#I don’t think I’ve ever dreamt of so much gore and blood before

[xx-sketchy-xx]

Paper doodles for the soul. I’m working real hard on making new art, but my tablet is having a good old time not working. So here are drawings on paper

Hopefully I’ll get it up and working soon :)

[consumedkings-archive]

i. devour ✤ helmi x jestiny

full cult au + “i’ve dreamt about this” requested by @adelaidedrubman

word count: 1.9k

warnings: canon-typical drug use, cults run amok, dubious consent because of the drug use (but it is safe i promise), lots of allusions to cannibalistic imagery, excessive use of the word "want" and "hungry" (sorry), hints of helmi/jestiny/kajsa if you squint, canon-typical descriptions of gore and violence : ^ ) obviously this is elaborating on some themes of emotional manipulation (as cults do) so please do not read if you are uncomfy!

Helmi has always been a completionist.

It’s not that she’s a particularly competitive woman; she’s just efficient. There’s no task set out ahead of her that she cannot get done, large or small. A problem is presented, and Helmi solves it. Sometimes it’s an easy solution. Sometimes it requires brute force. This part, she always plays by ear.

Jestiny is no different.

She would almost be frustrated by the existence of the other woman were she not so interested. There’s weeks of back and forth. She can’t afford to lose track of what the true task is: wrench, slice, gut. Empty them out onto the snow. Paint it red, red, red. But if there’s something that drives her away from her duty—heart, heart, that’s what you are, pumping blood out of our last dying breath, spill it onto the earth for our Mother to feel—it’s the incessant, obnoxious chattering in the radios from the deputy. She cannot stand to have her work undone, and yet: there is an undoing, in human shape, burning in the back of her mind until her molars are grinding together.

It is frustrating to have her attention so raptly caught, so fiercely entrenched in a net of thorns she cannot possibly pull it away without causing irreparable damage, and especially for Kajsa to notice.

She can still remember the first time she had come back to the others, radiating irritation because as much as she likes the cat and mouse, she wants contact. Fingers and teeth to meet in the flesh. And she hadn’t been sure how to reconcile this feeling with the knowledge that one day, the Father of Many Faces may ask her—through Kajsa—to rip her ribs open and clean her out.

And as though she can read her mind (perhaps she can, you know, she always seems to See Us), Kajsa had looked at her and said, “Do you want her?”

Helmi knows her expression had crumpled. Twisted up, mouth downturned viciously, quickly directing her eyes elsewhere so that Kajsa cannot see the ache in her.

“It’s not my job to want,” had been her reply.

“Do not be foolish.” Kajsa had cut a piece of her apple, pushing the piece departed from the apple’s body into Helmi’s hand. “Get her.”

Her heart had felt sticky. Hot, jumping up in her throat. It had been a long time since she had wanted. “Kajsa—”

“Now it is your job, no?” And Kajsa waved her knife, wet with apple, dismissively. “And maybe I want her. Get her.” And then, planting the flat edge of the blade against Helmi’s lower lip to quiet the oncoming protest: “For me.”

Of course, she could not have refused, even if she wanted to. Even if the cool metal of the blade had not reminded her of who it was she answered to, even if the sticky-wet of Kajsa’s voice did not tell her there was no arguing to be had.

So she does: get her.

It takes a long time. Longer than, normally, Helmi would like. It’s impossible not to rush where the redhead is considered, anyway; Jestiny pushes all of her buttons, goads her, coaxes and shoves and bites and kicks her way through every interaction (sometimes, literally). But each time Helmi leaves their coincidental run-in with a bite-bloodied lip, she’s hungrier.

Wanting.

She spends their time apart wondering how sweet she will be when she finally acquiesces. There’s no lack of Jestiny spitting out fuck yous and get the hell outs, but one day—Helmi knows this—it won’t be so much vitriol. She doesn’t want it gone, just...redirected. Used more intentionally. And she thinks about what it will be like to grab a fistful of that red hair and tilt her head back and have all that skin just for herself.

Well, herself and Kajsa.

It’s so frequent that the moments in time permeate her sleeping hours, too. She dreams about it; dreams of the submission, acquiescence, of the redhead tilting her chin to give her more skin to kiss, digging her nails in and saying more, Hel, give me more, I’ll take more, of kissing her. Gods, does Helmi just want to kiss her.

But when it takes a little too long, when the days are dragging by with no deputy swaddled up in their family, Kajsa says, “Enough playing, Helmi.”

She’s halfway to the truck when the woman speaks, stopping with her hand on the handle and the keys dangling from her fingers. Helmi looks back at her black-haired paramour.

“I’m not,” she says.

“I know you,” Kajsa replies. “You play with your food.”

Yes, Helmi thinks, willing her expression still. I do.

“Make a meal of her if you are going to,” Kajsa continues, “but I am tired of waiting, Helmi.” Her head tilts, slate-gray eyes dark sharp. “Tonight.”

And that is how Helmi finds herself in a room filled with the overwhelming scent of lavender and smoke, rich, wet earth pummeling her senses. She had wanted to bring Jessie around without it, but what Kajsa wants, Kajsa gets—so here she is, standing in the doorway of a room filling with smoke, vents stuffed with wet herbs and radiating the fetid smell throughout the house.

It’s clear that Jestiny has had very little exposure to it, despite their frequent run-ins. Her eyes are a little glassy, hands curling into fists at her sides. She looks pissed.

“What—” Just that one word is already slurring. “What the fuck did you—are you doing to me?”

Helmi takes in a slow, measured breath. It’s potent, even to her, even when she’s been dosed on it in exponentially larger amounts to build up her tolerance. “Opening you,” she replies after a moment.

“Fuck you,” the redhead spits. “No-fuckin’-vacancy. We’re closed. Closed the-fuck-up, compadre—”

She’s rambling already, too. Helmi rolls her eyes. “To the influence,” she clarifies, as though she doesn't also want to open up Jestiny for her, taking a few steps forward. The sound of her feet hitting the floor bounce in light waves around her, even as her heart rate stays slow against the drug. She can taste it coating the inside of her mouth, it’s so wet; and when she gets within touching range, Jestiny blinks, flinching and recoiling, like she hadn’t seen her coming even though their eyes had not once left each other.

She rasps, “Get out.”

Helmi’s eyes narrow. Normally, she would have obliged. For the game. “No.”

“Get—” Jestiny sucks in a sharp breath. “Get the f-fuck—”

“Aren’t you tired of playing this game?” Helmi demands, channeling what of Kajsa still roots itself in her mind. “You don’t belong with them. The Resistance, the Seeds—they don’t want you. You can see it now, can’t you? Now that all of that garbage is pushed out of the way, all of those pesky walls pushed down, you can see that they’re using you. You’re nothing more than a checker piece in their fucking backgammon game.”

“Shut up—”

“They don’t want you,” she repeats, and the room is so hot, so fucking hot it’s sweltering and she wishes she’d shucked at least some of her layers before coming, if only for temperature control. Oh, well. Too late. “Not in the way you deserve.”

She reaches up, hand landing on the juncture between Jessie’s shoulder and neck. She had foregone the gloves, at least, but that had been for selfish reasons; because she wanted to feel. All that skin.

The skin-to-skin contact had a strange, wild little sound crawling up Jestiny’s throat. She sounds upset. Distressed.

“They don’t want you,” Helmi says again, pitching her voice lower, so close so close so mine, “the way that I do.”

She imagines it must be scary. The first time being opened always is. But vulnerability is scary; openness, seeing, is scary. The drugs allow for true sight, but it’s not always what the person wants to see, just what they need to see. And Helmi can tell that Jestiny is panicking, does not like seeing the truth in Helmi’s words, because she makes a sound like choking.

Helmi kisses her.

The woman stills, freezing ramrod-straight. She doesn’t return the gesture, not right away; instead, she stands there and just lets Helmi kiss her. It’s not until she starts to pull back that the redhead finally reacts, reaching up and grabbing the wrist closest to her neck, digging her nails in again. Helmi only pulls back far enough to leave breath between their mouths, but Jestiny is gripping her like she’s going away forever. For good.

“Again,” Jessie manages out, hoarsely. “S-Say—Say it—”

“I want you,” Helmi says when she realizes what it is Jestiny is asking for. And she is asking, which she has never done before; it’s always only demanding, ordering, commanding. So Helmi glides her hand up the woman’s neck and threads her fingers through her hair and says, against her mouth, “I want you, little snake.”

That strange little sound comes out of the redhead again—but it’s clearer this time; a moan, agonized and distressed, like she wants and wishes she didn't.

The air is thick between them, wet and humid and riddled with the overwhelming darkness of the earth. She watches the woman’s bubblegum-pink tongue dart out, wetting her lips, and Helmi feels that emotion gnawing at her insides again:

Hunger.

She has spent years stifling her appetite; she’s tired of it. She wants to hunger, to be caught wanting, and she doesn’t mind—Kajsa had said she could. Had ordered her. It was her job to want, and to be hungry, and she feels it now more than ever. Absently, Helmi twists a lock of copper hair around her finger, watching it coil tight and then slip loose again, falling from her fingers; embers embers embers, in the dying light, and she can’t look away. She’s always had a thing for fire, anyway.

“You won’t believe me,” she murmurs, lifting her eyes to meet amber ones, the corners of her mouth ticking upwards, “but I’ll say it anyway.”

Hel dips her head down, guides her mouth across warm skin; hungry, wanting, but she doesn’t care to be seen like this—prefers it, actually—so she says, “I’ve dreamt about this.”

“Shut up,” Jestiny manages out, her voice breaking a little. “Sound so f-fucking stupid.”

Hel tightens her grip on the copper hair again and tugs. “Brat.”

A most unbecoming squeak comes out of Jessie, her brows furrowing in irritation and face flushing a gorgeous high-colour. “Feel like shit,” Jestiny slurs. “You made me feel like shit.”

“I know,” Helmi whispers back, the closest she will get to apologizing for making her see the truth. “But you belong with me.”

She knows the way the Resistance and the Seeds talk about Jestiny. It’s always belong to, not belong with, but she’ll show Jestiny that it’s different now. They’re different.

She’s different.

And there’s nothing quite like kissing her, Helmi decides, as sweet as she imagined that it would be in her dreams, because now Jestiny is kissing her back—parting her lips and fisting the dark fabric of Helmi’s sweater, rambling something against her mouth that Helmi can’t quite make out over the sound of her blood rushing through her head.

Later, she will dream about it. Later, she will roll over in her makeshift bed, and pull the then-sleeping redhead against her, to assure herself that she’s there, and every bone in her body will sing at last, at last, we’ve got you at last. Later, she will bury her face into the crook of the redhead's neck and indulge herself in warm skin, hers for the taking. Later, she will trace every single dip and curve with her fingers. It will be as sweet as kissing.

But nothing will be quite so sweet as the way it feels when Kasja turns to see them coming from the truck, hand-in-hand, a smile curving her mouth as she watches them and says:

“Welcome home.”

[ecoamerica]

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

[jinxytsl]

Nightmares (Stevinel Story) Steven Universe

For Stevineltober, (I know, it was last month - I’m slow) I decided to merge the two prompts ‘nightmare’ and ‘insecurity’ and I came up with a short story. It will be below the line. A comic will be posted soon after that goes with it.

WARNING: Steven x Spinel themed, angst, slight gore, death, suicide, yelling.

NIGHTMARES

He took a step backwards. The black grass crumbled into ash. Smoke was rising from every crack in the hard ground. Pink acid flowed in streams between the chasms. Unbearable heat rose from the soil. His dry skin was sweating over his bruises and cuts. His jacket was torn and his hands were burnt and bleeding. He had bruises on his face. Tears streamed over his skin. His mouth was bleeding. He couldn’t heal himself.

He had lost.

Gem shards lay under his feet. The shards of his friends and family. They had shattered only minutes earlier. The boy stumbled backwards, his lip trembling, his whole body shaking. He had lost, and he had accepted it.

He stared in sadness up at the top of the Injector. The hour-glass shaped machine was empty. The bio-poison had infected the whole planet. Without his powers, without his friends, he was nothing. He had lost. The planet was dead.

There was only two people left here.

The gem stood on the edge of the Injector, staring back down at the tiny figure. She trembled. Shaky tears rolled down her scarred cheeks. What had she done? Was this really what she wanted? Was all this worth it?

There was no reversing this. The planet that had been protected from danger for thousands of years, was now completely and utterly destroyed in a day. And it was her fault.

Even though they were so far from each other, they knew exactly what each other was thinking. He was devastated beyond repair, but he had accepted his horrific end. She was regretting every action, wishing she had stayed in the Garden, hoping with all her gem that maybe Steven Universe could fix all this. But deep down she knew he wouldn’t survive much longer. She knew she had killed him. She had killed his planet.

He was dying painfully. Spinel couldn’t bear to watch any longer. Why did she do this to him? He didn’t deserve this, did he? He didn’t abandon her. Pink did.

Spinel shook her head. She put her hands together, swelling them up to enormous fists, clenching them tight above her head. Tears dripped down her gritted teeth.

She threw her fists down on the top of the Injector. The impact sent shockwaves through the enormous crystal spaceship, shattering the head and breaking it beyond repair. Steven gasped, stepping backwards when he saw the Injector break.

“No,” He whispered hoarsely, his lip trembling. “Please, no…”

Spinel wept bitterly, wailing in sadness. She lifted her hands again, bringing them down forcefully for a second time. The Injector head shattered more.

“Spinel…” Steven whispered, his voice tight and pained. “Stop… please…”

Peridot had told him earlier that the Injector could explode under pressure. Steven was beginning to believe that Spinel knew that. This was her escape. Where else could she go? Back to the Garden? Homeworld? She didn’t belong anywhere. Steven had only a few seconds to rescue her. He had only a few seconds before he became the only living soul on the planet. And he had only a few minutes of being the only living soul on the planet after that.

“Spinel!” He yelled. But she would never have heard him. She continued to beat her hands on the Injector head, wailing loudly. She felt cold and hollow, despite the sweltering heat rising from the corrupted planet below her. Her pigtails hung low and she shrieked loudly in anger and despair.

The final blow came. The Injector glowed bright white, blinding lights beaming from the cracks in the shattered head. Suddenly, there was an eye-scorching flash, and a deafening explosion.

Spinel’s tear-stained face disappeared in the pink light. The explosion was so forceful, she was in shards before her form had disappeared. The pink mushroom cloud formed suddenly and violently, sending tsunamis of pink acid out into the poisoned oceans. Steven was knocked backwards in the impact, the shockwaves of the explosion shattering glass and felling dead trees.

There was a few minutes of dread-filled silence. Slowly, the pink smoke turned to black ash, and the last of the shockwaves faded out. Steven lay on his back, bleeding and whimpering, the burning ground scorching his skin and his clothes. He slowly sat up, weak and trembling. In his last moments of life, the scarred and insensate boy sat on the planet he had been raised on, surrounded by the dead bodies and souls of his friends and family. His home was gone. His planet was destroyed. After thousands of years of protecting it, it was all gone.

He glanced down. Amongst the ash and burnt soil, he spotted a few pink shards. They had landed after the explosion. The boy crawled forwards on his side, reaching over to pick them up. He held them between his fingers, tears streaming down his face unbearably.

“I guess I can’t save everyone.”

He pulled the shards close to him as he lay backwards on the ash and dust. Pink acid ate away at the soil, burning closer and closer to him.

“Spinel, I’m so sorry. I wish I could have protected you. I wish I could have protected everyone.”

He breathed in hoarsely, only inhaling black dust that clogged his throat. He whimpered, blood trickling down his lips, sweltering pink acid licking at his fingers. He choked, his breathing raspy and uneven. He held Spinel’s shards close to him, coughing and spluttering, blood and tears cooling his scorched skin. He opened his eyes one last time, seeing the ground crack, a wave of pink acid curling above him, ready to swallow his body into its ocean of destruction, melting away his flesh into a pile of burnt bones and a forgotten diamond.

*****

His eyes were wet when he opened them. His pillow was soaked beneath his head. He bit his lip, looking up and glancing out the window. The sky was blue, painted with white clouds, and hanging delicately above a row of green tree-covered hills and a beautiful blue ocean. There was no bio-poison. There was no Injector. No death, no destruction. Only thriving life. Relief flooded into his mind like a waterfall.

Suddenly, he heard static at the end of his bed. He looked over at the maroon TV propped up at the back of his room, and saw a screen of black and white static. ‘No, no no no,’ He thought. ‘I broadcasted that one, didn’t I?’

He looked to his side and his heart missed a beat. There were crinkled sheets where she had been sleeping beside him. Steven gagged, looking around frantically, immediately wondering where she could be. He was usually the one to wake up first.

“Spin– Spinel! Sp–”

The moment he saw her, he was almost paralysed with terror. She was sitting at the end of his bed, her pigtails right down, her body trembling. She was curled tight, whimpering and sobbing to herself. Her eyes were on the TV screen.

“Spinel…” Steven whispered. “Are you…”

“I’m terrible,” Her voice replied, hoarse and nearly incomprehensible. “I’m terrible and you know it.”

