#Maybe they USED to exist and just the bones remain like this in secluded spots

[starlessea]

Sea Witch (Daryl Dixon/Reader)

Era: S4 

Summary: You sing just like a siren, and it makes Daryl realise why some sailors chose to drown.

Words: 1521

Warnings: Language.

Daryl was bewitched. He'd tip-toed his way out of the cellblock like a ghost haunting the hallways - careful not to wake anyone. He'd always had trouble sleeping, and found himself sneaking out for a midnight cigarette more often than not. Though, he'd run out of them the week before last, and had only recently managed to find a soggy packet on yesterday's supply run. He'd been waiting for this, and his fingertips traced over the carton in his pocket - feeling antsy to breathe in that first breath of smoke.

Except, he had forgotten all about them when he made his way outside. It was dark, and usually Daryl would find a secluded spot in the courtyard to flick his lighter like it was a sparkler in the night, and let the ends of his cigarettes burn his fingers just so that he could remember the feeling. But tonight was different. 

He thought it must be the witching hour, because the world didn't quite feel like it had when he’d left it. The moon was out, and it cast a hazed glow over the fields, and made Daryl's hands look a lot paler than they were. Yet, the sky was clear enough that he could see the countless stars hanging in it - like peering sets of eyes staring down at him. Daryl wasn't the type of man to spook easily, but something about this night set him on edge.

Then, he heard it. He wasn't entirely sure from where, but he could definitely hear it nonetheless. The man took a few tentative steps, whipping his head around to try and find the source of the noise. He couldn't, but he kept searching in the dark, as if some strange magnetism wouldn't let him leave. Daryl was bewitched - but by what exactly, he did not know.

You stood in the watchtower, overlooking the rolling fields and the forest that concealed any world that may exist beyond the prison. It was like you all lived on an island, lost out at sea. You wished that were the case - and that whoever dared to try and come for you would drown in their manmade boats and leave you all in peace.

Everything had been calm since you'd taken down Woodberry, but you couldn't help but feel it was the calm before the storm. So, you watched. You peered into the dark like you expected to see something there, and counted down the minutes until you could switch your shift and rest your eyes for good. 

On nights like this, you felt an unease creep into your bones. You had no explanation for it, except the fact that everything felt too quiet. You didn't like that very much, so you decided to change it. Humming softly to yourself at first, you let your voice get gradually louder, as it got carried off by the wind like a ship to the current. 

"My heart is pierced by cupid-" you sang, the words coming out sweet and thick.

"I distain all glittering gold. There is nothing can console me-"

The breeze had died down, so that your voice rang clearer in the stagnant air, seeming to carry all away to that forest and beyond.

"But my jolly sailor bold." 

Daryl thought he'd gone mad. He paced around the courtyard like a fish bobbing around a lure - except, he couldn't see the lure dangling right in front of him. His cigarette remained unlit between his lips, and was mostly unsmokable from how much he'd chewed it between his teeth. The song was unlike anything he'd ever heard before, and he couldn't let himself return to his cell until he found out who sang it. It was strange; he felt more trapped here, outside, than he had done within the prison.

The moonlight allowed him a good enough view of the area, but he could see no other figures aside from his own shadow. He wondered if he was stuck in the midst of a dangerous game - but he felt himself too far gone to turn back now. The man spat the cigarette out from his mouth and stomped over it with his boot, grumbling under his breath about how much of a waste it was.

He turned on his heels, ready to call it a night - albeit a disappointing one. Then, he heard it again, and Daryl Dixon was no quitter.

"His hair it hangs in ringlets, his eyes as black as coal-" you continued, staring out into the abyss like you expected to see a ship break through the misty fog and drop anchor at your gates.

"My happiness attend him wherever he may go."

Then, you saw him. A figure stood below the watchtower, looking up at you like they'd just stumbled upon the new world. You let your words trail off and squinted, trying to get a look at whoever it was.

Daryl stood triumphantly at the base of the tower, having found the source of the siren song. He hadn't expected it to be you - but that was probably intentional. Daryl batted all thoughts of you away like they were oncoming attacks, not letting him alone for more than a minute. He really did feel bewitched by you, by your unassuming smile, or the way you laughed at other people's jokes that weren't his - and how he wished he'd been the one to tell them. He hadn't thought you'd been the one singing, but that was only because he tried to think of everyone else it could be, first.

"Who ya tryna lure in?" Daryl called up at you, and you flinched.

You hadn't expected for the shadow in the dark to be him, but you couldn't say that you minded, either.

"Jesus, Daryl!" You yelled back, resting your hand over your heart. "You scared me."

It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't entirely the truth. You'd seen him before he'd even called out. The only thing that had scared you was realising it was Daryl. The man left you utterly speechless on a good day, and you wondered whether tonight was a good night.

"Nah, ya scared me." He grumbled in response, keeping his voice loud so you could still hear it.

You couldn't make out any of his features from where he stood, but the moonlight illuminated enough that you could see him looking straight up at you - like you were the beacon atop of a lighthouse.

"Thought my time was comin' to an end." He remarked, and you stifled a laugh. "Jus' wanted a cigarette an' I got the sea witch over here singin' some creepy shit."

You felt your cheeks burn, suddenly feeling too tongue-tied for someone who'd spent the night pouring over all the lyrics and melodies you could remember. It was like you'd used up all your words on your songs - leaving you silent for longer than you'd like.

"It's not creepy!" You argued, after a few seconds, but the man already knew.

Daryl wasn't sure why he'd said that, and suddenly wished he could take it back. He glanced up at you, leaning on the railing of the tower as your hair draped over the edge of it. To him, you almost seemed like an apparition - standing there against the ghostly moon like you were made to exist for this night.

"Ya got a pretty voice." He mumbled, wanting you to know what he’d really meant to say.

You bent further over the guard, trying to hear what the man had muttered into the night. 

"What?" You shouted, calling out to him. "I can't hear you from down there."

He remained silent, or maybe you'd just missed what he'd said again. He felt so far away from you, and you wished he'd just come closer.

"Are you going to come up?" You prompted, but felt your heart sink as he quickly shook his head.

"Nah." He replied. "Don' fancy drownin' tonight." 

You raised an eyebrow, not having the slightest clue what he meant. The man didn't give you much time to mope, however, as he called back up to you before he left.

"Maybe tomorrow." He said, and you watched the angel wings of his jacket catch the light as he turned around.

"Okay." You smiled to yourself. "See you around, Sailor!"

And so, Daryl returned back to the cellblock for the night, thumbing over the near-full packet of cigarettes in his pocket. The prison was as quiet as it was when he'd left, and he wasn't sure if any time had even passed since he’d been gone. The man slumped back onto his mattress and felt himself drift off to sleep like a boat adrift over waves, feeling more tired than he’d done in a long time.

Daryl fell asleep to dreams of peering, starlit eyes and a sea witch who stood among them, and you continued to sing until another figure was lured to your watchtower - this time, to take over your shift.

A/N I was listening to this cover of Jolly Sailor Bold whilst writing this. It’s honestly so enchanting-

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[mediaevalmusereads]

Strange the Dreamer. By Laini Taylor. New York: Little, Brown Books, 2017.

Rating: 4/5 stars

Genre: YA fantasy

Part of a Series? Yes, Strange the Dreamer #1

Summary: The dream chooses the dreamer, not the other way around— and Lazlo Strange, war orphan and junior librarian, has always feared that his dream chose poorly. Since he was five years old he’s been obsessed with the mythic lost city of Weep, but it would take someone bolder than he to cross half the world in search of it. Then a stunning opportunity presents itself, in the person of a hero called the Godslayer and a band of legendary warriors, and he has to seize his chance or lose his dream forever. What happened in Weep two hundred years ago to cut it off from the rest of the world? What exactly did the Godslayer slay that went by the name of god? And what is the mysterious problem he now seeks help in solving? The answers await in Weep, but so do more mysteries—including the blue-skinned goddess who appears in Lazlo’s dreams. How did he dream her before he knew she existed? And if all the gods are dead, why does she seem so real?

***Full review under the cut.***

Content Warnings: blood, violence, drug use, rape, sexual slavery, abduction and imprisonment

Overview: I really enjoyed Laini Taylor’s Daughter of Smoke and Bone trilogy, so I decided to give her new work a go. Overall, I also really enjoyed Strange the Dreamer because it had a lot of things that are characteristic of Taylor’s writing that I love - lush, lyrical prose; tragic, star-crossed love; a political conflict involving otherworldly creatures. The reason why I’m giving this book 4 instead of 5 stars mainly has to do with the pacing and the way events played out. There wasn’t anything wrong, I think, with the way Taylor handled her story - it’s just that I felt like things started to rush to a close too quickly, and I would have liked to spend more time in the book exploring character emotions.

Writing: Taylor’s prose tends to fall into two categories: lyrical and descriptive or straight-forward and economical. Part 1 of this book is more lyrical; the metaphors are more fantastical and the prose evokes a sense of longing and fascination. Taylor really captures the feeling of being immersed in a library, surrounded by stories, as well as what it’s like to have a dream (not a dream in your sleep - more like a goal or a wish that has a small or nonexistence likelihood of coming true). Part 1 was probably my favorite part of the book for this reason, as subsequent sections tended to lose that lyrical quality and fall into a style more typical of YA books.

Taylor’s pace is also fairly well-done in that I didn’t feel like I was being rushed or that I was plodding through the book. The only thing I would change in terms of pacing is the book’s ending; I felt a lot of things were dropped on the reader all at once, and though they were foreshadowed earlier in the book (which I very much appreciated), I tend not to like endings where too much happens.

Before I close this section, a couple of notes on descriptions and worldbuilding: though I know teenagers have sexual urges, I was a little put off by the descriptions of teenagers’ bodies in certain places. I can remember a few instances where Taylor describes the look of one character’s breasts, and though it wasn’t gratuitous, I didn’t like that these descriptions were included. I also thought the worldbuilding detail of “women get tattoos on their bellies as a rite of passage/coming of age marker when they become fertile and Sarai longs for one of her own” was a little uncomfortable. It made me feel like the world Taylor built was concerned with showcasing female reproductive capacity, and that just seems exclusionary. While it could have worked if the story was more about pushing back against reproductive regulation or exploring what such tattoos would mean for trans characters, as the book stands, that doesn’t really happen, so it was a weird detail that I felt distracted from the main themes.

Plot: This book primarily follows Lazlo Strange - an orphan who dreams of finding the lost city of Weep - and Sarai - the daughter of a dead god and a human who must hide her existence in order to stay alive. Lazlo is surprised one day when some inhabitants of Weep - led by someone called “the Godslayer” - show up in his library, asking for assistance from the land’s greatest scientists. Though Lazlo isn’t a scientist, he is the most knowledgeable person about Weep and its culture, so the Godslayer elects to take him along. Meanwhile, Sarai and several other demigods live in a secluded Sanctuary, hiding from the inhabitants of Weep so that they won’t be slain on account of their parentage.

Without spoiling anything (which is kind of hard, since there is a lot that happens), I will say that I really liked the central conflict of this book. Taylor does a good job of setting up a problem with no black-and-white solutions; it seems like everyone had a legitimate reason for acting the way they do, and no matter what happens, someone will be hurt.

But perhaps the thing I appreciated most about the plot was that Taylor never sets up a surprise twist that comes out of nowhere. I feel like I’ve read a lot of YA books that drop a bomb on the reader with no set up, and I personally feel like such twists make the story feel less cohesive. Taylor sets up all her reveals and twists by dropping hints early and frequently, and rather than make the story feel dull, I felt like they made the end emotionally fulfilling.

If I had one criticism of the plot it would be that the romance doesn’t feel genuine. Lazlo and Sarai seem to fall in love with each other too quickly, which made it seem like they got together because they just hadn’t had opportunities to meet other people. I didn’t see what they saw in each other aside from looks and special qualities like “oh, he’s able to share my dreams” or “she was kind to me when so many other people weren’t.” I wanted more out the romance, like Sarai falling for Lazlo’s kindness and Lazlo falling for Sarai’s compassion towards those who would harm her. Maybe there was some of that, but it was definitely overshadowed by lengthy descriptions of kissing, which I wasn’t much a fan of. I also wasn’t really a fan of the “dates” that they went on; some parts were cute, but overall, they dragged.

