and she really couldn’t blame the two of them for gravitating towards one another. Not only was she merely twenty-five, a decade under Steven and Dylan’s thirty-five years, but Dylan was sexy, confident, flirty. Knew what she wanted. She was incredibly smart too, not an airhead like some other people trying to live the big dream in London. Dylan was a tour guide at the British Museum, and what was she? A graduate with a dead degree, pun intended, and a job that could be done by any wannabe walking in here.

Taking a moment to rearrange her feelings, shoving down the way her heart wriggled in her chest as the little green monster worked its way through her veins, pumping disappointment around her body like a drug.

The two young girls seemed to only then decide which pencil boxes they wanted, unbeknownst to her inner turmoil, and she remained silent as she led them over to the till to talk to Steven, more for her own benefit than theirs.

“I didn’t know you’d asked her out,” She said finally, though it came out as a croak, which she cleared from her throat quickly. Steven scanned their items as the girls both fiddled with ten pound notes, the great Queen Elizabeth staring at the woman from their hands as if she even knew how childish she sounded.

“Neither did I,” Steven replied honestly, printing off the receipts for them, “And you would think for a woman like her there’d be no chance I’d forget a date, you know what I mean?”

Ouch. She smiled tightly, waving the younger girls off as they caught up with Dylan’s tour group. The woman of the hour. Of course he’d be elated at the sound of that, what man with eyes wouldn’t? Anyone would count their stars lucky to be given a chance by a temptress like her.

“Must have needed that coffee today after all,” She joked, though she couldn’t bring herself to smile properly, instead finding a middle ground between a grimace and a simper.

Steven chuckled at her, shaking his head. “Must have. What would I ever do without you?” She grinned painfully at him, looking away to try and hide the way her face grew hot at his thoughtless words. “Am I still walking you home tonight?”

Another of their routines. She lived closer to Islington than the lovely apartment Steven had in Whitechapel. Despite paying a lot per month to live so close to the city centre, some areas of London like the borough she lived in was still ridden with some of the highest crime rate in the county. Steven was more thoughtful than anyone she had ever met, a rarity in this place, and on the days they were at work together he would ride the underground home with her before detouring around to his own apartment even further away.

“Uh, no,” She replied, busying herself with unloading one of the boxes Donna had dumped in Steven’s hands earlier. She loved spending time with Steven, loved it so much that she felt guilty of lusting over him without his knowledge, but she couldn’t bear to hear any more about this date that he would no doubt want to pick her brain apart over. He’d want to ask what to wear, how to style his hair, if he should buy her chocolates and flowers even though she already knew he would. And the whole time she’d be hoarse in the throat from holding back the urge to say Date me instead, I’m begging you. “No, I have a date of my own tonight,”

Liar. Liar. Liar.

It was like their monarch Elizabeth was still glaring at her, judging her through her inky lashes and driving the dagger in further at the fact that this kind of behaviour was exactly what made her too immature to be considered for a real date with Steven.

He raised his brows, surprised. It wasn’t uncommon for her to have an occasional fling with a guy every now and then. But none of them really progressed to a date, just a single night of passion to groan over in embarrassment when Steven asked how her weekend went.

“Oh, who’s the lucky guy?” Steven asked, nudging her shoulder in a tone that was nothing but teasing.

“No one, just someone I met on tinder,” She brushed off, the lack of excitement making the man stop trying to pry a smile out of her.

“What’s the matter?” She shrugged at him, not coming up with a response in time. What he took as nerves was in fact guilt and disgust feasting on her insides at the fact she was lying to him. Lying. There was no mystery man, no one coming to save her from this awkward display of what pure jealousy can do to a reasonable person. “You can always cancel if you don’t want to go.”

“I just…” she trailed off, stuck for what to say. He was looking at her with those puppy eyes no grown man should be able to perfect. And yet he was patiently waiting for her to stumble on the right set of words, his entire focus on whatever it was troubling her. That was another thing, for as chatty as a person as Steven was, he was just as good a listener, and she could tell he gave her everything every single time they would talk. “I just don’t know what to wear, is all,”

He seemed content with her answer as his eyes trailed down her body. She squirmed under his gaze but hid it well (not at all) by pulling her cardigan sleeves over her hands and balling her fists to fidget with, “Wear what you’re wearing now,” He said simply, as if it were obvious.

She looked down. A large top and casual jeans did not exactly say date worthy, though she wasn’t sure if there were actual rules to hypothetical dating, seeing as her man was fucking imaginary.

She giggled at him nonetheless, shaking her head, “These are my work clothes, Steven. I can’t go like this.”