“No, no no no no no that wasn’t you,” The boy wept, scrambling out of bed and walking towards her. “That wasn’t you. You would never.”

He reached his arms out to her. Instead of running to him and hugging him tight like she would normally, she rose to her feet and stepped away from him, her eyes wide and filled with sadness.

“But that’s what I was going to do!” Spinel exclaimed. “When I took the rejuvenator and the Injector to Earth – that is EXACTLY what I was going to do! I wanted you to die alone on that barren world! I wanted to kill you so bad but – but I had no right to do it!”

“Spinel please listen,” Steven wailed. “I didn’t mean – I didn’t want to ever think of you that way! I know you’re not a bad person! I know you’d never do that to me, or to anyone or planet! You’ve changed now!”

“But you know I wasn’t before,” The gem spluttered. “That’s why you dreamt about it! That’s why you’re still thinking about it! I could have killed you! I could have killed your planet, and your friends!”

“But you didn’t!” Steven cried, tears streaming down his face. “I never EVER think of you that way! I can’t control my dreams! I – I – I trust you! I care about you! I – I – I love you!”

“I don’t believe you anymore!” Spinel shrieked, her voice uneven and pained. “If you still see me that way when you’re unconscious – you must still think I could hurt you! You know I could!”

Spinel clenched herself tight, shying away from the weeping boy.

“I CAN’T TAKE IT!” She screamed. “I’M EVIL! I CAN NEVER CHANGE! I’VE SCARRED YOU AND I WILL NEVER BE FORGIVEN FOR WHAT I’VE DONE!”

“I DON’T SEE YOU THAT WAY!” Steven howled. “SPINEL, PLEASE! I’M SO SORRY! I LOVE YOU! PLEASE!”

She raced past him, crying openly and bitterly. He ran after her, following her out of the sliding door and up the ramp to the dome. He begged her to stay, repeating bitterly how much he loved her, his head filled with the terror his nightmare had caused both of them. They would never move on from this.

[teacup-crow]

Glory and Gore

No-one 'round here's good at keeping their eyes closed.

Zombies, Make! Round 2, 19/09/20. Thanks @crownleys and @puptart as always.

Simon and Five don’t sleep, they just banter. Set early-mid S2, spoilers up to S2M14. Based on prompt 3 - Glory and Gore by Lorde. CW implied childhood abuse. 

Really, it should be written into the Runner’s Handbook: glory comes with gore. You’re going to see things nobody should ever see, and you’ll try to shake them off with a glass of whiskey every night, and somehow be stupid enough to come back again and again and again for more. Your reward, of course, is the adoration and gratitude of Abel Township. It’s addictive, really.

Five is addicted to the job.

That’s not so bad, really. Of all the vices one could have in a post-apocalyptic wasteland – and oh, Five’s experimented with many, before and after – running is the one that keeps everybody alive. And they crave the warmth of affirmation, the burn of acid at their calves, their heart pumping at a hundred miles an hour and Sam’s voice in their ear and welcome home, Runner Five.

If only they could stop doing it in their sleep.

Jody’s a heavy sleeper, but even she shifts and turns and mumbles in her sleep as Five stretches out and kicks her in the shins again, cycling their legs, one-two, one-two.

Simon, in contrast, is not. He hasn’t slept in four nights, and this steady, rhythmic drumming is about all he can take. He throws off his blanket, grabs them by the shoulders, and shakes them awake.

“Will. You. Stop. It.”

Five, half asleep and acting on instinct, backhands him around the face.

“Yeah. Probably had that coming.”

“Had WHAT coming?” they sign. He replies back, his sign language crude – he’d got bored in the middle of Sam’s lessons, and Five usually seemed content to listen to him chatter away.

“Get up. Let’s go.”

They end up, of all places, on the farmhouse roof, silhouetted in the full moon. Simon’s mock-smoking an unlit cigarette. He looks ridiculous, Five thinks, shirtless in the night air like a werewolf awaiting change. As if they’re in a coming of age movie. Just put on a hoodie, for pity’s sake. You’re too old for this. But all they sign is -

“Hey, does it only kill you if you light it?”

“Aw, Five! You think I’m Augustus Waters? And here I thought Eugene had the monopoly on one-legged heartthrobs.”

Five’s so stunned that he gets their reference that they can’t think of a reply for a few seconds.

“I’d light it, only Jenny hates the smell. Apparently, it ‘seeps out of my pores’.”

“I don’t want to hear about you, Janine and seeping in the same sentence.” Five mouths the words as they say them, gagging on “seep” to add to the effect. He laughs. Always a reliable crowd. “Why aren’t you with her, anyway, if I’m keeping you awake?”

“It wouldn’t be ‘proper’, apparently. Also, I keep her awake. There’s a reason why they put all the Runners together in one barracks.”

Five shrugs. Why?

“Everyone else got sick of the screaming.” He chuckles. “Being a runner is lonely. Nobody gets it except us. Jenny, Sam, they can’t… I mean, Janine understands what a mission is like, but it’s been so long since she did field work, and she’s not done it since the world… changed so much. I dunno. I talk too much about it, I suppose. People don’t want to hear how the job gets done. But you don’t seem to mind listening.”

Five is reminded of a speech Evan gave them, their third night in town, when they came to him and said they couldn’t do this. They weren’t good enough. People who want to be Runners rarely make good ones. They have some secret cowardice, or too much hubris. They get bitten, or pocket supplies for themselves, or can’t obey orders, or obey orders too readily with no initiative if comms get cut.

Simon, then, was no exception. Because he was a damn good Runner.

“I wonder if my grandma went zom. She could be dead, for all I know. Probably dead, the old hag.” His voice doesn’t hold the venom his words imply. “Still in my brain though, Five. Still whispering

Five nods, and taps their own skull.

“I dreamt about her the other day. She was stood at the kitchen sink, looking out the window. Acting like she was washing dishes. She was waiting for me to come home, though. Just standing there, her shoulders all tight, her hands... you know that pause before someone throws something at you?”

Five signs with a rueful grin, swinging forward and backward: “How’d you think I got this good at dodging?”

“Wow, we really got the best preparation for the apocalypse in hindsight!”

“None better.”

“Anyway, this plate just shatters in the door frame. Which wouldn’t have happened, because it was her best china, and that was worth more than my life. That china was there in case the Lord himself came for afternoon tea.” He snorts. “But yeah. She turns around and her whole… her whole face is just... rotting. Peeling, and this disgusting grey, her jaw unhinging itself and… well, zombified. And I’ve got my axe in my hand, but then, suddenly, I’m just a little kid again. It’s way too heavy to lift.”

“Then what happens?”

“Hey, that’s all you’re getting. Unless Runner Five wants to share their darkest nightmares with the class?”

“I’ll pass.”

He smirks, raising an eyebrow, brushing their shoulder with his fingers. “But I’d love to hear what exactly you’re running away from.”

Five gives him the finger, shifting out from underneath his hand. Don’t touch me.

He raises his hands in surrender or apology, or both. It’s so rare to get either from him that they accept it.

“I’m not running away when I’m out there.”

“Really?”

“I’m coming home.”

The two of them look out over Abel, illuminated in the clear night. The plots of land, the seeds unsown, the little schoolhouse with its chalked-out hopscotch, the kitchen and adjoining canteen, the old barn they’d changed into a pub. Armoury, chicken coop, comms shack. Radio tower, cutting into the sky like a knife, a ruby-red drop of blood on its tip. The place they’ve built, that they serve, where they should be safe, where the past somehow keeps crawling over the gates.

[onthepageoftears]

Kill Your Darlings Ch. 16 (Jaskier x Assassin!Reader) || Witcher

a/n: Hey everyone. To be honest, I feel kind of weird posting this. I contemplated if I should post this chapter this week for a while, but ultimately decided to do so (which…is how you’re reading this). If you haven’t already seen, I’ve reblogged some sources regarding black lives matter and what you can do to help. Still, I want to put some resources in this post as well. This website (linked here) has good places to educate yourself, donate, and sign petitions. If you can’t donate, you can watch videos like these (here, here, and here) with your adblocker off, and all of the ad money will go to blm organizations. I really encourage you to contribute in some way — anything helps.

As always, enjoy the chapter, and stay safe out there if you plan on protesting!

Your comments and feedback are always encouraged and mean a lot to me!

Summary: Burying the past won’t keep it there forever.

Warnings: mentions of blood/death/murder/killing, gore, angsty reflections lol, spoilers for season 1 ep 1, language

Words: 3,050

Please Don’t Plagiarize My Work!

Jaskier was probably the fussiest person you’d ever met.

You’d known it before, of course. He was particular about what taverns you stayed in, pouting when you and Geralt chose one he didn’t like. Despite his messiness with clothes, he was selective on what he actually wore, what doublets went with what trousers, and so on. But even with all his fussiness, you never thought he would be fussy over someone else. Let alone, you.

As you gathered your things for the next journey, he stood beside you like your own shadow, making sure you didn’t fall or sway or breathe slightly out of rhythm. You almost punched him in the face when he offered to put your knives away for you, when the sheaths were already secure on your body. He got the hint when you sent him a simple, but effective, glare.

To be fair, he was the one who tended your wounds, so he saw how much damage had been done. But he didn’t realize it was nothing you hadn’t felt before, and it certainly wasn’t something that was going to stop you. Still, he was especially cautious after you explained that you needed to go after the same bandit group that took Lilla (at least, from what you’d assumed). You tried to argue that it would not only be another adventure for his songs, but it would clear up why this person — Hotch — was after him.

Sure, Jaskier and your still-fresh wounds couldn’t stop you…but they could slow you down. Jaskier insisted you all wait for the morning to go out again, leaving you to groan in frustration when Geralt agreed. You grumbled to yourself as you threw your stuff by the door, to be ready for the early morning traveling. You didn’t bother hiding your annoyance as Jaskier changed your bandages for you and practically scolded you to get some sleep. But despite your irritation and unrest, eventually, you did.

—

You were sitting in the grass, under the stars. Everything was quiet. Calm.

“They shine brighter when you’re out here to look at them.” You turned your head, smiling at the playful grin on your father’s face. “I’m serious,” he said, turning back to the sky. “They’re here for you.”

You giggled, and though you knew it wasn’t true, you let it slide. But instead of looking at the stars, your eyes stayed on your father, whose own eyes widened in — fear?

You watched as his mouth opened and a scream spilled out, making you whip your head back towards the sky.

You gasped at the sight. The stars were falling, plummeting, towards you. You instinctively lifted your arms to cover your face, a shriek leaving your lips. But after a few moments, nothing happened. When you looked out from behind your arms, the stars were gone. And so was your father.

You sat up in the grass, shifting your gaze to the field around you. You were in your childhood village, but everything was gone. There was only one house a good distance away — it was yours. And your father was walking into it with a knife in his hand.

“No,” you whispered, your hand moving to one of your sheaths. Realizing he must have taken your knife, you pushed yourself off the ground and began running towards the house, sprinting, its proximity seeming to get further and further the closer you got.

You pushed forward, eventually making it to the door. You opened it slowly, blinking in surprise when you noticed Lilla standing, her doll clutched in her hands, eyes wide in fear.

You turned your gaze to the side. You saw your father and mother, face down in their own blood. It was a scene you had imagined before — but this time, Rauf’s body was with them. His lifeless eyes stared back at you, mouth slightly ajar in surprise.

You tore your eyes away from him, only then noticing another body. A loud cry from Lilla made you realize it was Toby.

Rushing in front of Lilla to block her view, you gripped her shoulders in your hands, “Lilla, we have to go.” Not waiting for her to respond, you picked her up and ran out of the house, where the field was no longer a field, and rather the road to Novigrad. You didn’t hesitate as you sprinted in the direction of Novigrad’s gates.

It was when you got to the gates that you realized the little girl you had been holding had disappeared. You looked around, eyes wide in bewilderment.

“Y/N.”

You snapped your eyes back to the gates — there, was Jaskier. Only it wasn’t just him. Joneta stood, her arm wrapped tightly around Jaskier’s neck, holding him to her body. She held a knife in the other hand, against his throat. But it wasn’t just a knife. It was yours.

Her lips curled into a devious snarl, “I’ll never stop. And you shouldn’t either.”

You jumped forward,“No!” Somehow, you grabbed Joneta away from Jaskier, pulling her to your own chest. With one swift motion, you took the knife from her hand and slid it across her throat, the sound of her chokes echoing in the night.

Only it wasn’t her chokes. The sound was deeper, like—

You turned the person around, eyes widening when you realized it was Jaskier. It was Jaskier whose throat was slit. It was Jaskier that you killed.

Your knife clattered to the ground. “No.”

—

Your eyes shot open as you woke up to the recently rising sun pouring through the windows, and Jaskier gently strumming his lute.

You sighed in relief as you got up — you hadn’t dreamt that vividly in a while. You knew none of it was real, or course, but seeing Jaskier alive and well made your heart slow to a normal pace. It didn’t stop your frustration that he let you sleep in when you should have been on the road already, but the snide remarks you were going to make died on your tongue when you stood, pain shooting up your leg as a reminder of the night before.

It was a slow morning, slower than any of the others you had spent with Geralt and Jaskier. It was mostly your fault — you were forced to limp to avoid the pain of your injuries. If Jaskier hadn’t insisted on helping you walk, it might’ve taken a lot longer just to get to your horses.

Right — horses. Roach was no longer a lone stallion — with your still healing leg and the extra weight of Joneta’s body, you needed to get another horse. Jaskier didn’t even complain about using most of his saved coin on the steed, but he did insist on getting to ride it with you.

After you got out of the city of Novigrad, Geralt followed behind you, which you were glad for. You didn’t need to see Joneta’s lifeless body on the back of his horse, even if it was wrapped in sheets.

And for once, you were glad for Jaskier’s distractive company.

“So, where were you thinking?” He practically whispered in your ear as he sat behind you, his voice sending tingles along your skin. You had to force back a shudder, trying to focus on holding your new horses’ reigns — Buttercup, you and Jaskier decided upon. Well, mostly Jaskier. He insisted on having the final say for the name, and you didn’t blame him — especially since he paid for it. And although Buttercup wasn’t exactly…an audacious sounding name, it had a nice ring to it.

You sighed at the bard’s question, “For?”

“Burying Joneta.”

Your body went stiff. In his presence and once infuriating antics, you were able to push the real situation out of your head — you were able to relax, even if it was just for a moment. But in reality, you were not only on your way to bury the friend that you killed yourself, but also towards a bandit camp that you had no official plan for invading.

But recently, it didn’t seem like you had a plan for anything.

You sighed, letting your shoulders drop once more, “Somewhere in the forest. We’ll find it on the way, I’m sure.”

Jaskier breathed in, as if choosing his words carefully. “But…there’s nowhere special? Like…a place you two would hang out, or…gossip about all the…ravishing targets you had to kill at the blade of your own knives?”

Blade of your own knives. You shook the thought away, simultaneously ignoring the inevitable smile that was probably on Jaskier’s face. “No. We didn’t…do things like that.”

“What did you do?” He said after a moment, his voice softer.

You turned your head slightly, looking at him from the corner of your eye. His eyes bore into the side of your face, making you turn back to the road ahead of you.

“We killed,” you said simply, clenching your jaw. And Jaskier didn’t respond.

—

“Should we start?”

Jaskier’s voice didn’t faze you. You were staring at the body on the ground — Joneta’s body. It was wrapped in sheets — probably a lot of them, since you didn’t see any blood seeping through.

The three of you made it to a spot in the forest, where there was a good area to bury a body. It sounded strange to say, but it really was. You hadn’t been looking for a particular spot, but the flowers in the area made you stop Geralt and slide off Buttercup, walking further into the trees. Which was where you found this place. It was a smallish area, big enough for the grave you inevitably had to dig, with trees distant enough and in a strangely circular formation. The flowers around the area were a plus, so you tied up the horses and walked over.

And now you were standing there, with a shovel that somehow made its way into your hand, looking down at the spot Joneta’s body would lay. Forever.

“Y/N?”

“Huh?” You turned away from Joneta’s body, focusing on Jaskier’s concerned eyes. You blinked, finally registering his question, “Oh. Um. No.”

Jaskier frowned, “No?”

“I…need to do this alone.”

Jaskier stepped forward, gesturing to the bandage wrapped tightly around your thigh, “But your leg—“

“I’ll help dig. For a bit.” You were surprised to hear Geralt’s voice, his eyes catching your own when you turned to him. He looked back to Jaskier, nodding to where Buttercup and Roach were tied up, “You go watch the horses.”

Jaskier looked from you to Geralt, his face contorted in confusion. He looked like he wanted to stay, to help, but you shook your head. He slammed his mouth shut, nodding his head slowly.

“Okay. I’ll be…over there.” You watched the bard go, looking back to Geralt only when Jaskier disappeared behind the trees. The witcher’s golden eyes were on yours, making you take a deep breath.

He sent you a nod.

And then you started digging.

It wasn’t easy with your leg. Though you weren’t sure why Geralt stayed, you were glad he did. He was clearly making more progress than you, digging at a speed that could only be explained by his Witcher strength. Whatever that meant.