Characters: Lazlo, one of our protagonists, is likeable in that he’s pretty much the embodiment of a lot of book nerds. He starts off shy, completely absorbed with fairy tales and folklore, and loves to roam the abandoned stacks in his library. What I liked most about him, though, was his willingness to help people even if they treat him poorly. For example, there’s a character named Theryn Nero who is basically a Science Bro. He’s rich, beloved by everyone, and gets famous for cracking the secret of alchemy. While he puts himself up as the lone genius, he was actually aided by Lazlo and takes sole credit for a lot of things that Lazlo proved to be key in discovering. Lazlo, though annoyed, never lets his feelings get in the way of helping Nero when the greater good is at stake, and I really admired that.

If I had any criticisms of Lazlo, it would be that I wish his “dreamer” status or knowledge base was put to better use. After Lazlo gets to Weep, he isn’t quite as interesting as he was before, probably because he no longer needs to use his vast knowledge of stories to make his way through the world.

Sarai, our other protagonist, is fairly sympathetic in that all her problems feel undeserved. She is forced to stay locked away in a hidden Sanctuary in order to protect herself and her little found family (composed of other demigods), and though it’s for the best, it also feels stifling. I really liked that Sarai was not single-mindedly fixated on revenge for the things that happened in her past. Without spoiling anything, I will say that something happened which put the demigods and inhabitants of Weep in conflict with one another, and there is no easy solution that would guarantee that the demigods stay alive. Sarai has a lot of dreams like Lazlo - of finding family, of living a normal life, of living among the humans - but it’s not really viable for her, and instead of letting hate consume her, she tries to think up other ways of existing.

Sarai’s “family” is also charming. The group consists of 5 demigods who are the last remaining offspring of the slain gods, and all of them feel fairly complex. They all possess some kind of magical “gift”: there’s Sarai (who can produce supernatural “moths” that allow her to enter people’s dreams), Ruby (a girl who can turn herself into flames), Feral (the only boy, and he can summon clouds), Sparrow (a girl who can manipulate plants), and Minya (a girl who can make ghosts do her bidding). I liked that these characters had different personalities that often put them in conflict. Ruby is boy-crazy and seems to be obsessed with sex. Sparrow is more passive but has sweet moments where she makes a “flower cake” for Ruby’s birthday and braids Sarai’s hair. Minya is completely consumed by her desire for revenge, and it presents some real barriers to finding a solution to the group’s problems.

The supporting characters down in Weep are also fairly compelling. The Godslayer is sympathetic in that he doesn’t revel in his heroic image or title; instead, he feels complex and seemingly warring emotions tied to guilt over what happened to Weep and his role in it almost 20 years prior to the events of this book. The Godslayer’s companions are also sympathetic and have emotions that are easy to understand, and I loved that they seemed to take to Lazlo so quickly. They welcome all outsiders with open arms, but they have a soft spot for Lazlo, which I liked because it meant that he didn’t have to face bullying or gatekeeping from people he had longed to meet his entire life.

The inhabitants of the world outside of Weep were interesting. There’s Theryn Nero, who seemed like he would be a primary antagonist but doesn’t have enough “screen time” to truly be a threat. I liked that his conflict with Lazlo was low-key - it was intense enough to be annoying, but no so intense that their rivalry consumed the whole story or put petty emotions above the greater good. The other “scientists” who follow the Godslayer back to Weep served their purpose; not all of them had rich, complex lives, but they didn’t really need to because if they did, the story would feel crowded.

Overall, there weren’t any characters I disliked, per se. While I do wish Lazlo got to develop differently, there wasn’t much wrong with his character, and I think all of the main players had interesting backstories and motivations, and I appreciated the layer of complexity they all had. I do wish there had been more queer characters though. There is one wlw couple, though they aren’t too prominent in the grand scheme of things. Of course, that could change, as there is a whole second book to go through, but I wish some of the demigods had been lgbt+ so it felt like Taylor’s world wasn’t overwhelmingly straight and cis.

TL;DR: Despite some pacing problems at the end and minor details that didn’t fit my personal tastes, Strange the Dreamer is a lush, evocative fantasy about the power of dreams. Readers who enjoy epic fantasy and stories about gods, star-crossed love, and will probably adore this book.

[seasonofthegeek]

Drift Away

Parts 1, 2:

Kirishima felt something light touch his skin for the first time in hundreds of years and he hardened on reflex, dry flesh cracking and tearing as he did. His eyesight had gone to hell from lack of blood ages ago, but he could still make out a tiny dark spot on his forearm.

Was that a bug?

He hadn’t seen a bug in…

The cobwebs in his mind began to fall away as his thoughts churned in a way they hadn’t in far too long. The cottage had been magicked by his sire to keep anyone and anything out while she was gone. Nothing could get in, not even bugs, but here one sat, seemingly uninterested and unimpressed by the broken skin of its perch softening once more.

He tried to swallow in an effort to speak but his mouth and throat were parched beyond repair without outside help. Kirishima sighed inwardly and tried to content himself with watching the fuzzy bit of dark color move along his arm until it blended in with his scorched hand.

Anger blazed up inside his chest and it was a welcome feeling. He’d been abandoned here, abandoned and forced not to use his hardening so that he was hurt when the sun finally found its way into his hiding place. He was starved and lonely and damaged and the pieces were starting to fall into place.

His sire’s magic around the cottage had fallen.

Her command for him not to use his hardening was no longer in effect.

She was gone.

He let that thought sink in and wondered how to feel about it. He’d spent lifetimes tethered to her side, watched generations of his family come and go from afar. He should feel bereft, but…

All Kirishima could feel was relief.

Even if he was still stuck here until the sun finally exploded and burned the world, at least the apprehension of her return was finally gone.

He was free and that was enough.

___

Bakugo cursed as his machete got caught on another thick vine. He was seven months into his hunt for the vampire council and his time was quickly running out. This was the last lead he’d been able to pick up on and if there was no one in the little cottage in the secluded forest, he was going to call it quits.

That would give him three months to make a plan to escape ever being found by the council for the rest of his existence. It wouldn’t be easy, but he could do it. Of course, it’d be much easier to just be able to hand over the vampire they wanted and not have to look over his shoulder forever.

He was following the overgrown trail the best he could and knew he was on the right path even if it did appear that no one had been this way in ages. He recognized a few stone markers with his sire’s sigil on them, but the magic had faded away when she did. He vaguely wondered how many hapless victims had stumbled upon the trail and been killed instantly through the years.

The sun would be up in a couple of hours, but he should be able to make it to the cottage by then. And he would either finally find his bounty or use the place to hide out for the day and then start his new life on the run.

The sky was beginning to lighten with the first signs of morning by the time Bakugo entered the weed-filled dirt patch where the decrepit cottage sat, and his instincts were screaming at him to find shelter. He sneered at the warped boards and long-faded paint and the nature that had grown up around the building. It looked entirely uninhabited.

“Another fucking dead end.”

He glanced up at the sky and saw the telltale pink of the rising sun. With a growl, he stomped up the few broken steps and tested the door. It was locked as he expected and he rammed his shoulder against in with a grunt, stumbling as the rotting wood easily gave way.

His eyes adjusted to the dark interior almost immediately and he took in his surroundings, abruptly stopping on the shadowy figure sat at the table against the far wall.

“Oi, you Kirishima?”

There was a raspy sound but no other reply. Bakugo’s nerves stood on end and he felt tiny pops starting to go off in the palms of his hands. He held his fists tight and took another tentative step forward.

“Say something or I’m going to blow you sky high,” he warned as he held out a hand, warm orange light radiating from it.

Once again, there was a rasping sound but no words.

He narrowed his eyes and took a couple of work steps forward and felt his throat close up on the sight before him. “Holy shit…” he murmured. “Are you…you still alive?”

While the cottage was musty from being closed up for so long, there was no scent of decay on the air. Bakugo took a closer look at the body seated before him. It was skeletal, waxy skin stretched over bones in a very unhealthy way. There were tears along the skin in places, but no blood was left to leak from them or even dry at the wound. Dark hair hung long and limp around a gaunt face where two cloudy eyes attempted to watch him as cracked lips struggled to make a sound.

“What the hell did she do to you?” he whispered, moving even closer. “You are Kirishima, yeah? Eijiro Kirishima?”

The eyes moved as if trying to track his voice, but it was obvious the vampire was blind.

“Okay, stare straight ahead if you’re Kirishima but look to the side if you aren’t.”

There was a hesitant pause and then the vampire was looking straight at Bakugo.

“Okay, good to know then.” He turned back to see the sun dripping beams of light into the open door and he hurried across the small space to slam the door shut. When he realized light was still filtering in, he looked up and spotted the hole in the ceiling just above the charred hand that sat helpless on the table. He swore under his breath.

“Gonna move you. Probably gonna hurt like hell but no reason to keep you burning now that I’m here.”

Kirishima made unintelligible sounds of pain as he was lifted and taken to the dust-covered bed in the corner. His body stayed in the stiff sitting position he’d been left in and Bakugo sighed loudly as he rolled him on his side in an effort to help make him more comfortable.

“It’s gonna take you a while to recover, looks like. When it’s night, I’ll go out and get us some fresh blood, but these bags are gonna have to do for now.”

He dropped his traveling bag off his shoulders and let it thunk on the floor. He knelt down to rifle through it until he brought out medical grade blood bags, one in each hand. He nicked the corner of one with his fang and began to suck at the liquid, grimacing at the stale taste. He’d been able to feed from a jogger in town the night before so he was thankfully doing well on blood, but no way was he about to take on a starved vampire not at full strength.

There was a wretched keening from the bed and Bakugo knew Kirishima could smell the blood.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting to you. Don’t worry,” he muttered. He finished his own bag first, ignoring the other vampire, and then finally stood and took the other bag to the bed. He waffled with it for a moment before using his own fang to tear that bag as well.

“Gonna roll you on your back. Try not to choke or let too much run out, yeah?”

He did as he said and there was a creaking sound from the body as if Kirishima was trying to move. Bakugo rolled his eyes and brought the open end of the bag to the other vampire’s mouth. He let the blood trickle in little by little, pausing to let the half-open mouth drain of blood before he poured more in. There was still very little movement from Kirishima but that was to be expected. It was going to take a lot more blood for him to be functional and Bakugo had no plans of trekking all the way back without this guy using his own two feet.

He thought about trying to send word to the council that he’d found the vampire they wanted in case it took longer than the time he had left but he’d save that errand for another day.

The bag was drained and Kirishima was still grunting like a hungry baby but Bakugo was exhausted.

“Let that settle,” he said gruffly. “Gonna sleep for a bit and then we’ll try some more.”

He ignored the pitiful groan from the sickly man and went to the threadbare couch. It would be a quick nap. The faster this was over, the faster he could get on with his life.  

___

Bakugo hated disposing of dead bodies but he’d grossly underestimated how fast Kirishima would be able to drain the man he’d brought to the small cabin and was now left with the undesirable task. He’d meant to pull the man away with just enough left in him to survive with medical care, but Kirishima had latched on and refused to let go. What’s done was done. He hefted the heavy weight of the lifeless man on his shoulder and moved further into the woods. He wouldn’t bother with burying their victim, but he wanted to get the remains far enough away that the stink of decay didn’t reach the cabin.

Kirishima passed out after the feeding, but he could at least lie flat now, the blood working through his body little by little to ease the stuck joints. Bakugo tried not to dwell on how long he’d been left to sit in that chair because it made his own body ache. The Countess had not been a kind sire in the least, and he’d experienced that on more than one occasion.

He tried not to think on it too hard though. After all, he doubted the council had anything good planned for Kirishima. They’d likely run tests on him to see if his ability to walk in the sun could be transferred by blood. And if it could? Best case scenario, they’d keep him hooked up to a machine the rest of his existence, feeding him just enough blood for them to be able to take it right back. His sire had learned her tricks on getting powers for herself from the highest member of the council after all.