“Why not? I think you look lovely,” Steven’s comment was passing, tiny in the scale of things. Yet it sent her heart scrambling for a grip on reality. He was just her friend, complimenting her on her perfectly ordinary clothes. Nothing more.

It wasn’t until she found herself smiling at a set of metal Pharaohs that she realised she needed to get a date for this evening fast. If Dylan and Steven could find someone in this wide city, surely it couldn’t be too hard for her to.

Sound was the first thing that came back to her. The crappy animated kids show she had been watching out of pure boredom last night was still playing after being left on all night. No doubt running up her already high electric bills. The exaggerated, slapstick bangs blared through the speaker. That caught her attention, drawing her into the awake like a fog horn from shore. The midday sun slipped through the open curtains, flicking over her lids and coaxing her to open them. She did so gently, lashes batting over her cheeks as she tried to make sense of where she was.

Her sofa.

The two empty mugs glared back at her from the coffee table, making her eyes wince in confusion. Why was she making tea so late last night?

Then the stench hit her. The smokey yet overwhelmingly powerful smell of a gentleman caller named Jack Daniels wafted up her nose and brought back a panorama of memories flicking through her head; The date. A real date that had been scheduled since Thursday. A completely ordinary blonde named James. The restaurant. Him being almost too charming. Fake laughing at his jokes she had already seen on Twitter weeks ago. Him touching her thigh every chance he could get. Suggesting they go to a club. Dancing. Shots. More dancing. Sharing a beer she pretended not to think was the most horrendous thing she’d ever tasted. More shots. More dancing. Him grabbing her hips. Her waist. Him kissing her neck, cheek, lips. Him grabbing her more, something she would find sleazy if she wasn’t desperate to force Steven out of her intoxicated brain.

Which led to her apartment. The sofa, as classy as it sounded, was seemingly a better option than her bed. She had been quick to shut him down when he suggested moving it to her room; that was too intimate. That was her space, which would only be tainted by this stranger wanting to bend her over. So the sofa it was.

Whiskey served in old mugs she got from the gift shop being chugged for Dutch courage. The same mugs she had bought with Steven as part of a set. They had taken two each, promising that they would be used whenever the other visited.

She had given him Steven’s mug out of spite, even in her vodka riddled brain she was burying her feelings six feet under.

Her hand shot out when she heard her phone buzzing, not wanting it to wake up her actual gentleman caller.

The phone was clumsily brought to her ear, not even bothering to check who was calling before she swiped the green icon.

“Hullo?” It came out a horrible croaky mess and had her coughing the second she’d asked.

“Hi, Dove! Just called to see how your date went.” Steven’s voice blared through the speaker, which only served to have her pulling it away and groaning. “And also to tell you about my dream, I think it was the weirdest one to date!”

“Woah, slow down, Steve-” She tried to say, but the man had clearly a mouthful to tell her and continued on regardless.

“I was in the alps, but it was all so real. There was this group of people taking it in turn to hold hands with this weird American guy, and then I got into a high speed cupcake-van chase with the lot of them because they started saying I’d stolen this little scarab thing from them, I don’t know where I get this stuff from-” Her eyes scrunched together in pain, though she lay in the quiet and tried to gather her bearings. She sat up from the sofa, shivering when she saw it was around midday outside and she had forgotten to close the window.

“Sounds intense,” She mused to keep him talking, pulling a blanket over her still nude body as she stood to close it and preserve the heating. Her head spun as she stood, a rush of bile rising to her throat dangerously, which she choked back down and looked around the room. Quickly realising she was alone in her flat, she shuffled over to the kitchen in her blanket cocoon to find her purse to see how bad the damage her little excursion had done to her limited stash as any responsible youth did after a night out in London.

“It was! I swear it was like I could feel the cars smashing into me- Oh right! How was your date?”

She blanched, head still pounding, “Uh. Yeah it was great.” It was average at best. “He was super funny,” For a Twitter fraud. “So romantic,” If romantic was the new word for ten minutes of missionary and not even making her cum. “He took me wine tasting,” She was sure she’d be tasting the wine she’d bought at the club any second now judging by the way her head spun, “Yeah, he was great,” He wasn’t you, Steven.

“I’m so pleased for you, love!” Her best friend cheered, a part of her writhing in repulsion that she had lied to him again. Though maybe that was the wine begging to make an appearance. She stuck the lever down on the kettle to get the water boiling, sure that a fresh cup of strong tea would be the only thing to pull her through this hangover.