The two of you worked quietly, only sending each other slight nods or glances as communication. It was refreshing, to hear only the sound of the shovels digging into the dirt, the birds flying from tree to tree, the leaves swaying in the wind. And, of course, Jaskier’s distant singing.

Geralt helped you lower Joneta’s body into the grave, surprising you by how gently he lay it down onto the dirt. He climbed out of the hole wordlessly, only grunting as he stood up. He sent you a curt nod and left you to cover it up. You watched him go until he disappeared past the trees where the horses were, waiting until the very last second to let out a long, quiet sigh.

After a moment, you turned back around. You couldn’t help the pain that formed in your chest as you stepped forward, making yourself look down into the grave.

—

The square was crowded with people, as it usually was. Rauf was on business recruiting people into the fellowship, leaving you to entertain yourself for the day. The best way to do that was to watch people swarm the stands and buy useless items, all while sharpening the knife Rauf finally trusted you with having.

“Hey.”

You didn’t look up. Instead, you focused on the blade in your hands, letting its steel reflect sun rays into your eyes.

“I said, hey.” The person kicked your foot. You scrunched your nose, squinting at the girl who dared bother you.

Her expression was nothing more than bored, “Your uncle told me to find you.” She waited for you to respond. When you didn’t, she rolled her eyes. “Rauf.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t tell me.” She waited a moment, then sat down next to you. “But when I was eavesdropping, he said he wants you to have friends.”

“Psh. I don’t have friends,” you said simply, turning away from the girl beside you.

“That makes two of us.”

—

You tentatively wiped a tear that fell down your face, not bothering to worry about the dirt covering your hands. At this point, it felt like dirt was all you saw. It was all over the ground, sure, and it was now fully covering the place where Joneta’s body was buried — but it was also all over your hands, arms, and now, probably your face too.

You held your hands out in front of you, focusing on the way the dirt was caked under your fingernails. The soil reminded you of blood — Joneta’s blood, how it was covering your nails, your skin, your clothes.

Despite the urge to clean the dirt off, you let your hands fall into your lap and looked back ahead.

“People used to hate witchers.”

You were startled by the voice next to you. Somehow, Geralt managed to walk over and stand beside you without you noticing. He didn’t bother acknowledging the way you hastily wiped the tears from your face, instead sitting down beside you with a huff, “They’d spit when I walked into a room. Stoned me when I entered a village.”

You blinked, still taken aback by the witcher’s presence aside you. “But now they don’t.”

“No.” He turned to you with a hard gaze, “Ever heard of the Butcher of Blavikan?”

“Only stories,” You murmured. The Butcher of Blavikan was the talk of the guild for a while, but you never really paid much attention. But after a second, your eyes widened with realization. “That was you?”

Geralt only nodded. He looked ahead, his eyes clouding with regret, “I hurt someone. Someone who I thought could have redeemed herself. Could have walked away from the destruction she was causing.”

You cast your eyes downwards, back to the dirt covered ground. You swallowed the lump in your throat, “How did you…you know. Turn it around?”

“Jaskier.”

“Jas—“ You frowned, turning to the witcher with an astonished expression. “What?”

“Jaskier wrote a song.”

You blinked, “He…wrote a song?”

“As bards do.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile playing on your lips, “The coin one.”

He nodded.

You shook your head, astounded by your own ignorance. You had heard the song many times since being with the two, but never listened to it. Knowing Jaskier, he definitely fibbed the stories he went on, or reflected on, but still. You’d have to really listen to the lyrics the next time he played it.

Next time.

Would there be a next time? If all this was over — no, when — where did that leave you? Would you go back to your normal assignments? Travel and hope you would find jobs on notice boards, like a witcher?

Geralt’s voice broke through your thoughts. “It’s never easy to kill one of your own.”

One of your own. You turned to him, “Had much experience?”

“Too much.” He waited a moment before continuing. “The right choices are often the hardest. But the hardest choices…you often don’t know if they’re right.”

You watched him for a second, a smirk forming on your face before you could help it. You snorted, “You sound like a...stubbornly wise wizard.”

Geralt only chuckled. You squinted your eyes at him, an amused smile falling on your face. It was strange to see him acting this way — showing emotion. It was almost like…he trusted you.

You scoffed at the thought, making him turn to you with a questioning gaze. You shook your head, “Just thinking about when we first met. When you tried following me to my guild.”

His face went back to being serious, “I trust you now."

You laughed louder this time, “Says the person who followed me again.” Geralt’s eyes widened like he’d been caught redhanded. You’d only found out that Geralt had followed you to your new guild this morning, when Jaskier let it slip. It made sense why Geralt hadn’t been at the inn when...Joneta happened. At the witcher’s frown, you held back a smile and jutted your head behind you, where the very bard was still out of sight.

Geralt grunted, “Bard can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“And you can’t keep your witchery nose out of other people’s business.”

Geralt paused, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. As quickly as the surprise was there, it was overtaken by a smug smile. “Jaskier is getting to you.”

You smirked and shook your head. In more ways than one.

“I do trust you now,” he said once the smiles fell from your faces. You turned away from him, back to the grave in front of you.

“I know.” A sigh escaped your lips as something clenched at your heart. You placed a hand on the dirt in front of you and closed your eyes, taking a deep breath in and out before opening them again. Joneta’s body may be here, but she would always be with you. Like Geralt’s past was never forgotten, was immortalized in countless songs, you would always remember your own. And you’d have to live with it.

You stood up off the ground, looking down at the witcher with a determined frown, “Now let’s go take down this fucking bandit camp.”

———————————————————————————————————

Lots more Geralt in this chapter, hope y’all enjoyed! Stay safe as always  :)

[iamverycrappyatwriting]

Dream

Greenwarden WIP fanfic

F!MC McDonough x M!Bautista

TW: gore, self harm, horror

F!MC has a dream and realizes Bautista might mean more to her than she thinks...

This is the first time I’ve written in 4 years I hope it’s not too offensive >_<

“Hey Guttersnipe, come look at this.” Bautista barely glances over his shoulder to acknowledge you entering his room before he is beckoning you in closer.

Something feels off today, it feels… Lighter. The air around him seems to shimmer, warm and golden as the early evening light makes its way through lace curtains, casting floral shadows over the room creating a comforting affect. A feeling of nostalgia sweeps over you that you can’t quite place and time seems to stretch as you lazily traipse over to him.

Throwing a hand out to lean your weight on the desk, you bend and peer at the screen to see what he’s showing you.You can’t focus on the screen. You’re leaning so close, you can feel the heat radiating off Bautista’s body. Your hair stands bristling, static electricity sparking between you. You feel the back of your neck flush, the tops of your ears, your cheeks. You can’t tell what's on the screen because all you can concentrate on is how close Bautista is to you. How easy it would be to reach out and touch him.

You dare to peak out of the corner of your eye. Why - to see if he’s reacting too? That’s a stupid train of thought… But he is looking back. He looks almost shy for Bautista. A heavy look, the heavenly light reflecting the warm flecks of brown in his dark eyes; intense and magnetic, drawing you in even closer so you find yourself face to face. His dark lashes casting a slight shadow over his strong cheekbones.

He smells good, you find yourself thinking. Warm and earthy, you can smell the spearmint on his breath. 

You're so close now you find yourself looking back and forth between each eye to make eye contact. His pupils are blown wide - is he feeling this too? You would never dare to think… But maybe… You shouldn’t think like this, this is Bautista this is your partner who finds you annoying and selfish and responsible for his failures. And yet… You feel like you can’t pull away.

Beautiful, you find yourself thinking and this time you can’t chastise yourself for the thought. He is. He’s tall and large and strong with hands like shovels but he has a gentleness you’ve never seen in a man of his size; a gentleness creating a sense of safety, his dark eyes so warm and inviting, his lips -

You can’t help to break eye contact to look at his lips. Soft and full and -

And he’s moving closer.

Slowly, tentatively. Your eyes shoot up to his and you find he’s looking at your lips but he glances up to look into your eyes millimeters before his lips hit yours. His eyes asking you the question ‘is this okay?’ as he hovers just above yours. He looks a little afraid - as if he expects you to lash out, or bolt in terror, but in this moment there’s nothing you want more than to see how his lips taste.

Your heart is pounding in your ears, butterflies are creating a storm in your stomach but you feel light and joyful for the first time you can remember.

Hesitantly you lift your lips ever so slightly closer to his, your eyes scanning his face for a sign he’s about to come to his senses - to back out - but the moment you move closer so does he and he gently grazes his lips against yours. A soft kiss so tender your heart aches in your chest and tears spring to your eyes.

His lips whisper against yours again and it feels like heaven and he tastes so sweet, of mints, and a little spicy - that hot sauce he puts on them to stop you from stealing them - and you feel electric. You feel alive. You feel warm. You lean in and deepen the kiss and it feels like you’ve been dying of thirst your whole life and he’s an oasis in the desert. You finally can have a drink you so desperately need and you pull.

Hands reaching - you both gently, tentatively hold each other, your hands running through his dark hair, his tugging you closer to him by your waist, pulling your flush to his chest as he still sits in the desk chair. The touching is doing something funny to your stomach and your kiss deepens again, hungrier you kiss again and again gently building up in intensity and - 

oh God, this feels so good…

You never dared to dream this could happen! His hands are warm and rough but they hold you so gently and you feel so small in his hands but you - you don’t feel breakable. For once you feel safe. Solid. Secure.

You shouldn’t. The intrusive thoughts creep in. 

What are you doing? 

You’re filthy. 

Get off him. 

You’re tainting him.

You open your eyes and find the room has gone cold. Grey, and oh God.

Everywhere you’re touching him there’s blood. Where your hands have been his flesh has been flayed open. The sweet taste of Bautista is overwhelmed by the taste of carrion in your teeth; disgusting rot, black and viscous.

Oh fuck.

Nononononono.

You rip yourself off him to find Bautista is looking grey, and thin and gaunt like something was sucking the life out of him - you were sucking the life out of him. He looks weak, his skin torn and ragged, shredded and macabre and there’s a milky film over his beautiful eyes and you - oh God - you want to be sick.

Bautista turns to you weakly, confused and also barely there, like holding on is hard.

This is wrong this is very, very, wrong.

“McDonough?” He asks, confused, his voice a raspy whisper grating against your ears.

You see the filth you left in his mouth; it spills out rancid and corrosive.

And he’s covered in red, in blood. Your hand prints clear as day.

You did this to him.

He reaches out for you and his hand tremors.

This is wrong this is so, so wrong.

I ruin everything.

“McDonough?”

He stands from the chair to step towards you and he looks skeletal, he looks aged. Blood drips on the floor where he stands, pooling.

Everything feels wrong.

You step back away from him, shaking like a leaf, you hold your hands up to keep him at a distance.

They’re red. So red. So much blood.

You scream.

…

……

……..

You wake thrashing in your sheets, cold sweat soaking you to the sheets.

You think you knew it was a dream by the end but the beginning had felt worryingly, tantalizingly real.

You can’t think like that. You can’t think of Bautista like that. You can’t wish, hope, dream of kissing him. Of being with him. It’s too dangerous. You’re too dangerous. You can only ruin. You destroy everything. You taint everything. Nothing good can come to close before you cause it to decay.

You can’t do that to Bautista.

You sit up, tangled in your damp sheets, hair sticking up every which way and light up a cigarette. It’s still dark out, but your alarm reads 4.15am so not too early then. Not for your line of work.

You let out a shaky breath, grateful you fell asleep with your vodka next to the bed and take a mouthful, swilling it around like mouthwash and swallow.

It’s warm and bitter and makes your eye tear up. Between the vodka and the cigarette you're feeling a bit more grounded.

Today however, you don’t resist that little voice that tells you to hurt yourself and you do put your cigarette out on your arm. It hurts. Fuck, it hurts. It sizzles and leaves the flesh under red and weeping and you want to scream but somehow it also feels like a relief.

Let it be a reminder. You tell yourself. I ruin what I touch.

The burning, stinging sensation stays as you get up to start your day when you hear a knock on your door.

It’s still only 4.22am. Too early to be work related - most likely.

You answer the door still dressed in only an oversized t-shirt and your underwear; let whoever is bothering you at this time feel uncomfortable. It’s not your job to care.

But when you see Bautista you feel your heart seize uncomfortably. You don’t open the door all the way and hide the arm you just burned behind the door frame. You know it was only a dream but you are finding it difficult to make eye contact as if he could see your dreams.

“What do you want?” Your voice comes out closer to a snap than you intended but Bautista doesn’t flinch towering over you in the way he does. God - why do you feel embarrassed, why do you feel so guilty? You can’t look him in the eye.

Bautista however is looking flushed and slightly embarrassed at the sight of you in nothing but a t-shirt (as if it isn’t covering all the scandalous bits, as if he hasn’t had to see most of you to patch you up) and though you felt confidant the thought of him seeing you like this wouldn’t affect you either, you feel even more exposed.

“I just - Jesus, McDonough. Have you been drinking?”

You don’t know why he sounds incredulous at the idea, it should be nothing new to him by now.

“Yes.” You roll your eyes and shift your weight from leg to leg holding the door ever so slightly more open. It gives you another excuse to not look him in the eye and you know it will wind him up. Let’s not think about what just happened. It’s easier to piss him off than face that dream.

“Did you stay up all night drinking? Or is it the first thing you do when you wake up? Because -”

“Did you come here to give out to me for my drinking habits? Or were you coming to check if I’d done you all a favour and finally off’d myself?” You resist the urge to wince, that was probably too far but you’re not one to back down. You were looking for a fight after all. You smile as cruelly as you can manage instead but your heart is aching in your chest.

Bautista is obviously as thrown as you had expected and he gives you a hard look.

“That’s not funny, McDonough.” His voice is hard but he quickly looks behind you into your hotel room. “Can I come in?” It’s a question but he pushes the door to go in as he asks it as if he just expects you to say yes. A sense of panic fills you, as if by entering the room he’ll see the mess inside your head, he’ll see the dream you dreamt and you grab the door quickly to stop him.

“Jeeze, I show a little bit of leg and you’re that eager?” 

Deflect, deflect, deflect.

Bautista’s face twists, his cheeks redden but he looks as annoyed as he is embarrassed by your crass remark.

“Fucking assho-” He starts to snap but suddenly he grabs your arm behind the door and pulls it close, twisting it to inspect it. It happens too fast to react before he sees the burn mark. You feel your gut twist uncomfortably, guilt, shame, those nasty feelings you feel because you’re aware this is something you shouldn’t do but you push them down quickly. It’s not your fault others feel uncomfortable by your coping mechanisms.

Still, you don’t want him to look. Even if he’s seen it before.

“Guttersnipe…” His voice is soft, his hands on your arm hold you softly, his lips are pursed tightly and his face has that awful pinched look. You hate this. You hate being pitied. It makes you feel small; weak. How dare he pity you.

You rip your arm out of his grasp.

“Gotta put cigarettes out somewhere.” Your tone is joking but you are not smiling.

“Let me dress it.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’ll get infected.”

“I said. It’s fine.”

“Just let me look at it.”

“Fuck. Off. You’re not my friend, okay? I said ‘I’m fine.’ I’m fine.” You glare up at him as intensely as you can. You feel like an exposed nerve after that dream and you just want to hide. Every second around him feels like he’s going to find you out and having him act like he cares… It’s too much. It hurts. You want him to hurt back.

It works, you think. Bautista takes a step back, he looks both annoyed and concerned and you suddenly want to be alone. It hurts to see him look at you like this.

“I just…” He begins but you don’t let him finish. You wish you had got dressed before you answered the door now. You see other people wear dresses shorter than this t-shirt all the time and it doesn’t look lewd but you feel undressed all the same. Naked.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll try get a few more minutes shut eye before we get back to work. Later, Bautista.” You close the door in his face before he can tell you what he even came for.

This is for the best. You’re not friends.

You can’t shake this dream.

You know now, you have feelings for your partner. You have feelings for Bautista. But you shouldn’t.

You can’t filthy him, you can’t do that. Not to him.

He matters too much.

[ecoamerica]

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[rinusagitora]

The love, lead, and the undead.

Fandom: Monster Prom

Characters: Vicky Schmidt, Dahlia Aquino, Damien LaVey, Oz, Brian Yu, Lucien LaVey, OC: Hugo Aquino, OC: Berenice

Pairings: Brian/Damien/Vicky, LaVey family, Aquino family

Words: 5.3k

Summary: Canon divergent. Chapter 8/?. WARNINGS— unreality, violence, & gore; Vicky is in the hands of the Aquino.

Vicky was wobbly on her feet like her bones were fragile. Like her legs were ill tailored, or unoiled prosthetics. She braced the wall as Dahlia, the enormous blue woman, led her through the maze-like hallways of the stone castle.

“Do you remember anything? Like your name?” Dahlia asked.

She frowned. “I do. My name is Vicky. Outside of that, there’s nothing.” Well, and she remembered what she looked like. Pretty and lithe, with unmanageable hair and stitches. When she looked down at her arms, though, she saw her stitches were gone and replaced with odd, branching scars like frost, floral and frosty. Vicky was a blank slate otherwise.