That did make him wonder why she hadn’t just taken Kirishima’s power for herself to begin with. Maybe they were alike. She hadn’t been able to take Bakugo’s explosions from him either. Her body couldn’t produce sweat so it wasn’t a compatible transfer. He ground his teeth together at the memory of that day; he’d been sure he would die from the beating she gave him.

And then she’d nursed him back to health sweetly and gently as if nothing had ever happened.

Fucking psycho.

He finally came to the edge of a steep cliff and shrugged the body off of his shoulder, watching passively as it tumbled down and disappeared into the tangled overgrowth below. “Wrong time, wrong place,” he muttered as if it were some kind of apology and turned to head back to the cabin.

The walk back seemed shorter, most likely due to his lack of burden. Bakugo did a precursory circuit around the cabin to make sure he didn’t smell anything out of the ordinary, but all seemed fine.

“You’re…back,” Kirishima croaked, eyes heavy as he watched Bakugo close the cabin door.

“Didn’t expect you to be awake.”

“No…sleep.” His voice was low and raspy from disuse and his words were disjointed. His brow furrowed as if his speech frustrated him. “Tired…no.”

Bakugo took a seat in the rocking chair near the bed, just out of arm’s reach of the prone vampire. “You trying to say you’re not tired?” he asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

Light filled Kirishima’s eyes as they widened slightly. His cracked lips pulled up at the corners and he hummed.

“Too bad. You have to sleep to get better.”

If Bakugo didn’t know any better, he’d think the older vampire was pouting by the expression his reply received.

“I’m not going to fucking read you a bedtime story if that’s what you’re wanting,” he added. “I’ve got to get you better so I can trade your life for mine, yeah? That’s all this is.”

Kirishima’s gaunt jaw clenched and he closed his eyes, partly turning his face away.

“Yeah, yeah, point made. You don’t like me.”

Bakugo wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much that there was no denial from Kirishima.

Buy me a cherry coke?

[i4z-0892-il]

Monster House 6

Summary: Posing as Newlyweds Sam and Y/n set out to investigate what’s killing the visitors of a secluded Inn, and attempt to keep their working relationship professional.

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Word count: 4884

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ Only, suggestive themes, language, smut

A/N:  Wow! It’s been a while. This chapter has been sitting in my google docs 90% finished for quite some time. And given the spirit of NaNoWriMo I figured it was time to finish it. So thank you all who have been waiting for this so patiently, and who have been so supportive an lovely in my absence. I can’t promise it won’t happen again, but I’m still writing! I haven’t forgotten. And now, without further ado...

Immerse yourself in the story, Buy Sam’s Scent Here from @scentsfromthebunker (And damn does it smell goooooood)

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Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7

The scream that caught in your throat came out as nothing more than a clipped sob and a whisper of air. Frozen in place and time like a marble statue. What was standing before you was impossible. Everyone had heard the stories, the quick hushed warnings not to speak of the White Thing in the Woods too loud lest its attention be drawn. And despite what you knew about the changing moods of the forest, you didn’t buy into it. It was all bullshit just to keep kids from getting lost in the thicket of trees.

Fables.

Urban legends. 

Fairy Tales. 

That’s all they were. 

The White Thing was no more real than the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus. 

It wasn’t that you thought yourself too smart to believe in such things, you’d simply taken for granted just how old those Woods were. The America’s were still young, a few hundred years of Colonised society was enough to make a young girl forget that these lands had been here since the beginning. And something lived deep in the underbelly of the wilderness, where even the most foolish or brave-hearted person dare not venture. 

It was a beast, massive and filling the space of your vision to the edges. The Thing was so much taller than you, even as it crouched on legs too long and layered with lean muscle; incredible antlers sprouted from its skeletal head like moss covered tree limbs. Sunken eyes set in their deep black sockets as if it was the void looking back at you. Pallid and worn flesh stretched too tight over the unnaturally thin and long bones of its body, seen through the long mangy white locks that hung from it’s skull. Sharp teeth the length of your palm sprung from it’s elongated skeletal snout, yellowed and rust colored from age and use; able to cleave muscle and fat from bone like slicing through butter. Thick mists of air hung heavy as it breathed, and a curious rumble from deep within rolled out of its mouth as it looked you over. You, this pitiful little creature, helpless and paralyzed by fear and disbelief. 

If there were any doubts before they were dashed now. You were going to die. 

Two things were going to happen. First, you were going to disappear, the Police would put together a short, and limited search party. They’d search through part of the forest, not venturing very far, superstition running too deep in their DNA. The search for you would be called off within a week, and you would vanish into history as nothing more than the face of yet another Missing Girl. Secondly, knowing full well that you played with fire and were burned, the townsfolk would use your death as a cautionary tale to warn other youth to keep in line. To not be the stupid girl that disappeared in the trees. If only she’d heeded her Daddy when he told her to stay clear of the Woods to the North she might still be alive. You would become a myth.

Seconds turned to decades as The White Thing watched you tremble. Tears spilled down your cheeks freezing to the skin at your jaw in the icy air. It tilted its head, leaning forward on one of it’s four boney arms with taloned hands large enough to crush your skull like a grape if it wanted to. You couldn’t breathe.

It sniffed the air around you, as if it could pick up the scent of your terror. It was close enough that you could smell the stench of death pouring from it’s clammy skin. Heart hammering away in your chest you thought for sure it might explode and kill you before this Thing sunk its teeth into your soft flesh. If you were lucky that’s what would happen.

The White thing extended a hand to you, a misty green stone in it’s palm with a symbol carved in it. An offering. Your horror turned to curiosity and confusion, but you were too frightened to move or do anything about your confliction. Moments ticked by agonizing in their pace, years might have passed already. When it finally moved your whole body jerked away on instinct, but it simply placed the stone on the ground, and backed away. And like that it vanished into the mist and ticket of trees just as it had come, like a dream. Or nightmare. 

The icy chill dissipated making way for the warmth of late summer, and the trees parted again letting streams of golden light pour through the canopy. Birds began to chirp and the weight sitting on your chest fell away. Suddenly you could breathe again. The moment your limbs regained their use you took off through the woods, tearing through the trees as fast as your legs could carry you, not bothering to stop until you’d broken through the treeline and into your house slamming your bedroom door behind you. 

You hid your torn and dirty clothes far into the back of your closet, as if you could will away an evidence of what had just taken place. If you believed it was a dream, a hallucination, some trick of the mind then you could carry on with your life. Just like everyone else. Like nothing had ever happened

What did just happen?

What happened was impossible. Absurd. Lunacy. Delusion. Absolute nonsense. Monsters simply could not be real.

The tightness in your chest gripped your lungs like a vice threatening to cave you in and destroy you from the inside out. There was no way you could go back to normal. What you’d just witnessed upended everything you ever knew. Everything you had been certain of once before. 

What else was out there? What else existed in the shadows? Lurking in the dark waiting for the right moment to pounce. Four hours ago you were certain of many things: There was nothing in the woods. The Tooth Fairy wasn’t real. Poltergiest was just a movie, and above all there was nothing to be afraid of in the woods.

You went to bed that night with your eyes locked on your window, blinds and curtains drawn, waiting. Waiting for the whispers to begin and the knocking. After the adrenaline had finally left your bones chattering, exhaustion kicked in and sleep eventually took you. 

When you woke in the morning you couldn’t help but be relieved, maybe it had just been a bad dream after all. You were in one piece, in the safety of your bedroom, all windows, doors, fingers and toes in place. You were going to do all you could to forget it. Although you would never venture through the woods again.

Kicking your legs over the bed and planting your feet on the floor you stretched your arms out over your head, tensing and cracking at the joints. You let out a satisfied groan and huffed a sigh as you pushed disheveled hair from your face. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes you walked down the hall and turned to the living room staring for the kitchen. Absolutely starving, the most heavenly thing you could think of was a packet of pop tarts that had your name in it. 

You snagged a bag and cast a glance at the clock on the stove reading 8:18 am. Usually everyone was up by now. Your little brothers were under no circumstances ones to miss Saturday morning cartoons. Mom was usually piddling around, or  working on a quilt she’d never finish, and Dad no doubt would be outside already and under the hood of that old Mustang. The silence and stillness of the house as you moved through its rooms made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, it was never this quiet on a Saturday morning. What stopped you in your tracks like slamming into a wall was your bookbag. The one you’d dropped in the maze of trees, sitting on the coffee table in the living room, as if it had been there the entire time.

Pulse raced, and blood pumped furiously through your veins as you slowly reached out a hand picking up the bag you thought you’d surely never see again. A little green stone with a marking in the middle dropped from your bag to the coffee table, and your blood turned to ice.

The crushing realization set in along with that black shroud of doom you couldn’t shake. Your legs moved before your brain could process, carrying you down the hall like a doll on a string. You swung the door open to your brothers’  room where carnage painted the walls a sticky dark red. Frozen to the spot, you couldn’t scream, all you could do was let your eyes trail over the mutilated remains of your younger siblings.

Eyes snapped open as you jolted from your sleep. It’d been more than a decade but you’d never really left the woods of that sleepy town. That shadow had followed your every step since, haunting you, lurking in the back of your mind and biding it’s time. It was the Washington State forests that reminded you of the thick wilderness of West Virginia, of home. The same thing happened in Michigan, the Wendigo. Dense woods were more than enough to trigger what you’d done your best to tuck away. Every hunter has an origin story, most aren’t born to it. Most have paid a devastating price for the knowledge of what lives in the dark. You were no different than any of the rest of them, but unlike most of them who found a place in the violence and anonymity, this life gave you no pleasure.

The blood thirsty look in a man's eye is unmistakable, and is a trait shared among a vast majority of hunters. First it’s fueled by vengeance, then it’s something to fill the void until you learn to hate the things you hunt, and killing them brings you a release you couldn’t otherwise find. But for you it was a job, a disgusting one that you’d rather not have been the one to do, but if not you, then who? Some other poor girl who wandered into the wrong place? Truth was you couldn’t have lived with yourself if you left the supernatural for others to deal with who might not be as lucky or well prepared as you.

Your eyes dropped to the floor to see an empty mat and blankets where Sam must have slept overnight. He was an early riser but dawn wasn’t for hours stillt, maybe he couldn’t sleep either. Letting out a sigh you shut your eyes and rolled away from the edge of the bed to the middle on your side as the throb of a headache began to set in and the world tilted around like a weeble wobble. You were still half drunk, and felt like you’d gone four rounds with a brick wall. When you opened your eyes again a shock of breath caught in your throat to find that you weren’t as alone as you’d thought. 

Sam lay stretched out on his back, an arm tucked under his pillow and propping up his head, looking something like a painting in the darkness before Sunrise. A peaceful person he was not, but in that moment it might have fooled you that he could be. So often his brow was furrowed in thought or concentration, his broad shoulders tense with such worry that he rarely looked comfortable. Seeing him asleep was nothing new, but being able to relish in his image without interruption and so close was. He was right there, you could feel the heat radiating from him, seeping through the sheets. You could touch him, you could reach out and touch him. Trace your fingers along the sharp line of his jaw, and down the length of his throat like you’d imagined doing hundreds of times. You could press your lips to his cheek and curl his long silky hair around your fingers. You could. He was right there and you were still tipsy, less inclined to listen to the practical side of your brain.

There was no telling how he ended up in bed with you. Last thing you remembered was being too drunk to stand up on your own, and in times like those you were prone to putting your foot in your mouth. It would have taken a flash in his eyes for the secrets you’d been keeping to spill out of your mouth like a burst dam. It would have taken a grin to his lips and a dimple to let loose the fact that you wanted him. He wouldn’t have taken you up on your offer, not with you being so intoxicated but you must have done something right to bring him to your bed.

You could have watched him breathe forever. The world could have caved in around you and everything fell to ruin, but it wouldn’t have mattered, because he was just so close. Worries melted away just by sheer proximity, and the nightmare you had just roused from fell away with the rest of your problems. If there was one silver lining to the life you lead, it was Sam. Sure the hunting evil, saving people and all that gave the occasional warm fuzzies, but that was expected of you. It was your job. It was thankless and messy and scary and frankly you hated every second of it. There were things you’d planned on doing with your life. Places you’d planned on exploring, people you’d planned on meeting. You had your eye on being a Surgeon, Cardiac, the best the field had ever seen. You had colleges in mind, and the determination to make it happen.