Part of her, the dark, twisted part, wanted him to be jealous. Wanted to make him as frustrated and envious as he had unknowingly made her. But he would never, could never. Steven was tender and good. He was too sweet to ever think a single bitter thought towards her, towards Donna even. Which only served to make her feel even more rotten inside.

“How was your date with Dylan?” She forced herself to ask. It was selfish for her to think, but she wished more than anything for him to tell her that it went horribly. She hated the part of her inside that sang with glee at the idea of him hating his date. She truly was wicked inside, and the idea only reminded her more of why she would never be asked on a date by him. Maybe he could see it too, how sick she was for wanting the world to suffer if she couldn’t have the one man she’d ever truly wanted.

“That’s not until tonight, love, remember?” He said casually, as she fumbled around her kitchen for her handbag. She locked eyes on the little black clutch sitting on top of the counter. Her brows furrowed in confusion, she could have sworn Dylan said they were meeting Friday, two full nights ago. Her heart plummeted, maybe it was a second date.

Ofcourse it was. Ofcourse they hit it off, who wouldn’t. He was as smitten as anything and Dylan wasn’t that kind of woman that was too afraid to tell him exactly what she wanted. If she wanted to see him again, then Steven would give her exactly what she asked for.

“Tonight?” She asked, squeezing the phone between her shoulder and her head as she popped open the clasps to her bag.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t forget a woman like her twice in a row,” Steven joked. But what should have made her gut curdle in pain only fell on deaf ears.

Her purse was gone. Her purse that never left her damn bag, that she had stuffed her rent money in as soon as she’d gotten it was missing.

“I-I’m gonna have to call you back, Steven,” She uttered through the heart sized lump in her throat. Her palms were already clammy with sweat, both from the drink and from her sheer panic, “Good luck on your date,”

“Alright, gators!”

She barely got a chance to murmur their goodbye back before she had thrown her phone down on the plain, white counter and dumped out the contents of her bag.

Hair ties, the odd two pence, a pen she stole from the bank. But no purse.

She turned her coat pockets inside out, the blanket falling down her waist and exposing her round breasts to the cold air. But she couldn’t care less. The goosebumps slithering up her arms did nothing to fight the hot panic as the sofa cushions were thrown off their frame, the young girl still turning up empty handed.

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.

This could not be happening. She hadn’t opened her bag all night, even when she got out of the taxi she had her phone readily in her hand and the bag tightly closed. Someone could have taken it in the club, sure, but that made no sense seeing as her bag was definitely still heavy with the wallet when she had gotten home, not near empty like it was now.

Which only meant…

Her date had fucking stolen from her.

“FUCK!” She yelled, throwing her vacant bag across the room with tears brimming her eyes.

It seemed life had been digging a trench underneath Rock Bottom reserved for her at a time like this. And she was left clutching at the muddy walls, trying to drag herself to safety and anywhere that wasn’t her shitty situation where she pined over a man she could never have, where she was still walking the line between sane and whatever else was brewing inside her, fighting against tendrils of hatred and chaos, malignance, that wrapped around her organs and reminded her where she came from, what she was. A life where she got mugged by the men she fucked at her expensive pity parties.

She just hoped Donna wasn’t too hard on her tomorrow after this shit show of a weekend.

“Late, again,” Came the chiding voice the moment she stepped in the building.

Sweat dripped down her back from her long trek through London to get to work. 48 minutes of power walking is what she had been reduced to, unable to get the bus or underground for lack of money.

And she was still late. She was expecting a nice, fat kick to the teeth any time now.

“It’s five minutes, Donna,” You pleaded, yanking an earphone out. Music was the only thing that could block out the thrum of anger and agony she was in from the weekends chaotics.

“Even Stevie-”

“Steven,”

“-Was on time today and he’s the worst for it,” Donna snapped, and the young girl could do nothing but slump in defeat.

“I’m sorry, Donna. It won’t happen again.” She promised. She wasn’t sure if she meant it yet with her lack of transport, but she couldn’t lose this job. She didn’t even know how she was going to pay for this month’s rent let alone catch the bus, breakfast itself had been skipped in an attempt to conserve food. Her stomach ached from the exercise, crying out for anything to fill its distressed cavern. “I got robbed yesterday so I walked,” She murmured, avoiding the blue eyes that had narrowed in on her. She hated feeling pitied, feeling as though people were sorry for her. But it was the truth, and the truth sucked sometimes.

She wasn’t sure what beam of light had shone out of Donna’s ass this morning, or whether she really did look just that pathetic, but the blonde woman just sighed and nudged her towards the gift shop.