Dahlia hummed. They stopped before an enormous carved door. She knocked with the enormous rings.

“Come in!”

King Hugo sounded like a storm. His voice was guttural, rumbled like lightning. It struck Vicky like a hammer to her chest. She bristled like a cornered stray. She wanted to dive behind something and hide.

Nonetheless, Vicky shuffled inside behind Dahlia. From beyond Dahlia’s arm, she saw a stout warrior king hunched over a topographical map. King Hugo and Dahlia looked very much alike: scarred, fair hair. When he smiled at them, there was something wrong. Something… sinister. Hardened.

“Dad, this is Vicky. Vicky, this is my father, King Hugo.”

“Vicky, I’m glad to see your reanimation was successful. We were worried you weren’t intact enough for the ritual. But have a seat,” Hugo said.

Vicky obediently sat. She stared at the mountains of the topographical model like he couldn’t crush her if she couldn’t see him.

“What do you remember, Vicky?”

“Nothing,” she answered. “My name, but I assume you mean something more substantial.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It must be hard, but I should tell you… it’s for the better that you don’t remember.”

She looked up at him. Hugo’s smile was ingenuine. Like her amnesia wasn’t something unfortunate, and it wasn’t relief because she couldn’t remember something awful. It was the smile of someone with secrets. Someone who hid secrets from her specifically. It made Vicky anxious. She was among the enemy. She didn’t know who they were before she died, or what their purpose with her was, but deep down, she knew she was in trouble.

“For the better?” Vicky asked cautiously.

“When you were alive, you were involved with a pair of men who were cruel to you. But you worked despite the mistreatment, you even made enough money that you began to drift away from them. They were displeased by this, so they had you killed.”

Vicky was in disbelief. Angry, even. Someone killed her and there was only a grain of truth to what Hugo told her. How long would she root through it for the truth to be deciphered? Her reaction was visceral. Every breath was another knife in her chest, and it hurt so much, she began to openly and uncontrollably weep. Vicky squeezed her arms and blubbered uselessly. Her nails dug into her arms. Her knuckles turned white, she bled black and thick.

“I know it’s a lot to take in, but we brought you back for a reason, Vicky. You deserve justice and closure.”

Shaken and clammy, Vicky asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, we reanimated you for admittedly selfish reasons. Your killers are from our rival clan, the LaVey family. They’ve been the bane of our kingdom for generations. They’ve hurt more than you. Their wanton violence has killed many good men and women, burned our land, our destroyed our supply lines. They’ve pillaged and raped my citizens. They deserve justice like you deserve justice.”

“How do you expect me to help?” Vicky croaked.

“You’re different from other demons brought here for their evil deeds in life. You’ve tasted death more than just once, and once before, you came back from it. Touching death gives people like you powers unheard of. Power like myself and Dahlia have. Do you remember when you woke up?” Vicky nodded in reply to Hugo. “Well, that lightning was your power. You can create storms to strike down like God once created storms, and we need that power to take down the LaVey clan.”

Vicky bit her lip thoughtfully. She didn’t buy Hugo’s story for a moment. His expression set off several red flags, and while Vicky had no concrete reason to disbelieve him, the feeling refused to abate.

But Vicky was in enemy territory. She was afraid to deny Hugo’s request and walk out the door, they were sure to kill her, especially if she was someone key to their plans, and someone once important to the LaVey. The best she could do in her situation was to help them.

“I’m in. But I’m tired right now, I would like to sleep.” And Vicky was. Every muscle of her’s ached as if she was slammed against a wall.

“Of course. Dahlia, have someone find Berenice so she may take Vicky to her room.”

Dahlia stood and bowed. Minutes later, minutes of silence where Hugo sniffed and muttered unintelligibly to himself, Berenice entered. Vicky flew upright. Berenice and Hugo shared a short exchange before Vicky was taken into the castle’s hallways. The entire place was a labyrinth. Vicky couldn’t even begin to memorize all the hallways.

“How’re you feeling, dear? I’ve never seen anyone reanimated like you,” Berenice said.

“I’m in pain.” Vicky stared at the scars on her arms. “It feels like I was hit by a train or something.” Or lightning crashed onto her head.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Berenice stopped before a heavy, grainy door. She pushed it open and invited Vicky inside. “You’ll be uncomfortable for a couple of days. It’s not an easy process, and unfortunately, we can’t give you anything for the pain. New demons can have awful reactions to herbs we give them.”

Berenice continued, “Anyways, this is your room. You have a private bathroom, and there are clothes for you in the armoire. We’ll have you on a strict schedule so you won’t be in here much.”

Vicky sat on the bed. Her blankets were made of animal fur, wiry and coarse, but the underside was smooth and satiny. “Thank you,” she said absently.

Berenice sat next to Vicky. “I know this is a lot, dear, but I promise you’ll be so much happier here. No one here will ever hurt you.” She took Vicky’s hands into her own. Her hands were pudgy and stout, but inviting, unlike Vicky’s room, and the rest of the castle.

Vicky decided she liked Berenice. She was different from Hugo and Dahlia. Motherly, earnest. Vicky wanted to lay her head on Berenice’s chest and be held like a baby.

“Thank you,” Vicky replied sincerely. “I’m very tired though. I would like to take a bath and go to sleep.”

“Well, alright, then. I’ll come to get you in the morning for breakfast. I’ll see you soon Vicky.”

“Thank you, Berenice.”

Vicky drew a bath. The water was cold and yellow, the towels were coarse. Vicky finally settled under her blanket.

She was so overwhelmed it was hard to think.

---

Oz watched from the cracks in the stone walls. Hugo lied to Vicky. They isolated her from people who cared about her. If what Hugo said about his village being wartorn, he understood their problem with the LaVey, but it disgusted Oz to his core that they resorted to involving unrelated people.

It made Oz want to cut down the entire castle.

But as much as he wanted to snatch up Vicky, he couldn’t sneak her through the bricks, and he didn’t want to take on an army. His first order of business was to report his findings to Lucien. On an abandoned patch on the roof, Oz drew an ornate circle with red chalk. He pushed his face through the center, and when he opened his eyes, his image was suspended in ice crystals.

Lucien sat anxiously at the edge of the pool of ice. He addressed Oz with a mere bow.

“I have terrible news,” Oz said, without ceremony. “It is the Aquino who orchestrated this. King Hugo told Vicky it was Damien and Brian who had her killed. They’re going to use her as a weapon against you and your family. She can now harness lightning as well.”

Lucien, like Oz, who only possessed eyes on his face, twisted into obvious hate. Oz knew that kind of hate well: the kind of hate which carried blood feuds on for generations.

He sympathized with the cause, though. Oz lived eons and was still unwise and hateful.

“If there’s something I need to know, Lucien, tell me now.”

“There’s a conspiracy to raise Vicky. Vera Oberlin and your friend Zoe are going through with a ritual of some sort in the next couple of days to resurrect her. I have nothing against their plan but… but I am scared Damien will act rashly in light of recent events,” Lucien explained. “He can be immature. And he’s in a dark period… maybe the darkest of his life. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

Oz was particularly disdainful of that line of thought. Oz had his reasons to disagree, but at the end of the day, the secrecy alone was cruel to Damien. He deserved to be in the loop, if not for his loved ones than for preparation for kingship later on.

But that wasn’t Oz’s priority. Oz was in enemy territory, Vicky was trapped, and he needed to focus on that. He asked, “Will Damien interfere here?”

“I’m not sure. We’ll keep an eye on him. In the meantime, if you could obtain battle plans and destroy any intelligence about the LaVey in their possession,” Lucien said.

“I’ll see what I can do. Expect another report in a couple hours.”

With that farewell, Oz’s visage of ice shattered and he returned to the castle roof

His first order of business was Vicky’s allegiance.

---

Vicky dreamt of red spades and pigskins. It was an odd dream, where they were like people on long, slender legs, but they were missing their faces.

They held her hands and spun her like a ghost in the wind. They shrouded her like blankets and she was loved. They laid her on warm furs next to a fire. They kissed her and went down and down until her legs squeezed needily. They were so warm, their fingers, their lips. They held her when they took turns, pushed their adoration into her, up into her guts and her neck.

"I love you," she hummed. Even enormous enough to shift her hips apart, she loved them. They became so vivid, red and green, and so beautiful.

And when Vicky awoke, she was in the middle of nighttime darkness. Was it cicadas that screamed or the oppressive silence her brain had to compensate for? But she was covered in sweat and rivers of tears. Her dream evaporated from memory, only pigskins, and spades left behind for her like a parting gift. Vicky felt stranded and isolated without it. Helpless, she blubbered and futilely tried to dry her face.

Who was she? Why didn’t Hugo’s explanation satisfy her? Why did she want to pick at her brains until she had the answers she wanted?

As Vicky wept, she felt something gooey plop onto her ankle. She froze. Even her misery trapped in her tear ducts seemed to freeze with her. She waited with bated breath for something to happen, a sign for her to run, but even as more oozed onto her bedspread, she was unable to bring herself to escape.

The mattress creaked. She heard a match strike, and then her room was illuminated by the candle next to her bed.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” This new person… gentleman, by the sound of their voice, held the candle between them. His body was black and oily, and his eyes… his eyes reminded Vicky of the moon. Wide and bright. “Do you remember me?”

Slowly, Vicky shook her head. “Do you know me?”

“Yes. My name is Oz. We’re friends,” Oz told her. A lumpy creature pulled itself out of the collar of his black shirt and waved. “That’s Fear. Well… more accurately, one of its incarnations. This one is the fear of death. I have many more within me.”

Oddly enough, the fear of death was adorable. Despite Vicky’s misery, she giggled and shook its tiny hand with a finger. Odder was she trusted Oz more than she trusted Hugo. Her gut was wise.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Vicky.”

Even odder was Oz’s voice came from the small incarnation. “We’re… we’re relieved to see you. Alive, that is.”

“I died. I was shot because of someone I loved dearly.”

Oz’s eyes shrank into saddened crescents. “You’ve been through a lot recently. But you have more friends than you’ve been led to believe, Vicky.”

“Who?” Vicky frowned. “King Hugo and Dahlia?” The pair were off-putting. Hugo was methodical. Calculated. Dahlia was abrasive. Vicky wasn’t sure either of them was her ally, let alone friends. She was a tool of theirs to reach a common goal. Berenice was the only one Vicky felt comfortable around.

“Nay…. No. Neither of them, I’m afraid,” Oz whispered.

Before Oz could continue, there was a knock at Vicky’s door. “Vicky! It’s Berenice! I’m coming in.”

Vicky whipped to Oz. He forced the candle into her hand and began to drip into the ceiling. “I have to go!” he said. “Remember, some of us aren’t what we seem to be!”

Just as Berenice opened the door inside, Oz was gone.

“Oh, you’re already up!” Berenice said cheerfully. “That’s good. Breakfast is ready.”

Solemnly, Vicky nodded.

“Are you okay, dear? You look like you ran a marathon.” Berenice sat on Vicky’s bed and placed her cheek against Vicky’s as a mother checked her child for a fever. It made Vicky angry as if it was Berenice who murdered her and lied between her teeth.

Cautiously, Vicky said, “I’m fine. I want to freshen up before I eat, though,” she said. “It was hot in here last night. I was sweating the entire time and I feel gross.”

“That’s fine. Go and bathe, dear. I’ll wait outside for you.”

Vicky showered, followed Berenice to the dining room, and looked unpleased at the milky porridge which was served for breakfast. She held the bowl close to her face so she was able to quickly scoop it down her throat without having to taste it.

“Mornin’. It’s good to see you got an appetite. You’re so scrawny, I thought you’d snap.”

Vicky set her empty bowl on the table. Dahlia dropped her backpack on the floor before she sat. “Dahlia, right? I met you yesterday.” Dahlia and her father, King Hugo. She was sure they were the ones Oz warned her about.

“Yeah. We were talking about you the other night. Dad thinks you’re promising.”

“Thanks,” Vicky reluctantly replied. “This… all of this is still strange for me.”

“You’ve only been here a day. That’s not surprising.”

“Do you know what I’m supposed to be doing today?”

“Training. I know Dad’s got something lined up for you, but I didn’t have time to ask what.” Dahlia finished her porridge then. “Anyways, I gotta go to school. I’ll see you tonight.”

Vicky watched Dahlia leave. Not long after, Berenice brought her to the King’s advisors, James and Robert, dressed like royalty. James and Robert were old and grey-skinned with wiry beards and chipped horns. She and Berenice bowed to them.

“This is Vicky, the subject our King told you about. I trust you’ve been informed to train her by King Hugo.”

James dismissed Berenice. Nervously, she held herself, and inwardly pined for Oz to appear and hold her hand. She felt like she was in danger in their mere presence.

“My name is Vicky. I'm…" Vicky wasn't sure what she was. Lost. Lonely. "Please train me."

James smiled. "No need to beg, dear." James stood, his bones creaked meanwhile. "Come. I'll take you to my private grounds."

Vicky obediently followed. James led her through so many winding turns that Vicky lost track of them. But when James led Vicky into a dark room, lit only by a single candle… Vicky knew she was in trouble.

“I believe experience is the best teacher,” James explained. From his horn, lightning crackled like wafers. “If you want to live, Vicky, you will learn to harness lightning.”

Vicky’s stomach leaped into her throat as a bolt raced to her head.

---

Damien was mad.

Brian was mad as well. He skipped the denial stage altogether and went straight to anger. Anger that Vicky was taken, anger that she was still living and yet out of reach, anger her resurrection was so damn complicated. After the funeral, after Brian’s conflicted feelings and formality evaporated, he was ultimately mad over every detail of Vicky’s death. While Damien was mad about the same things Brian was, he was mostly mad with his parents, Lucien and Stan. He couldn’t even look at them that morning.

Brian’s nails dug into Damien’s hand when they went to school. It broke Damien’s heart.

They idled in Brian’s pickup in the parking lot. It was inordinately chilly that day. Damien’s breath was misty and the tips of his nose and his tail ached. He hated the cold, but it was always without Vicky nearby.

“Today’s gonna be a pack of bullshit,” Brian finally muttered.

Damien fumbled with his cigarettes and passed Brian one. “Let’s take it easy today. Hide in the bathrooms or some shit.”

“I just wanna go get her.”

Damien leaned back his chair. It was difficult for him to just mull on where Vicky was too when the Aquino family were just within reach. For Vicky, Damien would have burned down villages and armies without reluctance.

The ire he felt for Dahlia, though…. In the beginning, Damien just thought she was obnoxious, clannish. But if he ever saw her again, Damien swore he would wring her like a mother fucking

“Oh my god,” Brian said as he pointed out the window, “you need to see this.”

It was like Damien was doused in pungent gasoline when he laid eyes on Dahlia. Fire and smoke surrounded his fingertips.

Swiftly, Damien kicked the car door off its hinges and broke into a run.

“Dahlia!” he roared. His shirt and jacket combusted as billowed up his arms like it lit dry kindling. “Dahlia, look at me!”

Dahlia whipped around and swirled with crackling lightning as blue as summer skies. “You lookin’ for a fight now, LaVey?” she howled.

“You killed the love of my life! I’m going to kill you too!”

Damien propelled himself with fire on his heels. He hopped over a bolt of lightning fired in his direction and then blew a lungful of his fire at Dahlia. She grabbed his pants and swung for his face. Damien’s eye caught the blow, but he brushed it off and used their proximity to burn Dahlia’s face.

They fell to the ground. Damien held her face in both hands and snarled as the smell of burnt hair and fat wafted up to him. She clawed at his hands but stayed steady for Vicky.

And then a film of green wrapped around Damien so forcefully it knocked him off Dahlia and onto the ground. He skidded across a foot of cement, it peeled off the skin off his barren back like grated orange zest. Seconds later, Hope landed at his feet.

“Get him out of here!” Amira screamed out of the blue. Damien peered past Hope’s legs and saw Dahlia restrained by Amira, Joy, and Faith.

“Hope, let me go!” Damien screamed. “I have to kill her!”

“I’m going to take him into the forest,” Hope told the trio. “What the hell are we gonna do about her, though?”

“Just get him out of here.” Amira barked.

Hope nodded. She picked up Damien, deceptively strong for her squirrely size, and then ran into the trees.

“Please, Hope, let me go! She killed my girlfriend!” Damien begged.

“Shut the fuck up, you’re making shit hard enough as is.”

“What the hell do you mean? Hope, answer me!” Damien’s squeals were silenced by the green film Hope slapped onto his mouth. Struggle as he may, the film was like a skeleton of rubber bands. It squeezed him until it hurt to breathe. It outraged Damien, but he was stuck. Helpless. Hopeless, like he was when it came to Vicky, and misty-eyed because of his uselessness, Damien squeezed his eyes shut so nothing would escape.

Hope finally stopped deep in the forest and threw Damien into a hollow beneath the roots of an evergreen. He cursed Hope’s name as he slid down and hit his head against the wall of the little hovel. When Hope skid down, she stopped right beside him, and she smacked him across his cheek.

“You idiot! You ruined our plans, and now we’re gonna have to get Vicky out before the Aquino family realizes what happened to Dahlia!” Hope snapped.