How quickly life changes.

If you had been told at fifteen that this would be your life, you’d have laughed. Never in a million years would you have guessed that you’d live the rest of your life as a Professional Ghost Popper, on the road, in shitty motels and surviving on gas station hot dogs. Though it wasn’t all bad. There was Sam. He waltzed into your life like a breath of fresh air. A kindred spirit. A sliver of hope where there was none. He wanted out too, he only mentioned t it a few times, and usually inebriated, but it was enough. He didn’t like the job any more than you did, but you’d both been doing it so long you couldn’t imagine life outside of it. It was that fear of the unknown that kept you both in your safe spaces. If there was any reason to leave the shelter of the dark, it was Sam.

He shifted in his sleep with a small sigh,his head falling to the side and into the stream of silver moonlight, and there as no fighting the need to reach out and touch his face. Fingertips ghosted over the line of his jaw, resting softly at his chin where your eyes fell to his lips, rosy, soft and parted. You thought of the women lucky enough to know what his lips tasted like. Were they sweet like he was? Intoxicating? 

The screen on his phone lit up on the nightstand as the time ticked over to 3:30 and his alarm began to sound. You dropped your hand away, and Sam let out a remorseful groan as he rolled on his side and reached a long arm over you to the nightstand to hit snooze. His head hit the bed and he was out again, arm left to drape over you, heavy and warm. Trying to pull your arm free he stirred again, his arm wrapping around your back and pulling you to him as his nose nuzzled into your shoulder. 

The swell in your chest was nearly drowning you, it was exactly where you’d always wanted to be, and the one place you’d never allow. Maybe… maybe just for a minute you could allow it. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla and coffee, and the feel of his lips against your shoulder took over your senses. You’d have given anything to stay just like that forever.

Your fingers slipped through silky tresses, and long eyelashes fluttered open at the touch.The sunflowers in his eyes, even in that dim light, took your breath away.

“Good morning,” you whispered. A smile curled his lips and created that perfect dimple in his cheek. Not quite awake he let himself sink around you breathing in the natural perfume of you, and the warmth of your skin, soft like butter and better than he’d dreamed. Only he wasn’t dreaming. The alarm hadn’t woken him like it was supposed to, but you wrapped in his arms certainly did. He told himself that he’d keep his distance, he wasn’t going to encroach on your space. The last thing a drunk girl wants to wake up to is a guy in her bed. But when he turned his eyes up to meet yours, and a lazy smile graced your lips he eased.

“You’re still drunk aren’t you?” He asked.

“No,” you answered nodding your head ‘yes.’ He replied with an amused snicker and pulled his arm away, stopping at your hip when you didn’t move away. You’ve looked at him with those bedroom eyes like that before. A few times. You were drunk each time. When you were sober you were well composed, only allowing yourself to get but so close. When you had a few you let your guard down, just a little, just enough to get a peek over the wall. He’d seen you drunk and on the prowl, and while that was certainly a sight to behold, you were different when you were alone with him. 

With him you were vulnerable in a way you couldn’t be sober, when the girl who had a rock collection in her youth came out. The girl who read The Silmarillion annually, and taught herself to speak, read and write in Elvish. The girl who hates raisins, and catches spiders to set them loose outside instead of killing them. The girl he wanted to get to know more than he’d wanted to know anyone. You’d be three doubles and four beers in, and that look would flash across your eyes. Cheeks flush with drink, eyes half lidded and looking only at him. Then your lips would curl into a smile, and it was almost impossible to resist. Each new day with you proved harder than the last to find a reason why it was a bad idea to be with you.

“Right, and I’m the Pope.” He snarked, as he pulled himself away from your touch and sitting up, regretting not staying put longer almost immediately. 

And the moment was over, back to business as usual in an instant. The pang in your chest was miserable. Swinging your legs over the bed you stood up stretching your arms over your head and waiting for the room to stop spinning.

“So, uhm, guess the floor wasn’t as comfy as you thought?” You said, kicking the pile of blankets.

“Yeah. Something like that.” He said. You didn’t remember. 

Sam heard the thud of your body hitting the floor, finding you in a heap when he yanked the b

athroom door open. Gathering your limp frame in his arms he checked your head for blood, and grateful to find you’d missed the nightstand. Long fingers smoothed hair from your face still flush with drink, and a little paler than usual. Sam had seen you black out drunk before, but he’d never seen you pass out before, the cooking class must have been torture.

The way you settled in his arms as he lifted you was perfect. The last time he’d held you like that you were holding your guts in and bleeding out from a stabbing after a hunt went sideways. The color was draining from your face to pour down your stomach. You were fighting so hard to stay awake, even as your lips turned blue and your eyes lolled to the back of your head. The teeth in your head had begun to chatter so hard he thought they were going to shatter, but you kept talking, the whole time. Raving about how the rampant uncheck misogyny running through the fabric of our culture affects young girls on fundamental levels since birth. The more you talked, the angrier you got, the longer you stayed awake. It was all you could think to do to stay awake. In a less dire situation he’d have paid more attention to your tirade, but all he could do was look on you with amaze. You were the strongest woman he’d ever met in his damn life. You were still ranting when the Medical staff at the hospital took over.

This was how he wanted it to be, soft and warm, safe. The way you settled in his arms was like you were made to be there, like he was made to hold you.You were home. Sam laid you in the bed, and pulled the blankets up around you when you took hold of his hand.

“Stay with me, Sam.” You said in an airy whisper, eyes still closed. Who was he to refuse? He probably should have taken longer to think about it, if he were more noble he might have, but he didn’t argue when you asked him to stay. So he climbed into the bed, careful to give you more than enough space. Countless times had he wished that things were different for his life, this should have been one of them. But truth was if neither of you had become hunters odds were you’d have never met. And even though the life he lead seemed more hellish than anything else, he’d met you. 

Silencing the alarm on his phone he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander over you as you stretched, the way your hair fell, bedhead messy and lovely against your neck begging for his hands to touch

“Oh, I found out where Mr. Lonely is buried. I figure we can go salt and burn the body before the Sun is up, come back, take a nap then hit the road.” You suggested.

“You don’t want to stay for Wine tasting?” He snarked.

“Preferably not, but if we have to then I’m just going to stay drunk today.” You answered, and he grinned.

“We should probably still do an EMF sweep.”

“Really? Can’t we just torch the corpse and call it a night?” You pouted as you watched him move around the room to gather clothing to change into. He stopped to ponder at the bathroom door before giving a nod. It was late, or incredibly early, you were still trashed and both of you only got a couple hours of shut eye. There was no reason not to just get the bottom line done.

“Fine, we can skip it, but we have to stay tonight to make sure it’s done.” He compromised. Sitting in a chair to tie your boots you paused to consider if skipping part of an investigation was worth sticking around for another single night. You turned your eyes up to Sam who stood so tall and broad, and firm, you had your answer.

Yes. Definitely yes. The case would be closed, you’d get to drink, and actually enjoy a little bit of relaxation- though this would not have been your first choice. And it would just be you and Sam, nothing to worry about other than simply being. 

“I agree to your terms.” You said pulling a flask of whiskey from one of your bags. Hair of the dog, you were going to power through the oncoming hangover. You had an empty day ahead of you that you were going to fill with Sam, your enthusiasm was genuine. “Get dressed and lets go defile a grave!”

Hiking at night wasn’t something you wanted to make a habit of doing. The sky was clear, and the Moon was  particularly bright which was great until you hit the treeline where the path to the Graveyard was. The black chasm of the trees swallowed up the silvery Moonlight till there was nothing left but pitch. Then your fear of dense woods sprung up again like a steadily increasing anxiety riddled game of whack-a-mole. There was nothing to be afraid of, you had flashlights, Sam, and you were strapped. Your brain wasn’t giving you a reprieve however, you kept expecting to turn your head and see the skeletal bloody face of the White Thing to appear in the darkness between the trees, ready to spring out and finish the job it started more than a decade ago. A cold chill slid up your spine sending a dread filled shudder down your body. With each step you had to remind yourself that you weren’t back home in West Virginia, you were on the other side of the country, in Washington, it wasn’t going to find you after more than a decade. You hoped at least. If the White Thing wasn’t in the woods there was something else in there with eyes that stalked your movements, putting you on edge, and making you paranoid. Trepidation rattled you, and you found yourself stepping closer to Sam as you walked, finding relief and comfort with each brush of his arm against yours. 

It was a 20 minute hike, in the pitch black wild wilderness, at 3 o’clock at night, but once you hit the gravesite it was worth it. The site sat on a cliffside at the top of the mountain, just a small clearing in the trees, what could have knocked the wind out of you was the most magnificent view of the peaks and valleys of the mountain range, stretching as far as the eye could see. More stars hung in the sky than you had seen in a very long time, no light pollution, no noise, just the calm quiet. No wonder Wellington wanted his family buried there. You allowed yourself a few moments to soak it all in before setting to work.

Stabbing the spade end of your shovel into the pile of loose dirt, you dropped your butt down to sit, legs dangling into the large hole before you. With a sigh you wiped sweat from your brow as you rifled through the pockets of your jacket for a short, partially smoked joint. 

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” Sam asked from inside the hole, a teasing grin on his face as he looked up at you. Answering him with a shrug you  lit up and took a long drag. While he didn’t care much for smoking in general, it was difficult to tear his eyes away from the smoke wafting and curling in transparent tendrils spouting from your lips.

“It’s never too early or late for this.” You answered offering it to him, he declined with a shake of his head, quickly setting back to the task at hand- digging up a corpse. An old, rotten, decayed, mouldering corpse. If you could rate aspects of your job in order, digging up bodies was at the bottom of the list. Though to be honest, there weren’t many things that you did like about the job. There was the bonus of a flexible schedule, and the option to travel, and there was, of course, the fact that your co-workers were a little more than easy on the eyes. But there were no tax exemptions, or paid expenses, no benefits, fuck not even a reliable salary. It wasn’t a job you did because you wanted to, you detested almost everything about it. But someone had to do it.

No one wants to tell you how much effort is involved in digging up a six foot deep grave armed with nothing but a couple of old rusty shovels and sheer willpower. No one wants to tell you how long it takes either. The Sun was going to be up in the next hour or so, and the cover of darkness was a necessary precaution when it came to gravedigging. When Sam’s shovel struck something hard and hollow you could not have been more thrilled. Your eyes met his, as he moved to get a better angle. 

Sam jammed the spade of his shovel between the lid of the coffin and the side prying it open with creaking wood and a crack of relief as the lid came loose. 

“...The hell?” Sam’s face twisted in confusion as he lifted the top, hazel eyes moved back to you as he shoved the lid to the side of the hole revealing an empty coffin.

“Well that can’t be a good sign.” You announced, just as puzzled as Sam.

“You’re sure he said he was buried here?”

“No Sam, I just made it up so we could pointlessly dig a hole in the middle of the night for fun.” You sarcastic eyes at him.

“Hey, I know how much you love digging holes. So if he’s not here-”

Then just where the fuck is he?”

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East Sea of Monsters - Chapter 16

Zoro has always been different than the rest - with a beast inside his chest that is howling to get out and a connection to other worlds that no one else quite has - but he doesn’t care. (He’s the Demon of the Demon Sea after all)

-

Read the entire series on Ao3 for better quality and authors notes! Gen, creepy, featuring all of the Straw Hats, multi-chapter story. (Tag “Ficart” on my blog should also show some fan art for this fic!)

“The East Blue has a different nickname to those in the Grand Line, and those who hail it as home have a few… unique traits.”

-

Paths - Zoro

In a town such as his, small, mountain bound, and old, there are traditions and rules to be followed. Be polite to your elders, be kind, do not stay out past dark, celebrate Hallowtide, give offerings of blood at the village entrance but only ever your own – and do not fight for the sake of fighting.

Zoro, of course, ignores all of this.