In perhaps the nicest tone she’d ever spoken to her, Donna quietly said “Last warning, girl, alright?” The younger woman thanked her quickly, her small voice sheepish. Her boss looked down at her in discontent, “Alright, get going. And you’re on inventory with Steven tonight so best behaviour, I mean it,”

She nodded, turning on her heel to speed towards the gift shop.

Turning from the main lobby to enter the Ancient Egypt exhibits, she’d not gotten halfway there when she’d caught up to Steven seemingly helping a customer. Odd considering the fact he wasn’t even in the shop yet, but knowing Steven he’d probably stopped to chat the guy’s ear off about something he knew too much about to be just a giftshoppist.

She went to wave when he looked up and met her gaze, but the forlorn, scared expression she found there had her already negligent smile drop completely. Steven seemed relieved to see her, too nervous to say anything to the man himself as he stood too close for his comfort.

Her eyes fell to where the stranger held Steven’s hands tightly, murmuring something to him that seemed to have her friend freaked out. The whole sight threw her for a loop, and she called his name on instinct, the new man’s head shooting up to stare at her blankly.

Speeding up her pace, she met the two as Steven pulled away from the stranger’s strong grasp. “Steven, are you okay?” She asked gently, looking from her friend to the lithe figure of the man. He wasn’t tall by any means, but his presence, the way he dressed and held an intricately woven cane seemed meant to make himself superior. His hair was long and greying, still young enough to be attractive but probably a bit older than Steven. A neat sort of scruff sat on his chin, and old blue orbs took her in head to toe where she stood. Not out of lust, but out of intrigue.

“We were just talking, weren’t we, Steven?” The man said calmly, seemingly sizing her up himself. She looked over her shaken friend quickly, the alarm written over his face that had near brought him to tears telling her all she needed to know.

This man was no friend.

“Sorry, I don’t remember asking you,” She snipped in the cold politeness English people all knew how to enact, bringing her friend’s hand into her soft one for reassurance. Steven had never seen her so infuriated. And perhaps it was the weekend she’d had or the way the man so gentle he refused to kill insects seemed to be trembling beneath her hand, she wasn’t sure, but a fierce frown was deep set into her face that dropped into concern the moment she looked back to him, “Are you alright?”

“Can we go, please?” His round, nut brown eyes were soft and welled up as he quietly spoke, as if asking for her permission to be away from here despite being the older of the two. Her heart dropped at his sad expression, and she felt him squeeze her hand as if needing to reassure himself someone was there to save him.

She had no time to note the way the butterflies swelled in her stomach as he did so, focused on getting him away from the strange man.

“Ofcourse,” She said softly, turning to direct him to their little corner of the museum, hoping that the stranger would get the hint and just leave them be.

That seemed short lived when a cold hand wrapped itself around her lower arm, a gasp drawing its way from her lungs. She could feel the panic of being grabbed by the unfamiliar man crawling up her spine, her limbs going numb, her hearing dipping in and out of static at the adrenaline flushing through her system.

She heard Steven say her name as her head snapped to where the man’s strong grip tightened around her wrist. He seemed to stare at her with something calculating, and she wished she hadn’t run her mouth despite the fact she did so to protect the same person who was now behind her, a deeper sense of panic blaring in his eye than before.

“Let go-” Taking a deep breath to overcome the bubbling fear rising in her chest, her only words were cut off by a much clearer voice.

“There is a darkness in you,” The stranger said, as if he knew it for a fact.

Her heart plummeted.

Was it so obvious? No one had ever been able to see it, she buried it so deep in the hopes no one would ever get a glimpse beneath her kind shell. But it was a facade, and even he knew it. The shock must have read clear on her face as he pushed on, as if to reopen scar tissue with his bare hands.

“And chaos, oh there is chaos.” Her lips quirked between her teeth as she tried to stop them from trembling, “A shadow looms over you, little dove.” She felt Steven pull her closer to him, but this man had her every morsel of attention. How did he know, if he knew then surely Steven knew too. Knew she was born so dead she felt she was living a lie by being here. The man laughed to himself, just a small breath but it was enough to break her spirit, “What is it those witches say about Macbeth? Something wicked this way comes.” He asked though he already knew the answer, as if to entrance her with his own spell, “And I see you are truly something wicked.”

Her breath left her chest. The voice escaped her throat. Every intention of protecting Steven had practically evaporated out of her body as her co worker tugged her arm hard enough that the stranger let go of her.