Damien tasted metal. Part of him didn’t care, all he wanted to do was shred and burn Dahlia, and Hope was merely an obstacle. No one understood how much she meant to him. No one realized how hard it was to survive each hour without her. “Do you understand how much it hurts being without Vicky? I wanted her forever. And then Dahlia walks in like she didn’t do a thing.”

“There’s no question that the Aquino family needs to be held accountable. But do you value vengeance or getting Vicky back more?” Hope said. “Because of you, we may never see Vicky again.” She fell back against the wall of the dugout. “Damien, you knew there was a plan to bring Vicky back. You knew you needed to keep your cool and keep quiet so we could bring Vicky back without having her killed. If someone saw what you just did, they could be killing her now, Damien, and it would be your fault.”

Ice flooded Damien’s spine. It felt like he was kicked in the chest, and he gasped for air against the magic which cocooned him. It was no wonder his parents refused to tell him the truth. Damien was a loose cannon.

Not long after, Hope hugged him and rubbed his back. “It’s okay. Brian’s with Amira, and we’ve got spells to disguise where we hid Dahlia. We just need to hang tight until Joy comes to get us, okay? Just get some rest for the time being. God knows what comes after this.”

Damien nodded. But as Hope drifted to sleep, he was restless. Hope’s magic melted away and he laid against the concave wall.

What was to become of Vicky? And the ritual Vera and Zoe performed? And what was to become of Damien’s lovers? The questions spun in his brain like cyclones, it made him twitch with worry.

---

Electricity pierced Vicky’s breastbone. It felt like a hammer shattered her ribs, and she screamed as she was thrown into a pillar. Blood filled her mouth where her teeth sliced open her tongue. But fatigued and disoriented, Vicky was able to ignore the awful taste. Instead, she crouched and glared at James as blood poured from her lips. Lightning arced from her burns and blood, it clapped against the damp stone.

While Vicky was able to conjure lightning, she was uncontrollable and unpredictable, very unlike James’s lightning.

But while progress was a relief to Vicky, James’s lesson was brutal and Spartan. She was barely able to stand, in and out of consciousness, drained by the lightning strikes. Vicky was so exhausted she didn’t even fear for her life any longer.

Finally, James stopped with a grunt of disapproval. “That’s enough for now. There’s a briefing we need to attend shortly.”

“Briefing?” Vicky asked.

“To fill you in, and to plan our invasion on the LaVey’s kingdom.”

She nodded and followed James.

On the way, Vicky was barely able to keep her eyes open. She braced herself against the wall and tripped over herself as she followed behind him. But Vicky forced her eyes open like glue.

The war room was expansive and barren aside from chairs that surrounded a monochromatic topographical map of Hell. Castles, townships, regions, mountains, rivers were labeled in black ink. Vicky carefully screened the map. The LaVey territory neighbored the Aquino’s, but they were separated by a range of active volcanoes. Vicky wasn’t a tactician, but she found it strange that they were at war nonetheless when they were impeded by extreme natural barriers.

“Welcome, all,” said King Hugo to his audience of eight. His counsel of generals were demons much like himself, blue, horned, adorned in furs. James and Vicky sat across from Robert and a woman more enormous than even Dahlia. Her shoulders alone were the size of basketballs.

“I apologize for the redundancy, but I trust you all know Vicky has recently joined us, so we’ll have a refresher.”

One of Hugo’s servants turned on a projector pointed at a white screen behind Hugo. “The prince is Damien LaVey,” Hugo said as he switched the slide. Damien was handsome, so handsome it took Vicky’s breath away. In their picture, he grinned with impossibly pearly teeth, and his hair was shiny and red like cherries. “He’s not as dangerous as his parents, but he is no stranger to violence. Like Lucien, he is very adept with fire magic.”

When Hugo switched to the following slide, it felt like Vicky was hit by a freight train. “Next is a lesser player, Brian Yu.”

Hugo’s voice became distant. Brian decayed like a fresh corpse, but he smiled at a woman in the picture with him, his arm slung over her shoulders, and Vicky knew that woman well. That woman was her, stitched and grinning, with her wild hair pulled over her shoulder.

And pieces came back to her. Chaotic, without pattern, but pieces Vicky managed to fit together.

They loved her. They were her best friends, and they loved her despite her tainted body and her broken brain. They loved her so much, when she saw Eugene, they stayed with her that night and told her how much she was valued.

In the last seconds before she died, they were proud because she was successful.

Vicky had the knowledge she needed that Hugo lied to her. But her worst suspicions were confirmed. She was in enemy territory, and unless she was very careful, she would die. She settled in her chair and returned her attention to Hugo's presentation.

A picture of a yellow-eyed creature in a hood came onto the screen. “This is King Lucien LaVey. He is our family’s mortal enemy. He has led the LaVey’s effort to destroy our legacy and land since his inception. He is unusually talented with magic.” Hugo flipped to the next slide, a picture of a staff topped with a fiery bird skull. “Since his magic proves to be our greatest obstacle, we will first need to destroy this staff.”

“Well, where is his staff kept?” asked the enormous woman.

“An excellent question, General Quilo. It's with him at all times. Thus, we’ll need a stealth party to invade their home and destroy it. More on that later,” Hugo explained.

“This is our target, however.” A picture of another enormous, blue demon in furs showed. “His name is Stan… Stan Aquino. He is my brother.”

---

Oz should have known that was the case. Nonetheless, he hissed to himself. Their plans were damned, and he was angry, angry enough he drew on stone and slammed his face through the circle and glared upon Lucien’s shape.

“Don’t you think it was important to mention that Hugo and Stan are brothers?” he asked.

Lucien said hoarsely, sadly, “Stan asked me to not share that with you. Our families have been genocidal for generations, and he doesn’t want anything to do with it.”

“But Hugo does.”

“We didn’t know what else to do, Oz. Hugo refused to listen to reason. We didn’t want to raise our son with our families when our efforts to compromise with them were for naught. I understand you’re angry, Oz, but we tried, and we failed.”

“And Vicky had to pay for it,” Oz said, disgusted. He understood, but the secrecy was loathsome. Lucien hung his head.

“There is unfortunate news,” Lucien said, “we have to get Vicky tonight. Damien attacked Dahlia for her role in Vicky’s murder. Amira and some of her friends have Dahlia in custody, but her absence will be noticed, and we will be rightfully blamed. We fear Hugo might hurt Vicky to get back at us.”

“I’ll need help getting her out. The guards pose a threat. I can’t take them on by myself,” Oz said.

“We’ll arrange a raid. But it needs to be now, Oz.”

Oz nodded. “Be swift. Vicky’s life is in danger yet again thanks to you two.”

---

Vicky’s eyes bugged out of her head. Their feud made sense. Her death made sense. Dahlia heard about the robbery and passed on the message to her father, and they passed on the message to the survivors. She was the head of betrayal and blood feuds, and unless she wanted all of her loved ones to die, Vicky had to do something.

But what was she supposed to do? In a room full of generals, she was a novice. They were sure to break every bone in her body did she dare move.

Thankfully, Vicky had allies.

Oz fell onto the table like water poured into a glass. The counsel stared in confusion until it was too late.

Vicky dove under the table as the slaughter began. Lightning crashed, bones crunched, blood splattered on the walls.

James, covered in blood and viscera, with his eyes gouged out, joined her under the table. He growled and grabbed for her. Vicky was quick to react. With a swipe of her crooked fingers, she electrocuted him. Her lightning fried his gored face like batter.

She kicked James out of the way. Quilo and Hugo still lived, but Oz grabbed her and they ran for their lives. Vicky honestly, to her very core, was relieved to see Oz, because while she didn’t remember much about him, she remembered he was her ally and friend without question. She held his hand and smiled.

“I want the truth,” she said, "when we're out of the woods."

“Let’s just focus on getting out of here.”

She nodded as they ran through corridor after corridor. They nearly barrelled into Berenice around a corner.

Oz cursed. Bewildered, Berenice asked, “Vicky, who is this?”

Vicky slammed her eyes shut just as fear ripped out of Oz's chest. They ran, and Vicky didn’t open her eyes until after she stumbled over a pair of disembodied calves. Berenice was her only friend among the Aquino, but Vicky was overwhelmed by the chase and carnage to grieve Berenice, and she understood the necessity to silence witnesses.

The alarm blared. Surely, it was the doing of Quilo or Hugo. The blood drained from Vicky's face. The guards were sure to swarm.

“We need to find a window! I don’t know where the entrance is!” Vicky said.

“Good idea, Vicky.” Oz burst through a door to no window avail. They kicked down door after door for escape until they were surrounded.

“Look, I don’t want to hurt any of you,” Oz said, “but you need to let us through.”

Vicky’s breath picked up. She felt lightheaded. But they needed to dispatch those guards, or convince them to let them through.

She summoned her lightning. It manifested from her knee and hairline. But it was weak like static. When Vicky tried again, her legs gave, and she fell into ash.

[feelsgoodink]

His Favorite Flavor ( Klaus Mikaelson x Reader ) **SEQUEL TO HIS FAVORITE COLOR

Warnings; severe insecurity, body negativity. please understand that you are beautiful and that I am not shaming anyone who relates to this as I wrote this from personal opinion and experience. Never hesitate to talk to me!💕

PART ONE; https://feelsgoodink.tumblr.com/post/176767974414/his-favorite-color-klaus-mikaelson-x-reader

THE SPIN-OFF; https://feelsgoodink.tumblr.com/post/177064720044/her-fatal-flaw-klaus-mikaelson-x-reader

You had tried to keep your promise to Klaus, despite the way you knew there were parts of him not nearly as honorable as his brother Elijah, desperately you tried to shut out all your thoughts of doubt and insecurity.

However, as you layed in bed and let the soft sounds of your radio whisper tunes in your ear, you found yourself trying to justify the things he had said, debunk them, make yourself believe that he was lying. Maybe he was using flattery as a ploy to distract you.

Why were you so dumb? Dumb enough to open your heart to Klaus when in the same second he could and most likely would of held it in his hands? His oddly soft hands, that in your hair felt like a gentle comb, soothingly and caring. With your head crying into his chest, he very well could of snapped your neck or crushed your skull, and even though you wanted to dwell on that fact, all you could think about was the simple fact that he didn't.

You were always reminded of you how weak you were by the way you caught yourself thinking- and your thoughts made you feel pathetic. You had caught yourself daydreaming, pondering, trying to get close to the feeling of your body in his arms as if it were a craving. How could someone become addicted to something they only tried once? Maybe you understood drugs now.

You were starting to understand several things, as you concluded. But at the same time that certain parts of humanity had began to make sense, everything beyond it had started to become even more of a blur, so confusing, and you felt like you knew nothing. You were clueless. You were helpless.

Helpless. Helplessly, you tried to keep your promise, but to no avail.

You looked in the mirror again. On Sunday, you gazed upon your legs, covered loosely by velour burgundy shorts, and you thought that the red splotches on them were competing with the cover of the fabrics. On Monday, you got out of the shower and let your towel drop onto the rug. For a moment, you tried to appreciate the way that your curves sharply pointed in from your waist to your hips, the crease made you feel as if you might be "thick" or "bodacious". You giggled at the world bodacious and your smile stayed for a few seconds before you slumped your shoulders and saw the way the rolls of your skin folded over on your ribs. In that moment, you knew you had failed the original hybrid.

You stood from your bed and began to rummage through the dresser drawers. The pieces of furniture were probably much, much older than you were, because they belonged firstly to the Salvatore's. Your apparent housemates.

You pulled out a pair of black leggings and made note of the rips in the thighs. You picked out a long-sleeve brown and white striped t-shirt that was three sizes too big and slipped it over you. Your hair was up in a tired, lazy bun.

You walked out of your bedroom, not wanting to spend another moment in there looking at yourself. In your hand was your journal, you had been keeping a diary for about three years now, it was something you, Elena, even Stefan did. You were sure their's were far more interesting and exciting than yours.

Because you, for the most part, were on the outskirts of all the action.

Your diary was a dark plum purple and the pages were college-ruled, the front was covered in silver sequins that when turned over, turned into a shadowy black color. It looked like something from Claire's, which, you'd be lying if you said it wasn't from there.

Writing the date in the corner, you judged your handwriting internally and began to scribble words onto the lines.

I hate the way I feel in my own skin. I feel like I am drowning in my own body, and there's too much room in my brain for my thoughts to run wild. If only I could let it all out.

You remembered how vampires could turn off their emotions when it got too much for them, and you wondered if that was how Damon found himself to of gotten so confident. Besides being built and sculpted like a greek God, that was. Surely even the prettiest people had insecurities, right? Everyone did. You knew that.

I've come to realize that there has never been nor will there ever be a feeling more exhilarating then the way it feels to be held. I think I finally know what love feels like. Not a platonic or filial love, but a romantic love. Not that I'm in love, but I felt it in my chest when he held me and it took away every other feeling I had. It felt like I could breath again, but it also felt like I couldn't catch my breath even if I tried. It was beautiful.

Klaus had told you that you were a work of art, and that almost warmed your chest as you peered down at the paper and remembered the things he said. You let the pen rest on the pages and you closed your eyes, leaning against the sofa with your body pressed into the age-old cushions.

The doorway to the Salvatore house crashed like lightning as both doors swung open, you nearly jumped from your seat from being so startled. Like a bullet, whatever opened the door can hurdling toward the living room.

Finally appearing as a concrete figure and not a blurred apparition, stood Klaus now, he was covered in blood and what appeared as parts of intestines. The appearance of gore made your knees lock with fear as you swallowed back the lump in your throat. He was angry, obviously red with fury and his jaw was clenched as if it was locked from the inside and he had swallowed the key himself. It didn't appear as if he was looking for you. As he usually wasn't.

"Klaus- I-" You started, but the glare in his eyes told you that you should be silent, and so you were. You simply kept trying to stare into his eyes and not at the blood on his arms, or the tiny red splatters on his face. The drops on his oddly pink lips that weren't complete meaning this wasn't just a feeding frenzy. You felt as if you knew that if you were to find out anything, he would tell you on his own time. And he had eternity.

Niklaus stepped back and let his shoulders rest. His narrowed eyebrows raised to a natural position and his expression softened as he saw the obvious fear in you. He wasn't over what he was mad over, not in the slightest. He had just killed all he had if his hybrid army and the only way he could make more... was with the cure. He knew that in order to get that, the mark would have to be completed, although it didn't change the fact that he hated waiting.

"(Y/N), you asked me how I handled the guilt and the death that came with my gains and I promised that you would know that answer." Klaus was speaking fast, and his accent was making some words hard to understand but the obvious rage that was laced in them was unmistakable.

Klaus stepped closer. For a vampire, everything is heightened. Was that even more so for an original who was also a werewolf? You could never tell.

"I don't. I don't handle it. I suppress it and I simply ignore it. Until, something like this happens. Until Tyler Lockwood decides that he wants to overthrow everything I have worked for for over a thousand years, pined over for days on end, dreamt about- oh love, I've only focused on the gains. Not the guilt. Not the death. But now I simply cannot ignore it any longer." He was spitting with some of the words he exclaimed, his composure was completely gone in this moment.

You noticed underneath all that furiosity, seemed to be an aching pain. A twisting loneliness.

"what... what did Tyler do?" You asked. His left eye twitched and you rephrased the question. "What did you do?"

He let out a laugh that could not of been any less sincere. It was terrifying, devious, almost to a comical point as you noticed moisture lining his lower lashline.

"I've had to take out my hybrids, as they were no longer sired to me. I had to chase them all down and I ripped out their hearts from their chest and squeezed the blood from it until it's very last beat. I have beheaded one, watched as her head rolled from her neck to the ground and still conveyed terror on her face-" His rant began again. You didn't want to listen, and he seemed like he didn't really want to tell you.

"Stop it." You told him. He was surprised by your sudden and abrupt response. "Excuse me?" He said.

"Reliving it won't help you. It will only make you more miserable. If you keep thinking about the thing that makes you upset.. it's only worse on you." You said, in differently, calmly. But it was obvious you were talking about something on a smaller scale than the murder of twelve hybrids.

Klaus let out an exhale as the realization of what your statement meant set in. He crossed his blood-stained arms. "You haven't kept your promise to me, have you love?" He watched as your eyes fell to the floor and then caught back up the what you could see of yourself from your eyes down, not being able to see far over your tummy, you bit your lip and that was all the answer he needed.

"Normally, I would be infuriated by the lack of honor in you giving me your word. But I should not of put my faith in you to change a habit that has brewed for so long. I will say, that you are so very, very wrong in thinking the way that you do. I stand by what I told you." You were a distraction from his main problem, and he didn't even know he really wanted a diversion. But now his mind was clouded with the idea of convincing you that you were beautiful.

"How do I know you aren't planning something, manipulating me? How do I know that I can believe a word you say? You think that I'm a work of art? That I should be in a museum rather than locked away in this house playing Rapunzel?" You thought of the fairytale and thought it was a bad analogy. "There's no prince for me to let down my hair for, there is no mother to want me for my hair, I will never be important to anyone, never any use to Elena, or even Jeremy. So what makes you think that I will just believe that I am anything but a pawn in your little game of chess?!" Dear God. You were crying again.