(They say there are many ways to walk about the world, some more dangerous than others. They say that those born on this tiny island have the vision to see them, all of them, the way the world shifts at every touch and the glowing paths of mist that show the way between worlds.)

He walks into to the town, ignoring the cupped stone hands and dagger at the entrance, and searches for the nearest dojo. His clothes are patched and dirty, a wheat straw hangs from his mouth, and eyes dot his limbs, blinking and merging back to skin within an instant. Blood drips from his lips from his latest scuffle, when an uppercut cause the fangs protruding from mouth to pierce upwards. Of course, he hit them back twice as hard.

(They would be known for it – but they are a secluded village, a secluded island, hidden deep within the East. They have walked so many paths between so many worlds, it is hard to know where home is – so they choose to remain stationary. Letting the roots of their souls sink down into the ground, cementing themselves in the earth. Their skin grows stiff and their hair fern like, waving in the wind as they watch the multitude of paths – of strings connecting each plane of reality intersecting into thousands of possibilities. A hand waves through them, and all at once a reality is destroyed)

His feet are barefoot as he walks into the dojo, not out of respect but because he has no shoes to wear. There are bleeding marks along his skin, rocks that dug beneath hardened scales as he tackled his enemy to the ground in his latest scuffle. His pointed ear is pierced – the first of three he hopes – and his sole possession besides his clothes, a single golden earring, lies in his pocket. He can’t find a mirror to put it in his ear. He shakes with every step – his last meal was three days ago, and it was only a bite of bread – but he is determined.

(Zoro, despite being from this particular island, has no vision of these paths between worlds)

He marches up to the dojo, disguises his hunger and hollow face with a snarling grin, and makes the same deal he has made at the rest.

Let me fight your students – If I win, I get a meal and a place to rest my head. If your students win, you can choose what you desire from me.

He has never lost before.

(Zoro has only ever seen one path – golden, gleaming, and right under his feet. It twists and loops and he doesn’t always follow it (where does it start and where does it end?) but it leads him to where he must be.)

He loses.

To her.

(This one path will lead him down the path of greatness, of blood, of death. It is the only path he wants in life.)

He joins the dojo.

(It is the path the planes take him to)

-

Zoro’s different than the other children, everyone can tell. For one – he’s never stationary, unless he’s napping, and his skin does not crawl with bark and roots like the rest of them (though his hair is by far the deepest green.)

He’s different, because there’s a fire in his chest and violence along his claws. Every action has a purpose, and every motion has direction. He’s different, because in the place of roots that grow with the environment is a beast that adapts with the world.

(That conquers the world)

There are shadows along every movement, shadow limbs that follow him (becoming more physical every day), and glinting green scales along every limb that like to merge with the shadows.

Zoro has a hard time figuring out what’s real sometimes (it’s what makes him different, even Kuina can see it.)

-

Kuina’s as strong as an oak, but her father likes to treat her as if she’s a flower. Zoro doesn’t get it as he spits blood from his mouth. She’s strong, stronger than him, so why? Why?

Kuina wins against him for the 2001st time, and Zoro finds a new purpose. He’s not so different, not anymore, and now he has someone to beat.

-

Kuina falls down the stairs, and suddenly Zoro knows why she was a flower to her father.

(But he won’t let that stop him, not now, not ever.)

-

The next years are a blur of training, and a final, final act that separates him from the grown people of this island.

Zoro steps forward, and does not enter the dojo.

Instead, he enters a glade of mist and blood, with golden streams all along. Instead, he steps where one with the vision of kings can only dare see, where red shores tremble underneath soft steps. Instead, Zoro steps forward and becomes lost.

(so very lost)

Its only for a second, but a second is enough before he’s back in the dojo, Koushirou looking at the spot where his pupil, dragon skinned and shadow limbed, just appeared.

“I think,” the man says slowly, like a strong willow tree waving in the wind, “That your place is not here.”

It never was, Zoro thinks, and bows anyway. He has a mission, a promise to keep, and this island, rooted in tradition and katas and sword swings with no innovation or reaching upward, will no longer help him.

But Zoro has never been rooted and the animal (demon) inside him roars with anticipation (bloodlust) as he sets sail into the mist. Zoro does not care, and the sword at his side does not either.

Behind him, the village fades, as if it was never there to begin with.

(Or perhaps, never on the normal plane of existence.)

-

Rumors are fickle things and Zoro has no protest. If people say he is the greatest swordsman in the East Blue, so be it, it just means more challengers.

(He’s only seventeen, how pathetic must these people be by the sword?)

(He doesn’t question the people’s other strengths, like the woman with withering grins and the men who make islands out of footsteps.

He could never fight against them (not yet at least))

The rumors are a way to get to the top.

(Wado Ichimonji is not of this sea, and it does not sing for the dark waters as Zoro does. Still, even a blade as pure as this can become corrupt, and as blood spills over and over and over its gleaming blade, Zoro hears its voice grow darker, stronger, and purer in its darkness. Like a moonless night rather than murky waters.

It is a good contrast – it helps Zoro sleep at night sometimes, when the beast inside his chest will not stop howling)

Occasionally it leads to companions – or once it did at least.

He meets Johnny and Yosaku on bright day on a nameless island. He doesn’t know where he is, and he sure they don’t know either.

“You’re the demon,” They say, and Zoro barks out a laugh. They’re in the East Blue – only cowards aren’t.

All the same, he replies. “Yeah. You?”

It’s Yosaku who answers then, dust falling off his shoulders as he moves and sand pouring out of the holes in his back. “Half – dead. Can you help us?”

“Maybe, if you pay for dinner and booze.”

Johnny smiles, revealing a glint of teeth to sharp and too jagged to be of anything but the depths of the sea and seals the promise.

“Deal.”

-

The year and a half he spends with Johnny and Yosaku is the best he’s lived in all the years he roamed this earth.

They roam the east for what feels like centuries, each day something new. Johnny and Yosaku have the self-preservation that Zoro (hungry for something greater, for a place at the top, a beast inside unsatisfied) could never have and he is stronger than both of them combined - they make a good team, and Zoro hasn’t gone this far without injuries in a long time.  

That isn’t to say Johnny and Yosaku aren’t strong, however, or to say they make the best decisions.

(Yosaku’s of the desert and Johnny is of the sea. They oppose each other in every way but there’s something in the way they move that belies the power that everyone in the East has buried in their bones and blood and what soul they have left.

There’s a time when they stray into the dark waters off the coast of an Island and the soul of it starts boiling and spinning the water into a whirlpool of tremendous might that capsizes their little fishing boat unfit for journeys such as theirs despite the iron imbedded in its hull.

Johnny, agile in the water, is the one to kill the sea snake with a thousand limbs, saving his companions when the water boils with the blood of demons.

(The water remains the same dark hue, despite the blood pouring forth like a fountain from the split in the serpent’s neck. Zoro pours his sake in the water and does not think of the voices in the distance and the shapes in the fog.)

And there is a time that they wander onto land and become trapped in the swirling maze while hunting for a bounty. It is not the first time Zoro has starved nor will it be the last, but it is the only time that it is a purposeless hunger without solution.

(The only time his companions have become faceless and strangers to him – blood and a meal but not friends, not anymore.)

Zoro does not see it, unconscious as he is at the time, but it is Yosaku who chooses to fall into the earth not knowing anyway out (anyway to survive) in order to have a chance to save them all.

He’s the only reason Zoro’s alive today)

But they do make the burning in his chest just that much easier to bear, make the whispers quieter and the blade stronger, don’t they?

-

He leaves them eventually.

He’s always been different –

(a loner, some say, others monster among monsters, alone, forsaken, unwanted-) but this time it isn’t because of his scales and horns and glowing, shadow limbs and disappearing habits.

It’s because he heard Mihawk was two towns over visiting some pirate ship or other, and Johnny and Yosaku never planned to leave the East (few do – they have all heard of the Veil and how it crushes those without Will-).

It’s because Zoro has been trying to get to the Grand Line, to the Greatest Swordsman, for two years now, and he’s so close to the first step to the top.

So he leaves, and doesn’t look back beyond a casual three hand wave.

-

Mihawk isn’t there.

Asura, the name he gave the voice inside his chest, his head, his limbs and blood, (powerful and mighty) rages.

-

Zoro is alone.

(Again.  Why does it hurt this time?)

(At least he has Asura)

-

He misses Johnny and Yosaku.

(But he doesn’t look back – the past is past.)

He cuts down more foes.

-

Zoro find that the limbs that have followed him since birth (shadowy, never quite present, Asura?) are now solid enough to hold a sword. And so are the faces attached to his head.

A step to the left and the world goes blue and black – suddenly he is in a forge of something other, and there are swords in the remaining limbs.

A step to right and backwards, and he’s on a dinghy in the middle of nowhere with plenty of sake in the raft.

He sends a bottle of it to the sea, and drinks the rest before shining his blades.

(He doesn’t believe in gods but he has seen what lies in the depths of the sea.)

-

It takes concentration to will the limbs into being, so it’s a move he reserves for fellow swordsmen of renown.

Not that there are many in the East – instead, most do what Zoro is doing now, and train their natural attributes.

The fangs in his mouth are sharp enough to pierce through dragon hide now (he’s tested) and his scales are like armor (he’s tested again).

He’s alone save for the beast in his chest, but he’s stronger than ever (he thinks.)

-

The gold path that he’s been ignoring since it killed Kuina is sparking at Shells Town. H

He doesn’t care, but somehow, he manages to get stuck there for a month.

Dumb kelpie.

-

A week passes.

Nothing changes.

-

Another week passes.

Nothing changes.

(Asura’s gone quiet.

He’s thankful – Wado isn’t here to balance him out.)

-

On the third week, a boy appears, dressed in red with blood lining his sharp teeth. He’s nothing quite like Zoro’s ever seen, but the blinding gold isn’t there anymore.

Then he’s being pestered by this boy, this wannabe pirate captain, and he doesn’t care anymore.

-

“My name’s Monkey D. Luffy,” he’s says to Zoro after bullets bounced off of him. “And I’m going to be King of the Pirates.”

Zoro smirks and laughs and challenges him back. “My name is Roronoa Zoro and I’m going to be the World’s Greatest Swordsman.”

“Fitting for the Pirate King’s first mate.”

“Son of the Devil.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

-

Zoro’s in a dinghy again, fading into the fog. Next to him is his captain, who promised to let Zoro run him through if he stands in the way of Zoro’s dream.

Somehow, watching Luffy take in the world with glowing eyes, Zoro thinks that won’t happen.

He’s doesn’t feel so different anymore, not before this man with a soul darker than his, and he doesn’t feel so alone either.

-

On the other side of the red line, a pirate shares the news of Axe-hand Morgan’s sudden death at the hands of an upstart pirate with a straw hat – there’s no bounty yet, but Mihawk's curious about the rumors of the Demon of the Demon Sea who follows him.

It doesn’t take long to find out the truth.

[spartanguard]

savage garden, 7/8

Summary: Killian Jones was, by far, the worst, weakest, most ineffectual Dark One ever. (According to the Darkness, at least.) And he was fine with that. He was just a slave, a deckhand—what use did he have of dark magic? And even less want. But the Darkness has vowed to firmly get him under its grasp, one of these days. He finds respite in a beautiful secluded garden—and the amazing woman he eventually meets there. The question remains, though: is it—is she—enough to keep him out of the dark completely? One can only hope…

6k | rated T | AO3 | part 1 | part 2 (art) | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6

A/N: Here it is! The last full chapter! Ngl, I got very close to tears a few times...my apologies if the same happens to you! (well, maybe not ;P ) Title comes from “Tears of Pearls” by Savage Garden. Enjoy!

chapter 7: love will be the death...the death of you

Two weeks had passed since Killian sent Emma away—or at least, he thought it was that long; it was hard to judge the passage of time when the shade of light outside the window stayed the same, a never-ceasing storm raging outside his cottage. It was fitting, really, because it matched the emotional one going on inside. No matter what he did, the Darkness refused to be sated.