“Leave us alone or I’ll call the police, alright?” Steven murmured with a new sense of courage, “I don’t care if you’re friends with the security here, you leave us alone,”

But the man’s eyes hadn’t left her, as if he knew just how deep his words had struck with her. He wormed his way into her brain even as Steven led her away with a kind hand on her back, his own words of reassurance coming to her as if she were underwater. As if she were being dragged under a current.

“He has no clue what he’s talking about, love. He was trying to get into my head too,” Steven said, but he could tell by the lost look in her eyes it was barely being registered.

“Who the hell was that?” She asked after a moment, the feeling in her fingertips just about awakening once they were far enough away to be considered safe.

“You won’t believe me if I told you-”

“Steven, please,” She begged, looking up at him with a desperation he had never known from her. That man, Harrow, one of the women in the alps had called him, had truly shaken her up with the near omen he had given her.

Steven couldn’t understand why, she was possibly the loveliest girl he had ever met. There was no one who so much as held a torch to her light in Steven’s eyes. She was kind. Gentle. Good. This Harrow had no idea what he was talking about saying she was wicked. She was anything but.

Steven sighed, looking at her gravely. “Remember yesterday when I said I had that dream the other night. When I was in the alps, and those men were chasing me for some scarab I’d stolen,”

She blinked at him emptily. In her defence, her brain had still been riddled with alcohol when he’d been rambling, and she had gotten caught up in her own personal issues since then to take much notice. But the scenario sounded familiar as she wracked her brain for the information, some light sparking in her eyes when it clicked to their phone conversation the day before.

She stayed silent, eyebrows furrowing, “You said that was a dream, Steven. That man is very much real,”

“I know, I thought it was a dream,” Steven explained, “But now they’re here, and they keep saying I’ve got this scarab and what not. I don’t understand any of this, love. I’m sorry. I just know he’s dangerous and we need to stay far away from him,”

The younger woman looked at him sadly. He was clearly in distress himself, and she felt a flash of sympathy run through her at his lost expression, yet his eyes were full of concern for her well being.

She knew what it was like to struggle to know what was real and what was not. What it was like to feel as though you're barely keeping your head above the waters of reality. Yet she trusted Steven would tell her if he knew what was happening.

She knew he was more honest than anyone she’d ever known, so she didn’t push.

“Alright,” She said with a heavy sigh, rubbing her eyes to relieve the pressure building in her frontal lobes, “Alright, let’s just steer clear of him, okay? And if he comes back, we go to the police together.”

Steven seemed relieved, which wasn’t a surprise since he knew it was a big ask to have someone trust such a ludicrous story. Yet he didn’t know why he doubted her. She was loyal and would never dream of ridiculing him like other people might. She just took his word as gospel.

She was too good to him.

“Okay, yeah. Good plan,” He said, nodding and checking behind him to see if the guy was still after them when a smaller body pressed its way into his chest.

She didn’t know why she did it, whether it was for his benefit or hers, but she hugged him. Tightly too, as if she had been holding back for a while (she had). They hugged all the time, when saying goodbye at her train stop, when they saw each other on a morning given they weren’t running late. But it never felt like this, so intimate. So much like she needed him so desperately.

Perhaps it was childish, but the way he drew her closer, resting a head on top of hers as if he needed the contact as much as she did made her heart flutter even with the strange circumstances. For a moment, they both felt safe, like Harrow couldn’t get in their heads entirely because they had each other to ground them, reassure the other that they were not alone in the web his ominous words had spun them into, and that was enough for now.

Yet the two of them barely spoke all day.

Whether it was they were too busy with their actual work, or they were both in their heads thinking just what Harrow had meant by his prophesying.

It wasn’t until inventory was nearly done that she spoke first.

“We’re going to be alright, aren’t we?” She asked, his head cutting to hers from where he was scanning some Beefeater Rubber ducks. He seemed to notice the slight glint of fear in her tone, “As in, they don’t know where you live do they? Or me?”

“No love, of course not,” At least he hoped they didn’t. Steven realistically couldn’t promise anything, he had no idea how far this Harrow’s network of followers ran. But he knew for certain he couldn’t stand to see her so scared. It ran a streak of anger in him that was unusual. Steven never found himself particularly angry, but it had run red hot when he saw the way Harrow had grabbed her and knocked the soul out of her with his words alone. “If you want, you can stay at mine tonight? I’ll take the sofa, you can take my bed,” After he’d swept away the giant ring of sand of course.

She smiled at him finally, maybe the first proper one she’d shown him all day. And he couldn’t help but feel his chest grow lighter that he had done that. Gods be good, she was pretty when she smiled, he thought.