This time, Klaus didn't speak, did not try to combat your arguements with words, maybe he did not have the right amount of mind to muster a lingual reply. You felt a newly familiar electricity as his hand came in contact with your jaw and held your face tightly, before a new sensation touched and silenced any more venom from your throat.

Klaus Mikaelson had kissed you. He was kissing you. His lips were soft and though there were the faintest amount of blood on them all you could focus on was the way it felt. You felt all the words crawling back into your skin through the underneath of your fingernails as your fingers clenched into a fist and you let out a whimper.

You kissed him back. Needingly, desperately, as if he was your last dying breath and you were bringing it back to your lungs. He grabbed you by the soft skin on your hips and he pulled you closer to him, his strength was obvious and undeniable. You felt oddly pleased knowing that this was your first kiss.

"Answer me this, love." He breathlessly muttered on your mouth as his lips parted from yours only for a moment. He popped them back together and then pulled apart again. "What about this feeling that you're feeling right now, warrants any sense of dishonesty?" His charming dialect had returned. He loved the way your lips felt and he loved the way they tasted on his, not in the way he tasted the blood he drank, but to him you were a fine wine, aged to perfection.

He was right. Nothing about this felt dishonest, fact of the matter was, it was the realest thing you had ever felt, it was the strongest feeling you'd ever had, it was exuberant, and it made you feel... it made you feel beautiful.

The hands on your hips made you glad there was enough to hold onto, for his fingers to sink into as he pulled you into him. It was sensual, and that was fine by you.

You brought his lips back to yours quickly and pressed harder against him, his chuckles vibrated against your mouth. "How does this make you feel?" He asked, pulling the two of you apart for longer than fifteen seconds. You could feel your cheeks getting rosy.

"Beautiful." You mumbled. He grinned, letting his thumb pressed down your now swollen bottom lip. "Then it cannot be far from the truth." He told you. You thought you might be melting.

It was in that moment, that you realized that you would eventually have to try and appreciate yourself more, maybe even like yourself. But right now, you didn't feel useless, you didn't feel hideous, or a burden, and right now you had come to realize that you were falling hopelessly, hopelessly in love with Klaus Mikaelson.

And maybe he might be there to catch you.

[scriptureofashes]

hey! can i request a spideypool soulmate au where the first words of your soulmate that you hear from them is tattooed on your arm kinda thing with peter having a Really strange sentence on his arm like just a bunch of curse words or something absolutely ridiculous and out of context? i think that would be so funny

this starts out angsty, turns cracky and ends fluffy, what have I done

(ps: wade is speculated to be 28-35, I’ve aged him down only slightly because peter is over 20 when they meet here)

Peter makes a point of never letting anyone see his mark.

Even as a little kid, he remembers Uncle Ben and Aunt May’s frowns when they saw it for the first time, gobsmacked by his soulmate’s utter cheek. Before the accident, Ben would always tut under his breath and mutter on about manners and subtlety. That by itself was enough to convince Peter to strap a watch or a cloth of sorts over it.

To this day, Peter still sticks to covering it, all-too aware of the extra fun he’d be made of if these words ever got around. He’s not particularly ecstatic on feeding the bullying.

May still snorts at the sight of it though, after some considerable wine intake.

(mind the readmore, mobile users!)

Ned is the second person to see it.

“Dude.”

It’s after a rather strenuous PE lesson, so they had hit the showers quick before they can go to team practice. They’re the last ones in the locker room and Peter is frankly so damn stressed about everything that’s been going on in just this last week—coming back from his literal ashes and to the Spider-Man shindig with a Spanish quiz around the corner—that he completely forgets.

He stops toweling his hair, eyes darting back and forth between his bare wrist and his best friend’s failing attempt to contain his disbelief, and throws him a sheepish grin.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Dude.”

It shouldn’t surprise him that MJ sees it next.

The strap on his watch snaps. It snaps, and it’s summer, so he can’t at least try to cover it with his sleeves, and has he mentioned his life sucks? Because it does. It freaking sucks.

It’s not odd to hide your words from the world. People do it more often than you’d think, but it comes from an outdated, conservative concept, so nowadays, society encourages you to flaunt them with pride. Those who insist on concealing them, especially if they’re young, are slightly frowned at.

And, realistically, he knows the words aren’t bad, per se, but they’re not the kind you’d look at without reacting a little, and he’s learned the hard way that kids and teenagers are the absolute worst when it comes to these things. It doesn’t take much to poke fun at someone who’s just slightly off the norm, so if it’s Peter Parker with something like that as his soulmark? Well, he can only imagine the hell Flash would raise for it at school.

He’s just about two seconds into panicking in the middle of team practice, watching Flash on the podium, when tan hands take the watch away from his fussy hands to slide a red cloth over his inked skin. MJ’s own words stare back at him as she ties off the hairband, ones he actually recognizes but says nothing about.

When she’s done, she takes a step aside. She gives him a brief once-over, and then her expression turns appreciative, clearly agreeing with the contents of his mark.

She winks when she turns away, and Peter feels his face on fire.

Mr. Stark, surprisingly, doesn’t react. At first.

Because Peter’s a complete idiot, as Mr. Stark tells him later, he forgoes precautions and pays the price when they’re testing out an upgrade for one of his web shooters. Something malfunctions, and advanced spider healing or not, it still burns when it goes all the way down his forearm, like the freaking Devil himself took a hold of his hand and yanked.

Peter almost comments on how literally fading to bits had hurt less, but when he opens his mouth he’s levelled with a stare very reminiscent of Aunt May’s, and acknowledges the too soon. Even if it has been almost two years.

Mr. Stark has to push back his sleeve to see the damage and get the right treatment from the First Aid kit one of his bots fetched, and Peter squeaks, indignated, despite his arm hurting enough to be a concern. His mentor actually pauses as he surveys his arm, face paper blank for a few moments. Either he’s seen worse or the injury takes precedence, because all Peter’s given is a split-second look, then calloused hands rub some soothing balm on his arm and the lab safety lecture comes on.

Later, bandaged and properly chastised, Peter chances a look at Mr. Stark. His face is still hard to read, as it sort of always is, but he’s staring back dead on. The silence is somewhat excruciating.

Anyhow, this lasts about three seconds before Peter notices the knowing glint in his mentor’s eyes and the clear effort he’s making at holding back his laughter. It occurs to Peter that maybe he realized why the mark is always hidden by the watch and is trying not to say anything in respect to Peter’s feelings.

So Peter gives him a mile and laughs, abrupt and a bit deprecating, but he can’t help himself, and Mr. Stark’s responding grin is wide and nothing short of exasperated.

“Jesus, kid. You have your hands full.”

And Peter laughs all the harder, catching his breath enough to quip, “I thought it was the other way around?”

It takes a surprising half-minute before the meaning sinks in.

“You’re grounded.”

Peter keeps cackling.

He used to think about hearing them for the first time as often as one does think about hearing their soulmate’s first words to them. He used to feel this sort of anticipation and, he admits, desperation for it, when he still dreamt of becoming like those people in the movies whose soulmate comes and saves them from their not-so-rosy lives.

That was before Spider-Man, however, and before Peter grew up enough to know that’s a load of crap. No one can save you but yourself.

Spider-Man is a hero. He’s the people’s man, an actual knighted Avenger by both Iron Man and Captain Marvel, at the beck and call of every criminal that decides to be naughty one particular night. He’s New York’s reliable savior, a figure to look up to and someone to depend on.

It’s understandable how he still longs to hear them, ridiculous and problematic aside, seeing as he doesn’t have time to be his own hero.

He does hear them. At long last, he hears them, and the moment he does, he wishes he didn’t.

It happens when he’s out on a lead about a rich dude’s friends kidnapping the girl that dumped him and teach her how much of a mistake it was to run away from him. Considering the guy’s sadistic tendencies in his criminal record, Peter doesn’t blame her at all.

Spider-Man sneaks into the empty warehouse he finds them in and drops down quietly, though unnecessarily so. The guys—three, and none of them were even assigned guard duty—are arguing so loudly he could have burst in banging pots and pans and none of them would turn.

“Well, it’s about time I had fun and got the imbeciles going for ‘walking cliché’!” he says in lieu of greeting. They’re all in ninja masks too, what is this. “Seriously, guys. A shady warehouse in the shady part of town? What’s wrong with an old-fashioned basement?”

The trio whips out actual knives, like the idiots they are. If he bristles, it’s at the sight of an asian, half-naked girl, gagged, tied to a chair and dotted with colorful bruises. He’s been doing this for almost six years now and seeing innocents touched up like that—it still gets to him, gets his blood boiling.

He snaps his fingers as to show them some sort of realization.

“Let me guess. Is this a Febreeze commercial?”

Goon #1 looks like he’s about to make a terrible decision and lunge, when there’s a static noise only Spider-Man can pick up. Something crackles in the air from somewhere behind the girl, looking steadily more miserable, a poor quality sound even he has trouble discerning. One of the goons goes to the source of it—a battered but fully functional radio transmitter.

It’s a song.

Here I go, here I go, here I go again (again?)Girls, what’s my weakness? (Men!)

Spider-Man freezes. Suddenly everything around him stills and everything within him explodes, not just because this is not the time—he knows that song, he knows the lyrics to it by heart.

The guys finally freak out at the fact that Spider-Man is in front of them and about to spoil their plan, flinging loud curses at each other. Goon #1 suggests taking him on and Spider-Man dubs him the dumbest of the three, rightfully so when Goons #2 and #3 start screaming at him. The song plays on.

Shoop shoop ba-doop shoop ba-doopShoop ba-doop ba-doopBa-doop shoop ba-doop shoopBa-doop shoop ba-doop, ba-doop, ba-doop

Just as he feels anticipation snap, a red and black figure swings out of somewhere into the scene, guns and swords ablazing.

And singing along the words imprinted on the skin of his left wrist.

“Ooooh, you’re packed and you’re stacked ‘specially in the backBrother, wanna thank your mother for a butt like that!”

And wreaking absolute havoc. The guys don’t even have time to wisely make a break for it—because who wouldn’t—before the whole thing turns into a whirlwind of blood and gore.

“Can I get some fries with that shake-shake boobie? If looks could kill you—” Goon #3 goes down with a sword up his guts, “Would be an uzi—”

Peter reacts on instinct when Goon #2 stumbles towards him. He kicks him right in the solar plexus, and right into a chokehold.

“You’re a shotgun, bang!” a gunshot to his head, “What’s up with that thang?”

They’re the lyrics to the song, but the mercenary never seems to let Peter off his sight as he keeps singing and finishes up the job. Goon #1 flops down, lifeless and messy. Peter can suddenly smell the sharp, sour tang of piss.

“I wanna know how does it hang?Straight up, wait up, hold up, Mr. LoverLike Prince said you’re a sexy mutha—”

The corpses are laid in a bloody pile, overstepped in favor of the transmitter going back to its alleged owner. Said owner proceeds into tucking away his weapons and untying the poor girl from the chair—and gently patting her on the shoulders after cladding them in a jacket he produces from God knows where—and steps away to give her some space while she collects herself.

Of course, that means he’s turned to Peter now, who for the life of him cannot move. He doesn’t think he can.

“Man. You don’t know how much I’ve been dying to meet you.”

Oh my God. There’s a joke there, he knows it.

“It’s like you’re running from me! The few times I do see you, you just slip away before I can go up and say hi. Seriously, I blink—” he snaps his fingers, “And you’re gone. Like an actual spider. Ha.”

Oh my God.

He places his hands behind his back, primly, but he looks like he can barely contain his giddiness.

“Also.” How is his mask doing that, how is his mask leering at him. “It’s as great as they say, by the way. Looks even better up close.”

Oh my God. Peter keeps quiet. It would be a choice, but it’s not.

“Anyway.” He sticks out one hand. “Great to finally meet you, Spidey.”

The hand is covered in blood. Oh my God. Peter shakes it nonetheless, and he hears him laugh. He does not think about how oddly pleasant it sounds or how his wrist tingles in response.

“Cat got your tongue? Or cat eat your tongue, in this case. A cat would kill and eat a spider, wouldn’t it? Anyway, I was expecting to hear Spider-Man’s sharp-tongue tonight.” He waggles his eyebrows at this.

Half-heartedly, Spider-Man slips back into role and nods his head. He absolutely says nothing and goes to the poor girl waiting for one of them to escort her home, and continues to do so even as he hears more absent-minded talking.

Oh my God. His soulmate is Deadpool. This is a nightmare.

As it turns out, Deadpool got hired by the rich ex-boyfriend to kidnap the girl and torture her if she refused to take him back. Deadpool took the money, shot the guy’s head and went off to track his friends so he could kill them too.

Peter doesn’t know what to take away from that, but a stubborn little voice in the back of his head goes, at least he’s got some morals.

It becomes a thing.

After the warehouse incident, Deadpool is always there. It’s like the carefully stacked dominoes of Peter’s life are knocked over in very quick succession, because Deadpool is always there.

Spider-Man is chasing down a pickpocketer and Deadpool is pointing at shortcuts from his perch on some building. Spider-Man is beating up a bankrobber and Deadpool is clapping on like some ridiculous high school cheerleader. Spider-Man is cooling down a hostage situation and Deadpool is shooting hands that hold weapons.

That last one still has Peter a tad miffed, and thereafter he was livid and on the very edge of a tongue-lashing. Deadpool knows of his firm ‘no killing, crippling, torturing and so on’ policy. He knows, and he still does what he does.

Spider-Man said nothing, did nothing but spare a glance at where the mercenary stood with his sniper rifle and fume on the inside as he recalled the man’s anguished screams and the blast of blood. He did nothing but count every rescued hostage and leave the feds to handle the rest.

He never says a word when Deadpool pops around.

In his defense, the moment he does is warranted.

It’s more often than he’d like that he stumbles upon rape scenes. He always knows it’s one blocks away, before he even swings into the alley and gives the asshole a swift kick to the head. And he always lets himself go on these types of situation, sees red everywhere.

So when Deadpool joins in on kicking the absolute crap out of the guy, Spider-Man throws one last punch and leaves him to it, knowing whatever is about to befall the piece of shit is an armageddon Spider-Man can’t deliver, but Deadpool certainly can.

He’s checking over the poor woman, relieved that the guy hadn’t even managed what he was going for other than ripping some of her clothes, when he catches the end of Deadpool’s rant, “—and there’s only one thing worse than a rapist—”

And quips back, “A child!” out of reflex.

Deadpool stops punching—and Peter was right, the man’s face is swollen, purple, unsalvageable—to stare back at him. Subsequently, there’s a groan and a body hitting the dirty concrete, but the merc doesn’t even waver. He’s staring straight at Peter, the mask unreadable for a change.

Spider-Man dials nine-one-one and gives them his location, bids farewell to the woman despite her pleas for him to stay and webs his way away, away, away.

He’s going to give Ned and Shuri so much hell for this.

One particular night, he sets up watch on a section of the city he’s never even been to as a civilian. He’s not running, except that he is. And there’s something tight in his chest, draining all the fight, draining all but the low-simmering anxiety.

Ergo, he keeps to surveillance and eats his deli from Mr. Delmar’s, texts Ned a string of nonsensical emojis because he can and thinks about how he’ll get started on his next paper—college is wild—with all those extra hours he’s doing for Jameson. He resolutely does not think about his soulmate and how much Deadpool he is.

But Peter… is Peter Parker. Of course that whole plan is shot straight to hell.

“A vine. A fucking vine.”

Peter pauses in his chewing, rolling his mask back down over his jaw, even if his back is what’s turned to Deadpool. The chill in the air turns suddenly sharp.

“Well, would you rather have the first verse to a freaking Salt-N-Pepa song?”

“What kind of question is that. Of course I would, Sandra Denton is a queen and whoever says different can eat a big bag of dicks. A huge bag of dicks. One of those huge, sack bags with colorful dildos in—”

“Jesus, yeah, point taken.”

He meant to sound annoyed, but laughs instead. The sound cuts through the underlying tension, melts it outright. Deadpool approaches him, steps slow and quiet. Peter lets him, fiddles with his phone as the merc settles at a respectable distance, eyes always on the evermoving city before them.

“I.” Deadpool pauses and doesn’t talk for some time, which in itself is a red flag. “Look, I get it. I wouldn’t wanna be saddled with a psychotic killer whose face looks like it was fossilized then reconstructed with wet newspapers, either.”

Peter blinks. Oh.

“I just…” Deadpool trails off again. “We could… ah, fucking shit on a pogo stick.”

The merc sighs, drags his hands down his face, and Peter realizes how much of an asshole he’s been. Deadpool is… Deadpool, to say the least, but there is a person under the suit, a broken man with a broken mind.

Just as he starts to get up, Peter slides over his bag of chips.

“I’m Peter.”

Deadpool freezes so abruptly it’s almost amusing. He’s staring at Spider-Man, open and hopeful, like he can’t believe what he’s been given, and Peter stares right back with a smile, despite the mask and the dark.

Deadpool takes the chips.

“Wade.”