The sea no longer calmed his racing heart; instead, it elicited an almost agoraphobic reaction to the wide expanse, and the waves too easily mimicked the constant whispers of his predecessors.

He managed to fix the bookcase manually, but every time he sat down to read a novel, the paper ignited in his hand from the constant sparking of magic in his palm; words of romance and fantasy burned away in his grasp.

At the slightest provocation—as simple as stubbing a toe, as terrible as setting fire to one of his favorite books—the magic spiraled out from him, breaking whatever fragile thing was in the vicinity, be it a window or a mirror, or the one time his wooden chair had fractured underneath him. But each time, he immediately mended it via magic; it was effortless at this point.

And he was tired—so, so tired—of fending off the incessant mental abuse.

You’re fighting a losing battle and you know it, dearie. Why are you still trying?

“Because I’ll be damned if I give in,” he replied listlessly, staring at the ceiling from his little-used bed. He’d hoped the sound of the endless rain on the roof might be provide some relief, but it hadn’t yet.

Yes, indeed you will; Hades has been waiting for you for a very long time, I daresay.

“But you won’t let me go that easily, will you?”

Heavens no! We’re just getting started!

He scoffed, but it was half-hearted, and then closed his eyes and tried to focus on the pattering rain on the roof and not the infinite list of tortures and maladies the Darkness couldn’t wait to execute.

Murder is always a good place to start; maybe a spot of famine too? We could start collecting hearts again, definitely...and oh, it’s been so long since we had a genocide...

The impending sense of doom hanging over him didn’t help his growing frustrations or unstable emotions; he felt like he was just awaiting his execution. Would that be what it was like? Would Killian Jones cease to exist, only the Dark One remaining? Or would it be like what happened due his last visit to the garden—would he be an unwilling passenger while the Darkness made a vehicle of his body?

The sooner you give up, the sooner you’ll find out!

His resolve hadn’t waned—but his endurance was flagging.

Blessedly, Emma hadn’t tried to come to him, to change his mind. He knew this was the only way. Part of him wished she had but he knew that, in the long run, she was better off without him. He could only pray the Darkness spared her when he was no longer in control.

Are you kidding? Her? Oh, we have plans for her.

He sat bolt upright, suddenly panicked. “Like what?”

Oh, there’s so many options! It’d be rather silly of us to let the one person who can destroy us run free.

The first image that flashed across his mind’s eye was Emma, begging for mercy.

Then Emma, covered in blood, his dagger dripping at his side.

Then her staring at him, wide-eyed, while a bright red heart glowed in his hand—until it was crushed and she was gone.

Over and over, it played all the ways it could think of to hurt her, each one ending in her death—and nothing he tried would stop the visions from coming. He screamed and yelled at it to end, but no respite came, even when he was sobbing and the storm outside was at its fiercest.

What, you don’t want us to do that? it finally taunted.

“No, please—not her, don’t…” he whimpered.

The Darkness sighed. In all his years, he’d never heard it do that. Well, fine; I suppose you have a point—think of what we could do with power like hers!

The illusion changed; now it was Emma standing over him with a blood-soaked blade, the inky tendrils claiming her for its own and washing away her light, leaving hard darkness in its place. Gone was the glow of her hair and the brightness of her eyes, only ice in its place, and the ruins of the garden behind her.

“You...you wouldn’t.”

Oh, yes we would. Better to control it than to let it control us.

Control...could she do that?

Only if she had the blade...but you’re not that dumb, are you?

He didn’t respond; he just stood and made a beeline for the main room.

We know what you’re thinking.

He pulled the new rug from the floor, tossing it aside with strength he didn’t know he had.

It’s not going to be that easy.

A crash of thunder boomed outside and made him jump; a bit of dark magic flew off of him and shattered the mirror.

Do you really want to see what will happen? Visions of a world cast into darkness, people screaming and crying, the memory of Milah’s death started playing in his head again, bringing him to his knees. Because we’re quite fine with that—and we know you’re not.

“It won’t—she can fix this.”

Why? Because she’s the Savior? Bollocks. Nothing can stop us. The only way to stop is to be stopped.

It felt like the weight of the entire world was bearing down on him. The gruesome images of the Darkness’s dreams wouldn’t leave him be, intermingled with its constant repetition of Emma’s name and his mother’s last words. “Keep your good heart.” It had once been a mantra; now it was just a reminder of all the ways he’d failed.

He was sure he’d crush under the pressure—was sure he could feel his bones impossibly breaking—until he mustered up his last fragment of strength and, with a primal yell, pushed it all away.

The energy of the effort blasted out from him and took the windows with it, letting in the storm. The wind and rain whipped around the room, adding to the frenzied air and pulling at his hair and tunic.

Looking back on the next moment, he must have been using magic unconsciously; how else could he have punched through the solid wood floor in one shot? Anyone else would have incurred serious injury in the attempt but he just pulled his bloodied hand back and tore at the splinters, vaguely aware of the continued cuts and gashes on his hand and forearm as he worked to clear a gap.

At least this time when he pulled out the dagger box, he already had his blackened blood to offer; he wasted no time in tracing the letter on the surface.

But it didn’t open. He tried again, and again, but nothing happened.

You lovesick idiot. Did you forget Milah that easily?

In his rush, he’d been writing E on the box. A rare correct moment for the Darkness. Quickly, he shook his head, drew an M, and pulled the lid off as soon as it released.

The dagger somehow seemed darker when he held it—he swore he could see it’s black veins pulsing in time with his heart, the voices of Dark Ones past whispering even louder. The magic within him sang in its presence.

Now what are you gonna do?

Well, he should probably find Emma. He’d no sooner thought it than he found himself in the garden, the familiar smoke dissipating around him.

“Killian?”

He whipped around at Emma’s voice, and the Darkness began to spark inside as soon as it registered her presence. She was on the other side of the garden but he could still sharply read the expression on her face: confusion, concern, and more than a little fear.

“Emma, please, you have to help me,” he urged, running toward her. She took a step back when he did; he probably looked like a crazed man, but he was desperate. He held out the blade to her when he drew close. “Please—take it away from me. You’re the only one I trust.”

“Take it?” Her eyes darted warily between the dagger and his eyes. “Killian, what are you asking me?”

“Whoever holds the dagger can control the Dark One. Please, love; it’s yours.”

She swallowed as she stared up at him, eyes wide. “I—I can’t do that; I won’t take away your agency like that.”

Ugh, she’s so self-righteous. She’s clearly never held a heart in her hands...but we can change that.

“It’s not taking if it’s being given up,” he explained, then reached for her with his hook. He brought her forearm level with his chest and placed the handle of the dagger in her hand, wrapping her fingers around it. “Please, Emma; for me?”

To his horror, she tossed it aside. “Killian—you don’t need me to; you can do this!” She was holding his hand and hook and trying to meet his gaze, but it hadn’t left the dagger, staring at where it lay cast aside in the grass.

And he was fairly sure his stomach was on the ground next to the blade.  

Would you look at that? She just threw you away.

“Killian, do you hear me? You’re stronger than this!”

Just like your father did...and your brother...and all those captains…

“Whatever it’s telling you isn’t true!”

Isn’t it, though?

He finally broke out of his trance to glare at her. “How could you?” he screamed. “I ask your help and get tossed aside?” Dark rage was starting to build.

“What? No, Killian—that’s not—”

“I thought you’d be the one who could do this! I’m trusting you!”

“And I’m so glad you do,” she said, giving him a teary smile as she cupped his cheek. “But Killian—you don’t need me for that!”

Some Savior she is.

“Well some Savior you are!” he echoed; the glass in the lanterns shattered as his magic began to reach out in response to his frustration. “No wonder you couldn’t break your parents’ curse!”

She stepped away, visibly shocked. Deep down, he knew it was a low blow, but he was on his last tether and it was rapidly fraying.

Emma took a deep breath. “You’re better than this.”

No you’re not.

“Am I? Really?” He took an intrusive step into her personal space; the thump of her pounding heart registered in his mind. “Does this look like it?!”

Show her...show her what she’s doing!

A strong breeze swept through the garden; he was fairly certain he summoned it, and the trees creaked in response.

But then he scrunched his eyes shut as he winced in pain; no—she wasn’t doing this to him—it was—it was—it was giving him a headache, splitting him down the middle.

“Killian, come on; fight this!” She was gripping his biceps and there was a cool, soothing sensation emanating from her. He wanted to lean into it, but her magic couldn’t quite permeate the Darkness, which was screaming in his head.

She’s not going to help you! Just take her out and forget her; why bother with people who’ll leave you behind? We haven’t…we’ve been here with you all these years!

The Darkness hadn’t left; it was sad, but true.

“I’m here—we’re both here, you and me—you can do this!”

Until she tosses you away again. She left her family, her kingdom—what makes you think she won’t do the same to you?

She had, hadn’t she? But she’d also pulled him back from the edge—unless he remembered wrong? God, everything was so fuzzy and foggy…the wind picked up and static energy filled the air as light and dark magic collided.

“Listen to your heart; you’re a good man, Killian Jones…”

No, listen to her heart! The Darkness was drowning her out. It’s the only thing standing between you and the peace and freedom you deserve. Her steady heartbeat pounded even louder in his head, shaking him to his skeleton; it was all he could hear.

Take it; take it; take it; take it… The whispered command came from all around, echoing in his head and reverberating off the garden walls. She’s just gonna hurt you; take it…

His cheeks were wet with tears and his voice was raw from yelling. It felt like every bone in his body was trying to flee the one next to it. And he could only see one way out of this agony.

He thrust his hand forward, into Emma’s chest; a shower of sparks fell at the intrusion. She gasped as his grip found purchase on the organ, and gave a small cry as he yanked it out.

Everything quieted then, as if the whole world was shocked: Emma’s heart, glowing a beautiful, pure red, was sitting in his hand; his fingers, with their blackened veins, curled around it.

The stunned silence that followed suggested that no one had thought he was capable of it, least of all him; he and Emma wore similar open-mouthed expressions as they stared at it.

What the bloody hell was he doing?

What you have to do.

“You don’t have to do this, Killian.” Her voice was strained.

Yes, you do.

He...he did, didn’t he?

“This isn’t who you want to be.”

What other choice did he have anymore, though?

None whatsoever.

Do it, do it, do it, do it… the voices were chanting.

Crush it, crush it, crush it, crush it…

He started to squeeze. Emma crumpled to the ground almost immediately.

Yesss, that’s it...oh, it’s been so long!

He squeezed a bit harder, watching as the glow of the heart pulsed faster. Something was definitely changing in him—there was a cold feeling spreading from his spine, not at all refreshing, but not wholly unpleasant either.

Just a bit more and you’ll be free!

Free...he couldn’t even remember what that felt like. He tightened his fist around the heart even more and Emma began to whimper and gasp. From her prone form on the grass, she flipped her head up to look at him, eyes rimmed and red with tears.

We’ll have everything we ever wanted!! Killian was vaguely aware of the scaly texture taking over his skin, but his focus remained on Emma and her heart.

“Please,” she choked out. “Don’t give…” Her eyes were fluttering, about to close for good. He could feel the corner of his mouth pull up in a sinister grin.

Almost there...

She took an arduous, strained breath, and uttered what would likely be her last words. “I can’t lose another person that I love.”

That stopped him. Love? She was on the verge of death... but was worried about his fate?

Don’t listen to her—she’d say anything to get you to stop!

Anyone else would...but not her. He knelt next to her as she lay panting, finally able to catch her breath now that he’d relaxed his grip on her heart.

Finish it! Finish her! the Darkness was demanding.

But he couldn’t hear it anymore when Emma reached up to caress his face. He could feel the roughness of his skin as she brushed her thumb across his cheek and found himself leaning into her warmth.

And he suddenly knew what he really had to do. It had taken seeing Emma in pain to make him realize it, and he knew he’d likely be hurting her further, but it was the only way—the only right way.

What are you waiting for?

“This,” he answered, no longer caring if Emma saw him talking to no one. As swiftly as he’d pulled it out, he shoved Emma’s heart back in her chest.

She gasped and coughed, but then looked up at him, concern furrowing her brow. “Killian?”

What do you think you're doing?