“Thanks, Steven,” She said quietly. He was confident the two of them could figure this out together, and if he was sure of her, then how wicked could she truly be?

She knew it was a cop out, that she hid so much from him that he didn’t know the real her; that if he did he would turn tail and run as far as he could from the monster in front of him. That he would curse himself once he realised Harrow was right; she was polluted down to her marrow.

“I’ve only got this box left to do, love, then we can get out of here,” Steven promised, his eyes flicking over where she collected two half full crates of merchandise and headed out of the gift shop to the stockroom.

“I’ll take these out and meet you in the lobby?” She called over her shoulder, hearing him agree as she walked away to the area meant for employees only.

Sighing deeply, she put the crates down gently, sliding them into a bottom shelf out the way of clumsy feet (most likely her own). A thought jumped in her tired brain, and she was quick to turn out her pockets for any spare change she could use for the train fare back to Steven’s apartment.

Just as she suspected: empty. Because why would she be so lucky as to have anything good happen to her. She could always try and persuade Steven to walk home and save the embarrassment of revealing what actually happened to her Saturday night, but she knew the pitiful look he would give her if she told him the truth of her date. The sad eyes that would flash that neither of them needed after a morning of such anguish.

They didn’t need another of her pity parties today, and she grimaced at the thought of how horrendously the last one ended. Though she knew Steven was different, that he would never do anything so cruel to a stranger let alone herself.

It only made her heart yearn for him more.

Sighing, she thought on her feet as to what to tell him as she left the stockroom, locking the door behind her with the key Donna gave them all a copy of. Her heels rhythmically clicked on the freshly polished floor that reflected her frowning face back at her as if to remind her to stop looking so tormented.

She saw the light of the main exhibit at the end of the darkened hallway, heading towards it at no rush since she figured Steven would likely just about be done himself. Lost in her own head as to what excuse to give the man she called her only friend, she almost missed the deep sound snarling in the shadows behind her.

Whipping her head around with a wide eyed expression, her eyes flicked around the hallway for any glimpse of what made that sound.

But she saw nothing. Not in the way shadows were nothing, dark patches of nothing, as in she saw nothing there. Had anything been lingering behind her, she would have at least caught or heard any movement.

She paused for a second to take another look, only to still come up empty. Her foot warily continued its original path, figuring the sound must have been the cleaners dragging something against the floor.

“Hey, Steven,” She called upon approaching the lobby where he’d be waiting, “Do you reckon I could owe you a coffee for my train fare? It’s just-”

Her voice cut out when she heard the low growl again, much louder this time. Loud enough to have her wince and stop in her tracks in the centre of the room.

She caught sight of the navy blue jacket she knew too well walking backwards slowly, his eyes trained on something in the adjacent corridor.

“Steven-” She whisper yelled, his panicked eyes snapping to hers, “What the hell is that-”

His arm raised out to point at the shadow illuminating the wall. Her gaze fixed on the shadow of a wild dog of sorts, its snout long and open in a fierce grin. She could practically see the outline of the drool dripping from its sharp teeth, at least she hoped it was saliva she thought gravely.

Her breath left her instantly. What the fuck was that? Her knees felt as if they were about to buckle underneath her, calves going numb as the adrenaline flushed over her body in tidal waves. She was always a dog lover, she’d had two as a kid, but something told her whatever kind of beast this was, it was not nearly as friendly as a tamed canine would be.

And it seemed Steven realised it too as he was quick to cower behind a display of an ancient relic clutching his bag to his chest tightly.

His frantic eyes pleaded for her to move, but she seemed frozen to the spot.

The overhead tannoy rang melodically, as if God was preparing to make the announcement that they were truly fucked, something she didn’t need a bulletin to know.

“Steven Grant of the gift shop.” The sound of that familiar voice had her heart plummeting into her gut that twisted painfully. Did this guy have attack dogs or something? How had he gotten them past security? They looked huge. “Give me the scarab and the two of you won’t be torn apart,”

The scarab? Everything Steven had said about his dream was true. And if that was true then that meant this guy was a nut job capable of having his entire team hunt her down for so much as associating with poor Steven who looked as lost as she felt.

The shadow moved, shifting around the corner of the hall to enter the open lobby. A scratch-like sound found her ears, as if someone were running knives over a cold slab, and she realised with a shiver this thing must have claws.

And they were approaching.

An open mouthed growl echoed through the room, which only served to confuse her even more. From the volume alone she knew the thing was big, and in the very same room as her. Which meant she surely should be able to see it as she could see the entire length of the room it had to be walking down.