[eirabach]

Renegades [8/10]

Thanks to the wonderful support of the CS Writers’ Hub, particularly Chinx, Julia and Phira who poked me very hard with many figurative sticks to get this chapter done. I love you. Please, untie me now?

We’re nearly at the end of all things! One chapter and the epilogue to go! @losttalongthewayy, @thegladelf, @natascha-remi-ronin, @katie-dub and everyone else who’s been so kind about this story - thank you so much. Hope you enjoy the rest!

Edit courtesy of @seastarved and her very large folder <3.

This chapter 5.3k.

On ao3 HERE and catch up on tumblr [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]

Chapter Eight: What We Deserve

One thing is for certain, Emma's first meeting with royalty is not quite what she was expecting.

The throne room is cold and dank, the cobbled floor and flickering torches seem more suited to a prison than a castle. There a few concessions to royalty here and there - some huge, poorly rendered oil paintings of dead eyed ancestors that peer down from the damp stone walls, a long wooden table set with a single set of gleaming silver cutlery, and, on a dais at the very back of the room, a large opulent velvet throne in which her majesty lounges, her legs carelessly thrown over the arm of it, with a smile that reminds Emma of nothing so much as a panther watching its prey.

At least she knows what her role is supposed to be.

The knights drop her, pushing her a little as she falls so that she ends up almost prostrate at the foot of the dais, just at eye level with her boot clad feet.

They swing down, first one and then the other, so that the toes are right in front of Emma’s face.

“Well?” drawls the Evil Queen. “Didn’t your mother teach you how to greet royalty?”

Almost as if a great invisible hand in pressing down on the back of her head, Emma finds herself bowing even further, her face inches from the polished leather.

“Oh that's right,” the Queen croons, and Emma's head snaps back until she can see the viciousness of her smile. “She didn't, did she?”

She chucks a finger under Emma's chin and she wants to move - wants to fight or scream or something - but she's frozen in place, her breath coming in short sharp gasps as the Queen's other hand balls into a fist.

“Oh,” she says, leaning down so that her face is inches from Emma’s. “What’s that? Nothing to say? Pity.”

The Queen stands up swiftly, and Emma falls back, scrabbling across the floor to get away and clutching at her throat.

“You know,” sighs the Queen, “I thought you’d be better than this.”

She lifts her hand and flames spark in her palm. Emma squeezes her eyes shut, waiting for the feel of fire searing flesh. When nothing happens, she risks opening one eye just enough to see the fireball hovering in midair, the Queen’s face nonplussed.

Her blood sings, and she scrambles to her feet, her hands flexing at her sides. The fireball fizzles out to nothing and the Queen’s expression turns dark.

“Defensive magic,” she spits. “Is that how you plan to defeat me?”

“No,” Emma says without thinking, “I was planning on stabbing you through the heart.”

“Well that rather presumes I have one, doesn’t it,” the Queen sneers. “A nice little weak spot for you to exploit, that would be convenient wouldn’t it? Unluckily for you, I paid attention in my lessons.”

She reaches a hand into her own chest, Emma stares horrified at the sight, and then pulls it out - empty. She wriggles her fingers in the air, her lips curled in laughter.

“Never bring your heart to a witch fight.”

Emma gapes. She’s never seen such a thing - could barely have dreamt it possible - but then she remembers Killian’s face in the firelight, and the way his voice had cracked and stumbled over the words.

How the Dark One murdered the woman he loved. How he crushed her heart.

Reflexively, her hands come up to protect her chest. Regina grins, her eyes glittering.

“Oh don’t worry, Princess. I’ve much more thrilling plans in place for you.”

He waits until dusk falls and the sky bruises purple-black with the threat of rain, to creep out of the loaming, counting the steps of the two guards as they continue their circuit around the castle walls.

He's been watching for hours, or so it feels, making note of every deviation, every cough or moment taken to piss against the stonework, until he knows their every step, can predict their every move.

Is it always violence with you?

How little she’d known him then. How little she still does.

He withdraws his sword from the first man’s stomach with a wet squelch, ignoring the splatter as he spins to bury his hook in the other guard’s jugular.

They collapse in a bloodied, twitching heap at his feet, but there’s no time to do more than wipe the gore off on his coat before he’s breaking through the small wooden door he’d chosen and  striding up the stone staircase within, destruction in his wake.

There will be no safety in numbers for the Queen’s guards this night. No mercy given by the callous Captain Hook as he dispatches them beneath blade and hook.

No quarter.

He can feel it already, the darkness creeping up on him as each step takes him closer to his inevitable conclusion, the taste of iron in his mouth a not unfamiliar distraction from the fear he stamps down with every thrust and parry.

By all the gods, he is afraid.

Not of his own death - no that's been a long time coming, a debt to the universe long unpaid - but that he might not live long enough to see Emma come to hate him, and hate him she must.

He'd give all the gold he's ever plundered just to know she’ll live to loathe him.

“Do you love her?”

He spins at the top of the staircase, swearing bitterly as the point of his sword stops inches from the woman’s neck.

She watches him with cold, calculating eyes, and even if she weren’t wearing something a whore wouldn’t be seen dead in he’s still know her for what she is.

“What do you want, fairy? Haven’t you done enough?”

“Perhaps,” she says, “perhaps not. Have you, Killian Jones?”

“Don’t call me that,” he spits. “That name’s not for the likes of you.”

“Just for Emma?” she says, and nods, her chin bobbing closer to the sword. “Perhaps she was right. Perhaps there is more to you than meets the eye.”

“I have no time for your ridiculous mind games,” Killian growls. “Emma needs me.”

“Does she?” Blue takes a half step closer, moving the sword away from her neck without touching it. “Then I ask you again, pirate. Do you love her?”

“Yes.” he doesn’t hesitate, the word falling from his lips before he even thinks about forming it. “Yes. More than she will ever know.”

The fairy smiles at that, still cold, but with the hint of something else in the curl of her lips.

“Then listen very carefully, Captain. There’s something you may need.”

 Her magic burns through her, drops of blood glistening on the throne room floor and wiped haphazardly on the edges of her cape from where she’s burst a blood vessel in her nose, her face screwed up tight in concentration as Regina prowls around the edges of the wavering protective bubble she’s managed to conjure.

“Aren’t you bored?” Regina calls, reaching out a finger and sending flames skittering over the bubbles surface, flames that Emma feels like lightning against her skin. “I’m bored. Know any other tricks, Saviour?”

“How do you know I’m the Saviour,” Emma pants. “It was supposed to be a secret.”

“Oh those dwarves of your mother’s never could keep their mouths shut, and anyway,” she learns forward to leer directly at Emma, “you have your father’s chin.”

She send off another wave of fire and Emma bites her own lip, hard, to keep from screaming.

“Such a sweet boy,” muses the Queen. “I wonder whatever happened to him.”

She laughs, delighted, and Emma sees red.

She throws herself at the Queen, the protection spell collapsing around her as she pulls every ounce of feeling to a single point within her and then -

She lets it out.

The Queen flies across the room, landing with a crack against a huge oil painting of a man dressed in green and tearing it clean in half as she slides, crumpled to the floor. Emma stands over her, chest heaving, and the Queen smiles, spitting blood at her feet.

“Oh,” she says, “you’re going to pay for that.”

She lifts her hand, and Emma realises a moment too late that she’s defenseless, exposed, her magic not yet controlled enough to come at will as the Queen forms another fireball. She juts out her chin, determined to die on her feet at least, the Queen’s lip curls and then -

The fireball splutters away to nothing.

“Now, now dearie,” sing-songs a horribly familiar voice, “you’re not the one who collects debts around here.”

The Queen roars, launching herself away from the wall with flames licking at her fingertips, but the Dark One just laughs, a tinkling, terrible thing, and sends her flying back against the torn portrait, the ragged ends forming themselves into thick vines that wrap around her wrists and ankles.

Emma backs up against the wall, her hands out in front of her.

“How the hell did you get out?” she spits.

“Why, at the hand of our mutual friend,” he says. “That is what you call the enemy of your enemy, isn’t it? A friend?”

The Queen struggles against her bonds, spitting like a trapped cat, almost feral in her helplessness.

“I’m not your enemy!”

The Dark One smiles, cruelty in the play of his hands as gestures to himself.

“Well dearie, you kept me locked up in a dungeon for the best part of a year. Hardly the way to treat your oldest pal now is it?”

The smile drops away, and he lifts his hand, the fingers white as they claw at the air. The Queen splutters, then gasps, tearing at her own throat with wide, frightened eyes. Emma can’t look away, the opportunity to flee for her life slipping away as she stares, half aghast and half terribly, ghoulishly delighted at the Evil Queen’s rapidly purpling face.

“What are you - you need me!” she wheezes, furious and desperate, and something within the Dark One seems to snap.

“Need you?” he shrieks, dropping his hand and thundering towards her as if he intends to squeeze the life from her flesh on flesh. “I needed you years ago! I needed you to find my boy for me! But no, you failed me. You failed me like you always fail. Well now I’ve found something stronger than your lust for revenge, Regina. Something that’s going to bring me my son back.”

There’s a thunderous cacophony outside the doors, and Emma realises just a moment too late that she’s missed her moment to run, the Dark One and the Queen both turning their attention toward her as screams echo from somewhere down the corridor.

“Her?” Regina hisses.

“Never,” Emma says, her head held high, her chin jutting out. “I’ll never work for you.”

The Dark One shakes his head, tutting in disappointment.

“Lets test that theory shall we?” he say with a toothy smile, tilting his head as the sound of crashing metal gets closer. “After all, maybe something will make you reconsider.”

“Not likely,” Emma snorts.

If the Dark One had eyebrows she’s sure they’d be somewhere in his hairline from the incredulous look he gives her.

“Oh really? Not even him?”

‘He’ bursts into the throne room, sword drawn and chest heaving, his eyes wild and hair blood slicked. He looks like a madman - is a madman - but Emma can’t help the way his name falls from her lips like he’s the answer to her every prayer.

“Killian!”

“Swan?”

Killian freezes, his eyes flicking between Emma and his crocodile. The Dark One claps his hands together in glee.

“Isn’t it romantic! True loves reunited! I’m quite overcome, you know.”

The Evil Queen manages a snort, somehow still superior even when helpless.

“The pirate? True love? Now I really have heard it all.”

“You!” Killian growls, his sword trembling slightly as he points it at the Dark One’s heart. “Emma, keep away from him he’s - ”

“Yes, yes dearie,” the Dark One says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m afraid you’ve missed the introductions, we’ve moved on to act two.”

“Which is?”

“Why your very timely death, I’m afraid.”

Emma tries to bolt forward, her magic finally answering her call, burning through her bones as she tries to reach for Killian, but it’s like running through molasses, her legs heavier than she’s ever known, each step a desperate, futile struggle to reach him.

“Don’t,” Killian pleads. “Emma, don’t.”

“But my magic - “ she pants, “Killian - ”

“Don’t,” he grits out, his gaze fixed on the Dark One’s skeletal grin. “You need to run.”

“I’m not leaving you,” she cries, and just for a moment his eyes meet hers and she feels her heart shatter.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice perfectly calm even as his eyes betray him. “I love you.”

(No one. No one ever -)

“Oh yes,” hisses the Dark One gleefully. “Love’s young dream! The most powerful magic of all, would you believe! And if there’s one thing I know how to use, it’s magic.”

He lifts his claw-like hands toward Killian, and for a moment they all seem to just watch, stupefied, until Killian collapses to the floor, his sword clattering away as he in turn claws at his throat.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” sighs the Dark One. “I was hoping it would be a little more satisfying - wait, I tell you what - ” he lifts his hands, and Killian rises, limp and grimacing, his arms held out strangely at his sides like a marionette with it’s strings cut. The Dark One smiles, and narrows his eyes. “Pick up the sword, pirate. After all, a man unwilling to fight for what he wants - ”

He twists his wrists, and Killian spins on the spot until he’s facing Emma, the sword flying through the air to settle in his hand.

“- deserves what he gets.”

The sword slashes through the air, and Killian take one, two, three long unsteady steps towards her.

“I won’t,” he grits out, his eyes squeezed tight shut in distress. “I won’t!”

The sword flashes again, and Emma jumps back, acutely, horribly, aware of the stone wall at her back.

“Oh won’t you?” titters the Dark One. “How funny, I thought you wanted to kill me. Wanted to be me.”

“I’ll never be you,” Killian spits. “I’ll die first.”

The Dark One’s eyes widen and he turns to Emma, delight and malice fighting for dominance in his expression. “You heard him. He wants to die first.”

Her magic thrums, and she clenches her fists so hard her fingernails draw blood.

“Just do it,” Killian growls, “Swan, just do it. I know you can.”

Realisation twists sharply through her like a sword to the gut - the sickening rush of dread and regret and love making her unsteady on her feet, her vision blurring.

It hurts like nothing’s hurt before - her very bones crying out in horror at just the idea of it - of losing, of hurting -

“Killian no! I don’t want to - I can’t lose you!”

“You’ve got to!” Killian pleads. “He’s right I - I would become him. I was going to. I wanted to. But you - you -.”

The Dark One makes a show of dabbing at his eyes.

“Look at them Regina! Perhaps we should give them their privacy? Or are you enjoying the show. I know I am.” he perches on the throne, his elbows propped on his knees and his chin in his hands. “But then again, a year’s a long time without entertainment.”

“I’m not losing you!” she repeats, determination in the set of her shoulders, in the flare of magic along her spine. Something flashes blue-white in the corner of her field of vision, but she doesn’t take her eyes off him - not the sword, bloodstained and razor sharp - but the agonised blue eyes, the crumpled brow.

The man who loves her.

Her magic fizzles at the edges of her flesh, as if it’s as loathe to turn on him as she is, and the bubble she tries to form flickers and dies as the sword point comes to rest at the hollow of her throat.

“If it’s going to be one of us, it ought to be me - it’s no more than I deserve,” he’s struggling to get the words out, the strain clear in the lines of his neck and the tight clench of his jaw, but it’s the white knuckles she watches, the twitch of the hook towards his own forearm. “I wanted to be a better man for you, Swan.”

“No, no no no. You deserve better. You are better!” she half sobs, the tears thick and cloying as she swallows them down, unwilling to let their audience see her cry. Unable to let him think she’s given up.

“You don’t know that,” he grinds out, the hook moving another inch closer to his sword arm.

“I know you,” she pleads, reaching out for his face, nausea rising up as he flinches away from her touch.

The Dark One rises from his throne, reproaching her with a wagging finger as he nears them.

“Now, now, dearie. Don’t get distressed. Are you ready to make that deal now?”

“What. Deal.” snaps Killian, his eyes flashing dark with rage.

She sees Hook in him then, the man she’d robbed and fucked and watched from afar, the terrible pirate captain that legends and widows are made of.

It changes nothing, only makes her plea louder, her plan more certain.

“Just let him go. Let him go.”

“Emma don’t - ”

The Dark One silences him with a flick of his wrist.

“Hush now, don’t talk for the lady! You want to save him, hmmm?”

Killian’s breath is harsh and his attempts to speak muffled under the Dark One’s spell, but she can still catch the drift of it. Can see how much he wants her to let him die in her place, and nods sharply.

“Anything,” she says.

The Dark One claps his hands in delight.

“Oh I do love it when they say that.”

A scroll appears in a swirl of red smoke, an ostentatiously plumed quill in the Dark One’s other hand.

“Oh dear,” he tuts. “I appear to have forgotten the ink.”

Emma can’t help the yelp that escaped her as Killian’s sword thrusts forward just a little, blood welling up and dripping red from where it breaks the skin at her collarbone. Killian shuts his eyes, but not before a single tear escapes down his cheek.

“Now now, Captain,” the Dark One says as he leans in to dip the quill into the fresh blood. “This is something you really ought to watch.”

Killian opens his eyes, but she can’t be sure whether that’s by choice or coercion. Nevertheless she keeps her gaze fixed on his as the Dark One presses the quill into her hand.

“The long-awaited Saviour, selling her skills to the Dark One” she can hear the grin in his voice even though she only has eyes for Killian. “A cautionary tale, I’m sure you’ll agree. How the mighty are felled by love. How weak you truly are, dearie.”

“Love isn’t weakness,” she says lowly, her words only meant for Killian, “it’s strength.”

Don’t give up, she wills him. Don’t give up.

She half imagines she sees him smile.

“Sign here please,” snaps the Dark One, as the contract - or at least she assumes it’s a contract - is thrust under her nose. “You and I have a lot of work to do, dearie.”

“You won’t hurt him?”

She sees the Dark One’s shrug out of the corner of her eye.

“Well, not immediately. He’s terribly irritating though, and tomorrow is another day after all.”

“Yeah,” she says, offering Killian a tremulous smile. “It is.”

The quill glows yellow-gold in her hand as she touches the tip to the bottom of the parchment and her magic swells, a sudden gasp of energy thrumming through her body desperate to escape, and she realises - realises all too late - that her life isn’t the price here.

It’s everything else. Everyone else, maybe. Everyone else for him.

In that moment, it’s not even a choice.

She scrawls an ‘E’, and the light grows blinding.