“The courageous thing, for once.”

He took a deep breath to steel himself, then reached inside his own chest, pulling out his own heart this time. He saw Emma reach for him, but she froze before she touched him—a good thing, too, because the jolt from their feuding magic likely would have made him crush it. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt all that much—just a slight tug, and then there it was in his palm. It was encased in a hard black shell, but he could still see a bit of red glow inside; he wasn’t at all shocked it was so dark.

You can’t stop this. Whatever you think your plan is, it won’t work.

“If that means ridding the realm of you, then I have to try.”

And what if you fail?

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” But he was sure. He had no reason to be, especially with the frightened stare Emma wore, but he just...knew.

Carefully, he set his heart in the grass, which turned black and died on contact.

Then he reached over for the discarded dagger.

No! “No!” For the first time, the Darkness and Emma were in agreement.

Emma reached for his shoulder and squeezed. “Killian, you can't do this.” Tears were slipping down her cheeks now.

And he could feel his own brimming. “We both know there's no other way, love.”

You idiot! You absolute imbecile! After all we’ve done for you—keeping your sorry arse alive all these years? This is how you repay us?

“I can’t let you do this; I—I need you, Killian. I—“

“Your family needs you, love. I’m the only one who can do this, so please—let me die a hero. That's the man I want you to remember.”

“Oh, Killian,” she sobbed, cupping his face again. “You already are.”

“I love you, Emma.” It was probably fitting how much this scene reminded him of Milah’s death.

“I love you too.” Without warning, she fisted her free hand in his tunic and pressed her lips against his, firm and soft at the same time. He kissed her back as fervently as he could manage, though it was far less than anything she deserved.

When she broke away for air, he could only pause a second longer in the brief afterglow of the moment.

Stop! You have no idea what you’re doing—you won’t accomplish anything? Do you want to waste your life? Do you want to make her watch you die? We could do so much together!

Gently, he pushed Emma away from him. She was still crying, but gave him an encouraging smile nonetheless. He redirected his attention to he heart and adjusted his grip on the dagger.

You idiot...you lonely, miserable fool. You’re going to die as you lived: a one-handed coward.

The last insult was the final straw. He reared back and drove the point of the blade into his heart, splitting it in two.

Pain greater than anything he’d ever known—worse than any strike or lash, worse even than losing his hand—started burning a hole in him, starting from his chest and quickly bleeding out. Oddly, he wasn’t losing any blood, but those same inky black tendrils that had consumed him all those years ago were leaking out of him at a furious pace.

He wasn’t quite sure when or how he ended up on his back, but at some point, he realized he was staring up at the Darkness set loose as it escaped from its binding and left him behind, no more than a used, broken vessel.

And yet—he’d never felt more free or at peace in his life, because it had been his decision and no one else’s. He knew what would happen and he’d still done it.

The last of the Darkness broke away from him and he dropped back from whatever contortion he’d been in, feeling so much lighter than he could ever recall. Everything was growing dark and his vision narrowed; he must be approaching the end.

And all he could do was smile.

He turned his head to find Emma; she was kneeling in the grass next to his body, his broken heart held in her hands and tears streaming down her face. Amazingly, there was no black on his heart anymore—just that same pure red glow Emma had. He wanted to ponder its meaning, but more so wished he could comfort her—but there was time for neither, and he knew that eventually, she’d be fine without him.

The last thing he saw before falling into oblivion was the bright green of Emma’s eyes, and then everything, including his heart, faded to emptiness.

Oh, sweet rapture! The Darkness was finally free—free of that bumbling burden it had carried for far too many decades; truly free for the first time in its centuries of existence. No silly human emotions to weigh it down anymore; it could do as it pleased!

It had no idea what to do with such a lack of restraint now that it was out of its cage. It wanted to touch everything and everyone, leaving chaos and destruction in its wake. But where to start?

The garden would make a perfect first victim, it supposed—what a better place to sew despair than in what was once a symbol of hope? Unbound, it flew around the space, its tentacles of darkness killing all it touched: vines shriveled, trees shed their leaves and turned black, and one by one, flowers turned gray and their petals fell to ash in the wind.

Imagine what it could do beyond that? The world would fall to darkness, unable to stop it.

Though, one disadvantage to being uncorporeal was quickly revealed when it attempted—and failed—to pick up the now-nameless dagger: there was some perk to having fingers.

The girl...oh, yes, Princess Emma—how could they forget? Such raw, untapped power! It had noticed her own rage and anger...if it could sway her to see things a little differently...oh, there was much fun to be had!

It concentrated its efforts on surrounding her; in her unsteady emotional state, she’d be especially vulnerable—and desperate souls were its favorite.

She flinched when it began to circle her. There, there, dearie; no need to cry over spilled blood.

Her eyes grew wide at its voice and she stood, her stare darting around at the cyclone of malevolence that was closing in on her.

We can dry those tears, if you’d like. And make sure you never shed another.

“Seriously? You expect me to believe that?”

Whyever not? You hardly know me, love.

She breathed in deep at the use of the deckhand’s endearment; just as planned. “Leave me alone; I don’t need you.”

That’s not what you said a few minutes ago. The Darkness echoed her voice from earlier, when she’d told Killian as much; her face crumpled at the sound, to its glee. And you’d be no closer to breaking your parents curse without those books...but maybe we could help make sure you do.

“Never!” she screamed defiantly. “I won’t resort to dark magic to save them; they wouldn’t want me to.”

Even after what they did to the dragon’s child? (Even the Darkness knew to stay away when children were involved; it had some standards, after all.)

She clenched her jaw and glared, having no response.

To think: what happened to that poor thing would all be in vain, because you couldn’t manage to live up to your destiny.

Truthfully, the Darkness was bluffing a bit at this point. As much as Jones had gone mad in its company, it was mostly because the Darkness was equally listless and cut off from the world. It used to be at the forefront of all magical goings-on, so whatever this prophecy was surrounding the girl, it had no idea. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t try to use it to its advantage.

Although...the look of recognition on her face did lead it to worry—she looked like she’d just gotten an idea, and not one that the Darkness would be fond of.

“No, I think that’s exactly what I’m gonna do,” she spat. “I was given all this light magic for a reason; and if I can’t use it to save them, or Killian, then I can at least use it to destroy you.”

I’d like to see you try.

A look of grim, fierce determination took over her face as she closed her eyes and concentrated, holding her arms in front of her, palms up. Oh, she looked like such an amateur.

White sparks began to jump from her palms and the air began to shift a bit. And when the sparks hit the Darkness’s oozing spirals, something strange happened: it hurt.

What—what is this? What are you doing?

It certainly wasn’t the first time the Darkness had squared off against a light magic user, but it was only the vessel that got hurt, not the entity itself. This was new. And not enjoyable in the slightest.

It spun closer to Emma, seeking to drown out her powers, but it was no use: white lightning began to fly from her hands unrestrained, slicing through the column of the Darkness that surrounded her.

Well that wasn’t exactly the way it expected this to play out. All attempts to double down on the girl were failures as it was cut apart by her pure magic, until the pain became too much, like fire consuming its many limbs all at once.

Quickly, the darkest magic ever known to man was crumbling into absolutely nothing, its charred remains disintegrating where they landed and leaving behind no trace of one of the strongest forces on earth.

It managed to scream one last thing before evaporating into the ether.

No more Darkness...

Holy shit. Holy SHIT. She just...she just destroyed the Darkness, didn’t she?

Holy shit.

Somewhere, her mother was tutting at her repeated cursing, but Emma didn’t have the wherewithal to come up with anything more refined or creative. In the span of minutes, she just watched the man she loved die to avoid being consumed by the darkest thing ever, and then she obliterated said thing.

Yeah, she’d been prophesied to do that, and she’d worried it would come to something like this as soon as she met Killian. That was why she tried to keep him at bay at first, not trusting him—and even less trusting of her initial attraction. So much for that.

But that didn’t take away from the adrenaline coursing through her veins next to the surge of magic that wouldn’t abate. She let out a long exhale and tried to shake the sparks out, but they just dripped from her fingers and onto the charred grass below her. The garden was mostly destroyed from all that had happened, but it was a small price to pay for what she’d just accomplished.

No, there was a different price that had been too large—that shouldn’t have been part of the exchange. She knelt back down—well, more like collapsed—next to Killian’s cooling body.

It was odd, seeing him like this. Gone was the shimmery pallor of his skin; she assumed this was how he looked before he acquired the curse: tanned by the sun from long days at sea. But stranger still was that he looked so peaceful—she’d never seen him so relaxed, without the constant weight of his burdens and self-doubt resting on his lean frame. And she hated that it was death that had finally given him that respite.

A drop of water fell onto his linen shirt and was quickly absorbed by the fabric. Then another. After a few, she realized they were her tears, coming back in full force. She’d lost so much in such a short time; why did he have to be part of that?

For a long, long moment, she just let herself cry—for him, for her parents, for her kingdom—as she lay across his chest, holding him close like she only got to once in life.

But then something in the grass caught her eye—something glowing. Killian’s heart. What?

She immediately sat back up and grabbed the broken halves of his heart. As soon as he stabbed it, the hard black shell had immediately dissolved, leaving behind his pure, bright red organ—and she could have sworn she saw the light fade from it completely. But no, there it was: faint, deep in the center of each half, but there was still a flickering, pulsing sign of life.

Another tear fell from her cheek onto the dull surface of his heart from where she’d set them in the grass when the Darkness started encircling her, which seemed to absorb it—and the light got a little brighter. Her heart leapt for a moment, and a spark of her magic burst free from her palm, landing on the other half—which had the same effect. She gasped; did that mean...could she…?

Focusing everything on Killian and not on her own misery, she called on that extra magic running through her, bringing it into her hands with the two halves of his heart. Her tears were still falling on it, creating a sort of magical glue, she figured, as she pressed them back together and used her magic to seal it. The bright light from her palms blinded her for a second, but when it faded, his whole, healed heart was in her grasp, glowing a bright, bold red, and the extra pressure from her excess magic was gone.

She wasted no time in pressing the organ back into his chest, trying to make sure she did it the same way he’d removed his (and, well, hers, but she wasn’t dwelling on that—it wasn’t him who had done that). And then she waited.

And waited.

And waited, staring at his chest, watching for the rise and fall of his breath that should have accompanied the return of his heart. But there was nothing.

She pressed fingers to his neck, right over the little line of freckles she’d just noticed. There was a pulse, but he still wasn’t breathing. Why wasn’t it working?

Immaturely, she shook him, though mostly out of frustration. “Killian, please—can you hear me? Are you there?” His head lolled to the side, but there was no other reaction. “Son of a bitch,” she cursed.

There was only one other thing she could try. She didn’t have much success with it, and it was probably a longshot—but given what their goodbye consisted of, she had to give it a go.

“Killian, I love you,” she whispered, hovering over his face. “Come back to me.” And then she pressed her lips to his, praying that her love was enough to wake him.

Killian wasn’t sure how long he spent there in the comfortable nothingness. There was no light, no sound, no feeling—it was as if he was laying on the bottom of a deep, dark pit, while at the same time floating in a void. Was this the afterlife, he wondered, or merely where the souls of Dark Ones past ended up? Perhaps he’d landed in some sort of purgatory. But he was nothing if not patient, and could wait to find out.

He briefly pondered the fates of those who’d passed before him—his mother, his brother, Milah. Had they traveled through this space, too, or did they head straight for greener pastures?

Wherever they, or he, went, one thing was for certain: Emma wasn’t yet there. He’d so loathed to leave her behind, but she was strong, possibly the strongest person he’d ever known; she’d move on past his sorry self, regardless of the fact that she loved him. At least he’d had that before leaving the mortal plane.

Slowly, a warm feeling took over him, like being washed in sunlight—though it was still dark. He took a deep breath, unnecessary as it was, as he readied for whatever came next. Oddly enough, he thought he felt his heart beating again; perhaps that was just a trick of the afterlife?

For a few long moments, it was just he and the gentle thump-thump in his chest there in the abyss. But then he saw a light, quickly getting brighter until it was nearly blinding.

And he could have swore he heard Emma’s voice.