But that was the thing. There was nothing there.

“Steven,” She whimpered quietly. It was stupid, making that noise and attracting attention to herself. But she was scared. She wanted to know what to do. Wanted comfort that she wasn't going insane, that maybe this was all a practical joke and there really was nothing there.

A second set of razor sharp nails entered the room from the same direction, yet again she could only decipher that on sound alone. The chorus of snarls that only got closer did nothing but have her step back on instinct.

“Steven-” She said again, only to see him standing in a rush.

“RUN!” He yelled, taking off towards the exit.

She didn’t need to see the dogs to know they were in the way of her and the same route Steven had taken, so she settled for scrambling back the way she came. The black heels she wore for work to seem professional only proved to be useless when running from wild animals, it seemed. Who’d have thought it?

Her feet pounded down the maze of exhibits, trying to make it to the exit where Steven had headed towards. But for every one step she took, two paws advanced on her like an apex predator heading for its kill.

Which she no doubt would be.

Turning past the Anubis exhibit her stomach dropped when she heard a strong body colliding with the same wall she had practically skidded past. Her lungs burnt with effort, her breaths coming out in wheezes. She had one last turn and before she would be seconds away from the fire exit that she could barricade from the outside.

The feeling of the dog’s hot breath on the back of her ankles had her pushing herself harder, too scared to look over her shoulder. She was coming up to where the hallway split into two and she headed for the right where she was sure the back exit was. She couldn’t help but wish Steven was able to outrun the mutt on his own heels, having not heard from him since she had taken off in separate directions.

Taking the turning past a remaining chunk of what was once a Cleopatra statue, her eyes adjusted to the dark corridor. Where were the slab paintings of the sphinx? Where were the memorials to King Tut? They should be here, they’re always next to this exit-

Her chest constricted when she realised her mistake. Her grave mistake.

In the panic of escaping the creature, she had taken the wrong turning. She should have gone left.

Yet judging by the way the animal grunted with the effort of the chase, she had no option but forward.

Forward to a dead end. To the Setekh exhibit room.

The walls were alive with paintings recovered from ancient tombs. The god of Storms, among other things, was feared through all of Egypt in the later dynasty. He was associated with all things evil, mysterious and disordered. The huge altar that held the statue of Set, his long face foreboding and as cold as the stone it was preserved in, looked down at her in almost malice as her feet took her into the one place she had left to go.

It wasn’t until she felt the walls surrounding her, the penny dropped how fucked she was. There was no way out, no cutting back the way she came as the creature ran into the vast room with her. Dodging one of the plinths containing statues of the demon god, she had barely a second where her pace slowed down as she considered how she was going to turn back before she felt it.

A force stronger than a freight train hit her from behind. She heard every molecule of air get pushed from her lungs at the sheer weight of it, her throat audibly yelping. Its body collided with hers with a weight that she was sure must be pure muscle, and she was thrown to the hard floor with less effort than a child tossing a ragdoll.

The impact had her ribs rattling in her chest, brain bouncing against her now bleeding forehead. The cold floor was harsh against her raw skin. Her nose made a loud pop as it smashed against the marble, a hot sting erupting over her entire face.

But the worst was yet to come.

There was a moment when she was collecting her thoughts, head spinning from the collision. She was sure she’d damaged something in her skull as it pounded, harder than it ever had with any hangover.

She’d give anything to be back on her sofa feeling sorry for herself.

She hadn’t the time to pick herself back up when she felt something large do it for her. It must have been eight feet tall with how big its behemoth paws were as the one grabbed her leg and dragged her on her stomach towards itself. Like a cat playing with a mouse. Not ready to devour, not yet. Just playing. Torturing. Tormenting.

Then came the claws. Her eyes looked down at her ribs, the thin air surrounding them making her cry out in horror - there still wasn’t a fucking soul in sight. No dog, or animal. Or human even. Nothing. Yet her shirt ripped almost too easily as it let out a deep hiss of what she would call a near laugh and sunk its talons into her side.

That was when she started screaming.

Her throat hurt from the volume alone, a banshee shriek akin to a horror movie. It reverberated through the museum halls, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

Vision started slipping then. Whether it was panic or her mind protecting her from what was coming next she didn’t know, but all she knew was everything felt weightless for a moment.

She thought maybe she was dying and ascending at that moment there and then. But she wasn't so lucky. She was still being made this creature's bitch as the God of chaos watched. What beautifully horrible irony.

It was then that it clicked in her stress-addled brain that she was not in fact weightless. That the reason she felt so was because she was now being suspended midair by the thing that had her in its vicious grasp.