When it clears it finds Killian on the other side of the room, his hands on his knees as he gasps for breath, the Queen hanging limp and watchful in her trap, and Blue - full sized and dressed in her most glittering finery - with the Dark One in front of her, cowed like a recalcitrant knight at the feet of his ruler.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” she says smoothly. “Emma has a duty to this land.”

“You!” the Dark One hisses. “We had a deal! You promised me my son!”

“One you rescinded on as soon as you disobeyed my orders,” Blue says. “The price for my help -”

“Was what exactly?” Emma asks Blue, hot rage pricking at her eyes. “My soul? My magic? My life?”

“No,” Blue answers coolly, and she lifts her gaze to the Evil Queen. “Hers. That’s your destiny, Emma. It always has been.”

“You thought that girl could truly destroy me?” the Queen laughs, twisting in her bonds. “A pathetic, untrained little thing like that?”

“And yet she’s not the one hanging from the tapestries, is she Regina?” Blue says, and a tiny, cold little smile plays at the corner of her lips. “I’ve been waiting twenty eight years for this.”

“I did that,” howls the Dark One. “I played your game, I let this ridiculous pirate take my dagger, I let him guide the girl here just as you asked, and I, I, am the one who defeated Regina. Me! You owe me! We had a deal!”

Blue watches him seethe as though he’s a toddler throwing a tantrum, the hardness in her expression something Emma remembers all too well.

“We did,” she says. “And since your absence is preferable, I come bearing a gift.”

She reaches between her breasts and pulls out a silver necklace, and, on the end of it -

“A magic bean,” whispers Killian.

The Dark One scrabbles toward her on his knees, his hands outstretched.

“Is this..?” he pleads, and Blue nods.

“It is. A one way trip, Rumplestiltskin. Don’t make the same mistake twice.”

She tosses the necklace onto the floor, and watches as he crawls over it it, clutching it almost reverently to his chest. He looks up, and for a moment Emma sees a flash of the man he once was, lonely and sad and wanting only one thing in the world.

Love.

For a moment, she sees herself.

He closes his eyes, and releases the bean. A great raging green vortex opens in the centre of the throne room where it lands, and for a moment Emma’s terrified that they’re all going to get sucked in and spat out who-knows-where, but the Dark One reaches out for it, his voice breaking.

“My boy, oh my boy.”

He falls, his arms spread wide, and the portal closes behind him with an audible snap.

Killian slumps, and she wants to run to him, take him in her arms and never ever ever - but then Blue’s there, holding out her hand for something.

“You have it?”

Killian straightens his shoulders.

“I do,” he says, and reaches into the inner pocket of his coat. He brings out something that, at first, Emma assumes is a lump of charcoal salvaged from one of their campfires, but then, deep inside it, she sees the smallest flash of red.

The Blue fairy takes the Evil Queen’s heart, and smiles.

“Regina Mills,” she begins, addressing the Queen where she hangs, the heart held between them. “You have committed treason against this realm and against your own family. You are guilty of patricide, regicide, kidnap, murder and coercion.”

Regina sneers.

“Oh, and what are you going to do? Will you kill me, Rheul Gorm? Darken that sparkly little heart of yours?”

Emma steps forward, and snatches the heart from the fairy’s hand.

“No,” she says, turning to the Queen with a sneer of her own. “But I might.”

“Emma - “ Blue begins, but she’s silenced by a wave of Emma’s hand.

“This is my destiny, isn’t it? What you’ve been waiting all these years for me to do?” she shakes her head. “You wanted me a killer, Blue. So let me kill her.”

Blue looks for a moment like she might object, but then her gaze falls on the Queen and hardens once more. “As you wish,” she says. “Find me, after the deed is done. We have much to discuss.”

“Okay,” Emma says quietly as the fairy disappears in a burst of light. “Don’t wait up.”

She give the heart an experimental squeeze and the Queen arches, gasping for breath.

“Just do it,” she hisses. “Kill me. Let the last thing I see be Snow White’s precious princess turn dark.”

“You deserve it,” Emma spits, and tightens her grip. “You deserve it!”

“Emma,” Killian’s hand is soft on her upper arm, but she still jumps, the heart slipping in her loosening grip. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” Emma is ashamed to find her cheeks wet, anger succeeding where terror could not. “You’ve seen the things she’s done, the people - the people she’s killed.”

“Aye,” he says gently, and covers the hand holding the heart with his own. “I have. So let me.”

“You? A pathetic lovesick pirate?” Regina scoffs. “Planning to show your little girlfriend the man you really are?”

He smiles at her, the charming rogue once more, and Emma lets the heart roll from her hand to his.

“It’s really nothing personal your Majesty, at least, not for me, but you see, I made a deal with a young man. A young man whose father’s heart you stole.”

This shocks her, her face draining of colour and her limbs going limp.

“Roland? Roland sent you to kill me?”

Killian nods. “With kind regards from young Mr Hood,” he says, and lifts his hook.

Emma's whole world narrows to the pin prick of steel into charred flesh, the sounds of the Queen’s bitter howls fading away until all she can hear is her own blood rushing in her ears and a voice she doesn’t know that whispers mercy.

“Wait!” Killian stops immediately he hears Emma’s cry, turning to her in confusion, but she addresses the Queen. “His father. What happened to him?”

The Queen seems to sag, turning her face into the remains of the portrait as best she can.

“He - he died. It wasn’t my fault! It wasn’t! I loved him - he wanted me to be good and I tried, I tried - ” she stops, swallowing hard, her cheeks pin from the effort of keeping back  tears. “I didn’t steal his heart. He gave it to me. He gave it to me!”

“What about my parents - what about what you did to them?”

The Queen growls, her frustration evident.

“I didn’t kill your insipid parents. I tried, but they were always one stinking step ahead of me.”

Emma’s eyes go wide, her knees weakening so that she has to grab at the sleeve of Killian’s coat to stay upright.

“My parents aren’t dead?”

“Well they might be by now,” the Queen snorts. “How would I know. But I didn’t kill them.”

Her parents aren’t dead. It echoes through her head, throbbing through her veins, her heartbeat replaced with two words over and over, her world tilting on its axis and being made new.

Not dead. Not dead. Not dead.

“Killian - Killian my parents -”

Mercy, mercy, mercy.

“Aye love,” he says, the heart still held tight between his fingers. “I heard.”

“We can’t kill her,” Emma says, with a sudden fierce certainty. “That’s not what Saviours’ do.”

Killian raises an eyebrow, but his smile is a soft, delighted sort of thing, pride tugging at the lines around his eyes.

“But the Blue fairy - ” he begins.

“Can do her own dirty work,” Emma says dismissively. “We don’t work for anyone, agreed?”

“Oh with pleasure, darling.” he says with a grin, “but I do have a duty to the boy. Perhaps the Saviour has another punishment? Or the Princess of the realm, perhaps?”

He grins, and she nods shortly, turning back to the Queen with all the regality she can muster.

“Regina, I henceforth strip you of your lands and titles and banish you from this Kingdom to return on pain of death,” she says, willing the magic through her limbs as she lifts her hands, the Queen snarling as her palms start to glow gold.

“You should have killed me while you could!” she shrieks as the gold spreads and burns, reaching out to envelop her where she hangs. “You’ll regret this! You’ll regret this! I am the Queen! I will destroy your happi - ”

There’s a flash, an explosion of grey-white smoke, and the Queen vanishes.

“Yeah,” Emma says. “I doubt that.”

“Very impressive, love,” Killian says over the rustle of leather as he puts something in his pocket.

She drops back on her heels, wipes her sweaty palms on her cloak, and turns to Killian with a shrug and a smile that makes her face ache.

“Eh. I saw it in some street theater once.”

He steps closer until she can feel the heat of his body against hers, and reaching up to run his thumb almost painfully gently across her flushed cheekbone

“I meant the mercy,” he says softly, and it reminds her of the way men speak in temples, hushed and adoring and awed. Easy pickings, she’s always thought.

Weak.

Well she knows better now.

“Were you really going to become the Dark One?” she asks, her hands coming up to rug lightly at his lapels.

He winces and tries to shy away, but she only clings tighter..

“It wasn’t a life’s ambition, love. Merely an unfortunate side-effect of taking my vengeance. I thought if you knew -”

She shakes her head, not interested in doubt, fear, or recriminations right now.

“And now?” she asks, pressing her breasts against his chest and moves her hand to fiddle with one of the many chains he wears around his neck, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs as she brushes lightly at his skin.

“Now what?”

“What’s your life’s ambition now?”

His answering laugh rumbles through her, warm and soothing, her skittish magic settling under his touch as he thumb at her chin.

“Give a man a chance, Swan.”

“Really? No ideas at all?” she asks coyly, rising up on her tiptoes to nip at his lower lip. “You can tell me.”

“Well,” he sighs against her mouth. “Perhaps one or two. Or five. Or twenty.”

“Hmmm,” Emma hums, licking at the seam of his lips and melting into the way he opens beneath her, the way he chases her mouth as she pulls back. “I can’t - oh. Oh shit.”

“What’s the matter love?” he mutters, still searching for the ghost of her kiss, his eyes heavy lidded. She gives him a little shake, her voice cracking.

“We just banished the Queen.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “I think that was all your doing, darling, but do go on.”

“I’m a fucking princess.”

He grins, and she knows he’s not going to sympathize with her sudden plight, not when he’s running his tongue over his teeth like that, not when he’s pulling her back towards him, crushing their bodies together and growling low into her ear.

“Would you prefer me on my knees, your highness?”

“Well, now you mention it,” she groans as he grinds his hips against her, before coming back to herself enough to slap lightly at his shoulder. “But not here.”

“No?”

She looks around at the dark, miserable throne room, at the torn portrait, the bloodstains on his hook, the fresh red at the neck of her cloak.

“No,” she says, soft but oh so certain. “Let’s go home.”

[kalimarsdreamlog]

Dream 137: I'm Not a Vampire, Really! Aka Double Spirits

This one gets a tad weird and rambly, but this is another one of my favorites, enough so that I’ve drawn soooooo much stuff for it. Only a few illustrations are here for the time being because a lot of them are crossovers, but all will be posted in time! Why are the others crossovers? Well, actually, I’m writing a story based on many of my favorite dreams, with this one happening to form the main structure. Anyway, moving on!

​Oh, and by the way, I had this dream BEFORE I got into Yu-Gi-Oh. Just putting that out there.

-

So I dreamt that I got killed by some tribe of people way long ago, but they put me on this altar that brought me back to life. I think it was punishment for offending them, though I don’t remember how. Granted it had come down to a fight, me vs four or five of them. They had these two-pronged spear-looking things and wore very little armor. I can infer that they did not fear death, between their little armor and the fact that they made me immortal as punishment for my alleged crimes. Anyway, I came back after bleeding out, but my spirit split into two different parts. (More under the cut)

(Excuse the gore. Couldn’t get this out of my head until I drew it. Somewhat ironically, this was done on the back of a forensics worksheet. I had already taken the blood unit in forensics so the spatters are all meticulously done to tell a story. Anyway, moving on.)

​Each half got different powers. Since we were already dead, we both basically got immortality. It was a middle-earth type world that we were in, just to explain why I got killed by a tribal people and why stone altars worked. (I was confused about why they just let me bleed out on the darn thing instead of just getting it over with) I was also very male because back then women weren’t allowed to go out adventuring or to war. Anyway, I was the more serious of the two halves of my spirit, and I came out of the ordeal looking younger than I had before, while the half who actually had a sense of humor (but not obnoxiously so) came out looking the same age as before I was killed. For some reason, he became a vegetarian. Also for some reason we both had to consume different things to keep up our powers and our health. My powers (other than flight) were all oil and plastic-based. It was weird. I sweated plastic and could control engines because I could control the oil, and I could melt and re-set plastic at will. I was also pretty good at fighting because of the time I came from. My other half though? I have no idea. He was really smart and for some reason I looked up to him, but I don’t remember what his powers were. We could normally read each other’s feelings if we weren’t too many miles away from each other because we were both originally the same person.

​My other half was better at faking our way into records in society. He was smarter academically and strategically. I was stronger, had more common sense, and relied on my instincts. He got the positive emotions, while I got the negative ones. It didn’t normally matter when we were together though, since we shared each other’s feelings, and between the two of us we had a full range of emotion. One thing that I had that he didn’t was the power of flight (because I can always fly in dreams) and a weakness to sunlight. We couldn’t figure out why.

​Years, decades, at least a century passed. We had gone through schools, orphanages, families, wars, streets, and lots of houses over time. I looked about sixteen, and he looked eighteen to twenty. Of course we aced our history classes when we took them. Some time in the middle I lost track of him. I couldn’t even feel his emotions anymore. I was alone. For someone as old as I was it wouldn’t have been so bad, but we had just been sparring in the street and even though I was more powerful he STILL beat me in one tough hit.

(Ignore the bad math grade on the other side please)

​He was the only one who could do that. My powers exhausted me quickly, so when we were faced with a semi barreling down the street all we could do was hang on to the underside until it stopped. Well, I was weak from exhaustion (and losing the fight) and couldn’t hang on, and I rolled to a stop on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I yelled for him to let go until I passed out.

When I woke up it was dark and I couldn’t feel his presence. I had been on the side of the road in the sun for hours, and I feebly flew around in an effort to find my other half back. Without him I was only half a person. I eventually got lost and checked myself into an orphanage to have a place to stay for the night since I didn’t know the way “home.“ 

I was sent to school the next morning, where people thought I was a vampire because of my aversion to sunlight and the fact that I knew so much more about the last wars than I should have. On the bus afterwards I was eating some candy and someone pointed at me and said, “Hey! The vampire’s got blood in his mouth! He must have bitten someone!”

​“I don’t have blood in my mouth…” I put my hand up to my mouth to check and it came back covered in red. I THOUGHT it was the candy, but you know it was starting to taste an awful like blood… “What the shit?” Everyone took that to mean that I was indeed a vampire, and INSTANT SOCIAL OUTCAST. I guess my answer to this one girl’s question didn’t help either.

​“What does it taste like?” She asked.

​“Haven’t you ever tasted blood before?” Was my ever tactless response. Seriously though, most people know the taste of blood, right? Sucked on a finger with a paper-cut, accidentally bit your tongue, got hit in the face or some lethal wound that left you coughing up your life? No? Oh wait that was just me. Well then.

​I eventually left that orphanage (and school) before they could notice that I wasn’t aging. I wasn’t sure where to go next, so I was on the streets for a while. That was fine. I got by for another couple years. I found one of our old houses from when we could still blend in enough to have friends. It was old now, very old, having been from a time when places like the Shire were considered modern. (Some decades since then the world modernized a bit. The bus is a good example.) Anyway, I lived there for a little bit which was a fairly happy time. Someone bought the house though (I was basically squatting on the property) who happened to be a priest. Being a good Samaritan, she said she needed some company anyway and would be happy to share with me if she could be my surrogate parent. A bit of an odd request, but who was I to refuse? 

So one day I left the bathroom after a shower and sneezed. She politely said, “bless you,” and since she was a priest suddenly the water in my hair turned into holy water and GOD DANG IT FELT LIKE MY SCALP WAS ON FIRE and I was reduced to screaming profanities while trying to dry my hair as fast as possible without burning my hands too.

​“Thanks, ‘MOM!’” Augh! I really wasn’t a bloody vampire, why did holy water hurt me?! Dang stupid tribe.

​After drying my hair enough that it only felt like it was being sunburned I hurriedly pulled on some clothes and fled from the house. It was nice but now the head of the church thought (correctly?) that I was some unholy demon and I did NOT need an entire church after me. I started up the engine of the nearest car via petroleum-powers, hopped in and then turbo charged said engine using said powers to make my escape as fast as possible. Some miles away I was boxed in by four other vehicles and forced to stop in, surprise! The middle of nowhere again! Way more people than I expected poured out of the cars, all armed with fists, knives, and several classic anti-monster things. I could take the former. I was a decently skilled fighter back in the day after all, now with countless lifetimes of practice. But could I fight them all off without exhausting myself, in the sun, with no weapons and probably against things I didn’t even know could hurt me yet? I was filled with determination not my own, and threw the first punch.

​I heard another engine pull up and hoped it wasn’t another car of enemies to fight. But when the door opened I was hit with a wave of emotions I hadn’t felt in a long time. My other half!! He had…grown? I thought about it (still fighting of course) and realized that I had probably aged a bit in his absence as well. If we had aged while we were apart, albeit slowly, then being together must have stopped that somehow before. So we were stronger when we were together, huh? With him back, this fight was sure to be easy!

​Oh so he got stabbed at some point during the fight and it looked like liquid nitrogen poured out and froze his enemies. So I guess he had either air or ice powers? Actually I think it was air. That would explain how he was able to take me out with one hit so easily. He must have used air pressure to power the force behind his hit.

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​This dream left me in a weird, quiet mood for a long time after having it. I got so used to waiting and watching the world go by in the dream without really interacting or getting involved with the world that I was pretty spacey once I woke up. To be fair, I had spent what felt like years as a different person. People kept asking me what was wrong. Oops?

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If you’re curious, the other drawing was of me/him on the bus discovering that the candy looked like blood. 

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