It took shockingly little effort for the creature to throw her through the wall-sized fortified glass surrounding the monolith and for her whole body to crumple to the floor.

Steven slammed the bathroom door shut with a panting “Oh God”, his coffee brown eyes never leaving the thick metal that shook with the weight of the monster throwing itself at it violently.

What the fuck was his next move? What even was that thing? He retreated further into the bathroom with a lost expression, clutching his arms for a semblance of comfort.

“Steven,” The man in the mirror spoke in the same American accent he’d been hearing in his own home.

Looking at his reflection, he was agog to find the man identical to him moving on his own, as if independent from Steven himself. That was not his reflection, he knew that much, no matter how much it looked like it. “Steven, I can save us,” He said darkly, his eyes and frown much meaner than any expression Steven would ever wear.

The way he stood was entirely different too, as if he were bigger in stature despite being encased in the exact same body as Steven was.

“W-What?” Steven whispered, backing away from the door that weakened by the second.

He thought of Dove. Had she been able to get away, run out the front door and get help from anyone who would believe her? He hated the thought of those adorable little heels she wore clattering against the floor, he wouldn’t be surprised if they’d slowed her down. He always heard women complaining about walking in heels let alone running from fucking monsters in them.

Where was she?

“But I can’t have you fightin’ me this time,” He had felt like he’d been playing tug-of-war with his body for some time. But against what, he hadn’t known. His own reflection? This man staring back at him in the mirror with a scowl he knew wasn’t plastered on his own expression? “You need to give me control. You understand?”

He swivelled on his heel to see the man in the full length looking glass behind him, who seemed to tower over him in frame.

“No, what? Control of what? What are you talking about?” Steven bumbled, his eyes looking over the stranger’s shoulder to see the door shaking on its hinges now. Dents were appearing now where the monster was caving its way into the bathroom, and one look at the length of its claws told Steven all he needed to know. He stood no chance against this thing alone.

“That thing’s about to break through the door. We’re out of time.” The man said, realising their predicament as much as he did. This couldn’t be real. This had to be a dream, the lot of it. The entire day. From that Harrow guy to the idea that he could possibly lose her to some ancient wild dog.

“No! No!” Steven cried, flinching as the door clattered one more time, the frame whining with the effort at which it held the assailant at bay.

“All right, hey. Listen to me,” The mirror man tried to reason, but Steven was panicking too much to hear him.

“Dammit, no! Stop it!” Steven slapped himself around the face a few times, begging with anything listening to wake him up from the worst nightmare he’d had yet. The image of her being chased by that thing wouldn’t leave his welled up eyes. He wanted to run to her, god knows he would have if that thing hadn’t been stood in between the two of them, blocking his way to her. “This is not real! You’re not real!”

“This is real. I’m real.” The man spoke calmly, as if a diametrical opposite to his own mood. He seemed to know more about what was happening, what that thing was, what it could do. Perhaps that was why Harrow had been chasing him in the first place.

Either way, Steven didn’t care. Not now at least. When the only person outside of his parents that he had ever held affection for was in danger. Imminent danger.

“No! You’re not,” Steven yelled back at his reflection through tears.

It was then he heard the screaming. A howl of visceral pain enough to rattle his bones at the familiar feminine tone to the voice.

It was her.

It was like nothing he’d ever heard, like an animal in a slaughterhouse. He trembled in his place at the thought. She was in danger. Oh god it had her.

“I’m gonna die- She’s gonna die-” Steven whimpered, the tears rolling down his olive cheeks at the thought. He really was useless.

“Steven, look at me.” He finally listened to his reflection with a pitied sniff, “You’re not gonna die, I can save us. But she is if you don’t give me control right now. Let me save her, okay?”

That was the straw that broke Steven’s resolve, the idea of her dying. He had never found it so easy to concede.

He just hoped the man using his body got to her in time.

She couldn’t see a mouth moving, nor could she actually see their face, just two beams of white blinking down at her.

She’d felt, still felt, the open wound seeping so harshly that she knew it was going to be fatal.

There was no coming back from whatever fever dream this was.

“Steve-” Came her broken murmur, but the metallic taste crawling its way up her throat cut her off as a blob of viscid blood rolled down her chin.

She didn’t have long left, she realised numbly.

How do you fight off a monster coming from within? You don't. You can’t. So she didn’t.

No amount of soft words or desperate touches on the figure helped her, it only made the departure messier, a bigger pool of blood for them to find her in.

The world felt surprisingly calm the moment she was snatched ruthlessly into Death’s open arms.

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