Suddenly, pain crashed back into him—like lightning striking through his limbs and pressing down on his body, violently reigniting a fire that had burned out. He was gasping for breath, sputtering and coughing—until he felt a familiar gentle touch, and it was all immediately soothed.

“Killian?”

He blinked a few times before his eyes truly adjusted to the light—not as glaring as whatever he just experienced, but still more than the previous emptiness. And the first thing he saw was Emma, hovering over him, a smile taking over her face.

“Emma?” His voice was unsteady.

“It worked,” she whispered. “Holy shit, it worked!”

“What...what happened?” He was dead, right? Did that mean she was...oh, no… “Emma, are you—”

“I’m right here,” she said, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. She felt warm enough, but a tear was falling down her cheek. Beyond her, he saw the garden—but it wasn’t at all how he remembered; it looked much like it did after his very first visit: dead, dried up, dark.

“Where are we?” he asked shakily, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

“We’re still in the garden,” she explained calmly, albeit a bit watery. “You...you were gone and then the Darkness was free, but I—I beat it, or destroyed it, or something, and then—your heart! Oh, your heart—I fixed it, and, and then…” She was rambling and crying and grinning and he only caught half of what she was partially explaining, but the last part sounded loud and clear: “True Love’s Kiss,” she said, reverently.

He was aware of his mouth hanging agape as he stared up at his angel, his actual savior. “I...I’m alive?”

“Yeah,” she nodded.

“And we’re…” He hardly dared to put it into words.

“Mhmm.”

He exhaled and stared up at the sky, where the sun was beginning its descent and leaving a deep blue behind. So he hadn’t seen his last sunset yet, or the stars, or the sea; he had a second chance. It was almost impossible to believe, but as he took another deep breath, and another, it sunk in.

The Darkness hadn’t won. Emma had. Love had.

“Nothing else to say?” Emma quipped nervously, then sniffled. Oh, gods, he’d been silent ever since the revelation—what poor form!

Quickly, he sat up—but immediately swayed in his spot at the rush of blood; he’d have to get used to that, and so many other mortal complaints, again. Emma gripped his shoulders and anchored him as he waited for the sensation to abate, too slowly, in his opinion.

But once the light-headedness passed, he gripped her hand and met her tear-filled eyes. “I...I have no idea what to say to that, love,” he stammered. “It’s nothing I ever imagined hearing, and more than I ever dared to consider or hope for. I’m...I’m speechless.”

“In a good way, right?”

He chuckled, but it came out almost like a sob. “In the best way anyone can imagine. It—you—is more than I could possibly deserve.”

“Hey—enough of that,” Emma said softly, cupping his cheek with her free hand; it felt so, so warm, and he realized all he’d been missing out on. “For starters, that was never true, and it’s even less true now. You deserve peace and happiness, Killian; you always have. And this?” She continued, placing her other hand over his heart, “is the brightest red I’ve ever seen. Not that I have many hearts to compare it to, but just so you know. I love you—I did then and I do now; so much now. So please stop beating yourself up, because today? You were the strongest person I’ve ever seen.”

Tears were free-falling down his cheeks now. “I love you, too, darling. More than I thought I could. Thank you for saving this sorry lost soul.”

Before they could continue down a spiral of platitudes, Emma pulled him close to kiss him, this time in celebration. It wasn’t a particularly long or deep kiss—his return to mortality did inhibit that a bit—but it was sweet and gentle and carried the promise of so much more.

thank you so much for reading! epilogue to come!

tags: @kat2609 @optomisticgirl @thesschesthair @fergus80 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @selfie-wench @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @word-bug @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @queen-mabs-revenge @killianmesmalls @distant-rose @sherlockianwhovian @effulgentcolors @laschatzi @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @nfbagelperson @the-captains-ayebrows @stubble-sandwich​ @killian-whump​ @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @wyntereyez @lfh1962 @bmbbcs4evr @therooksshiningknight @facesiousbutton82

[pangtasias-atelier]

The Goddess's Judgement Part 5

Volug may speak only in the ancient tongue, but his dialogue lines are actually really funny when translated. Especially Volug’s “What if I ate everyone I fought? Would everyone keep fighting?”

Like that is so stupidly hilarious and the fact that it’s in a language that doesn’t even exist is great yet awful. There’s no vore in this though cause I don’t like that.

Focus on Volug since I like him and also no one understands him so I force myself to focus on descriptions cause I struggle lol

Also want y'all to know that I spent around an hour trying to figure out how to get the ancient language font to appear on Tumblr just for one damn line, but I couldn’t figure it out lmao

This was originally uploaded to Tumblr for about 5 minutes before I reread and wondered why the hell I uploaded it before deleting it and adding way more.

___________

Wandering around the dining hall transformed, Volug constantly stops at every table. A few pieces of meat get tossed his way each time, Volug catching them in his mouth. But with a couple of whimpers added, the whole table takes pity and gives him a sizeable portion of their meal. Add in a bark of joy mixed with some tail wags, each and every person are eating out of Volug’s hands.

Constantly in his wolf form, everyone mistook him for a strange dog. The lie still holds to this day, everyone viewing him as their dependable loyal companion. Able to halfshift to remain transformed as long as he wishes, the ability was useful despite reducing his strength. But now, Volug could feel the sheer lack of strength to do anything besides walk while halfshifted.

Treading to the next table, Volug repeats the process for the umpteenth time. He gobbles the chunks of chicken and steak happily tossed his way. Already full a couple tables ago, Volug presses on, nearing the last few tables.

Stuffing himself, Volug pads away after the last table. On his way to the exit, people notice him again, offering more scraps. Volug eats those as well, taking the free food.

Finally out, the route to his room feels long. Far too long. Finding a secluded room in the fort, Volug immediately claimed it, growling at anyone who came near. Everyone deciding to leave him alone, they left the room to Volug, a safe area to revert back. The door left slightly ajar since he woke up, Volug pushes it open and then closes it with his back foot. For good measure, he shoves the small vanity in front of the door. The door secured, Volug transforms back.

Fit muscular form completely gone, Volug groans upon finally reverting back. Working off the weight a matter of long several years, Volug is obese. On the precipice of 600 lbs, his tanned body stretches everywhere, his stomach sags down near to his knees. Volug burps as he lets his ass fall down onto the bed, the poor thing creaking and groaning from his weight. His thighs press down on the matress, spreading out. His stomach folds on to them, resting as it gurgles. His plump breasts rest on his stomach, the overladen fat accumulating everywhere. Volug’s tattoos stretch across his arms, the lines lighter and losing their definition. His ass squishes against the matress, fat shifting as Volug tries to get comfortable.

Digging his hand into his stomach, Volug massages it. Hands grabbing handfuls of rolls, Volug burps as he lets out pressure. Huffing, Volug closes his eyes as he sighs, the relief wonderful.

Half naked before, Volug now went without pants, Volug ditching the pair the instant they were tight. Not like it matters when he’s constantly transformed, Volug still wears his tight boxers, a hole or two already formed on them.

Groaning, Volug grabs the dog bowl of meat in his room, a treat from the chefs. Groaning, Volug grabs the pieces of meat. Shoving it into his mouth, he powers through, finishing all of it.

Huffing, the bowl is tossed to the floor as he wipes his finger of their grease. Standing back up, a process of fat pushing against fat, his stomach flopping around the contents of his food, Volug grimaces. Placing both hands on his stomach, Volug rubs them in circles, sighing in relief. Stomach slightly more calm, Volug plays with it, testing its heft as he lifts it up, his arms struggling to cradle all of it.

Grabbing the second bowl placed in his room, Volug groans as he eats that too. All of it meat again, Volug tears through the pieces. A quarter done, his stomach begins complaining anew, the dome churning with all its contents. Ignoring his body, Volug instead simply burps, the gas escaping his lips. One hand rubbing his stomach, he uses the other to feed himself, eyes closed as he repeats the process.

Hand touching only the plate, Volug drops it to the floor as well. A testament to his gluttonous ways even before the judgment, the floor is littered with bones and plates. Still standing, Volug licks the juices off his fingers. Legs buckling, Volug drops back onto the bed. Mattress already having a dent from his earlier rest, Volug dents it further, his ass squashing it. Groaning, he lies back, his feet on the floor with his back on the burdened matress. Huffing, Volug lies still, his stomach processing the several pounds of meat he gorged today. It takes about ten minutes for Volug to get back.

Having eaten only meat the entire day, he craves something different. Everyone viewing him as a dog, they won’t give him anything besides meat. Everyone except one person.

Probably suspecting something, Pelleas interacted with Volug differently, attempting conversations with him even. Granted, Volug didn’t speak back, but he feels Pelleas knew. Maybe because he knew, Pelleas always treated Volug with more intelligence and reverence, though; some of that partially came through Volug being one of the first soldiers from Pelleas’s rebellion towards Begnion.

Whatever food Volug sniffed in Pelleas’s room, he’d wag his tail at. Cautious, Pelleas had given Volug only portions of it, unsure of whatever Volug was could eat. Not sick a couple days after, Pelleas gave him whatever treats Volug wanted. Pelleas was Volug’s only ticket to non-meat food.

Deciding to go for some dessert, Volug pushes himself up, struggling and wheezing. Constantly halfshifting, the ability took away all his energy from both his wolf form and regular form. Before, he’d be able to move around and property function while not halfshifted. But now, halfshifting is far too taxing, especially with Volug’s long periods of using it. Out of energy, it was always easy to just halfshift back if he was out of energy in both forms at least he could move easier transformed. In a cycle, Volug could only eat to help replenish the taxing nature of it.

Sitting up, Volug rubs both hands on his bothered stomach, the movement causing a reaction. Volug shoves the vanity back besides the door and opens the door slightly before halfshifting. Several people greet him as he walks through the hallways, Volug offering a small bark as they coo over him. The route to Pelleas’s room is known by memory, the constant snacks from him ingrained in his mind.

The door uncharacteristically left open, Volug carefully walks in. The room is barren yet littered, tomes haphazardly left open on the bed. Searching around, Volug smells strawberries left on the floor for him. Heading towards it, Volug devours them, the acid sourness a respite from all the meat. Quickly finished, Volug finds a note.

Unfortunately, the note is written in modern script, Volug unable to read it. Scanning it, Volug finds some text written in the ancient tongue.

“I don’t think you can speak or read, but you have a far too high intelligence for a mere dog Volug. Oh I hope nobody reads this and think me mad. If you can read, Volug, then I went to the Gallian camp to end Daein’s involvement on an amiable note with the Laguz Alliance. I left some strawberries for you,” the note says.

Huffing, Volug groans at finding out the small treat is his meager dessert. Weighing his options for approximately five seconds, Volug heads out to the Gallian camp.

More compliments thrown his way as he leaves, no one questions him, assuming Volug to do whatever dogs do in the snow.

Trudging through the snow, Volug follows the scent, a massive group of Laguz easy to smell despite the light wind picking up. The sun nearly gone, the moon begins taking its place, the full moon offering decent lighting. The crunch of the snow and the wind the only noise, Volug continues on his quest for dessert.

The flapping of wings halts Volug in his tracks.

“Please, not so fast,” Pelleas’s voice sounds out, his voice further away from the flapping.

“We were told to have you back before the sun sets,” Ulki dryly relays.

“Oh come on, go easy on the Beorc will ya! He can’t fly like us,” Proving his point, Janaff flies slightly higher.

The eyes and ears of Tibarn had gained weight as well. Both hawks, the two were smaller than the beast tribe. Both crest a bit under 300, both of them still hefty.

Now higher, Janaff spots Volug despite the distance. “There’s a beast heading this way,”

“I told you I heard him five minutes ago, we’re fine,” Ulki retorts. His retort proves pointless as he flies lower, hearing Volug’s steps now much closer.

Before either can do anything, Pelleas speaks up. “Volug?” He questions, a meaty hand over his squinting eyes. A bark is his only response. “No need to worry, he’s a companion of mine,”

Janaff and Ulki share a look at each other, unsure whether to comment about Volug’s identify or not, both of them knowing of him from Rafiel.

“Well, we’re near your camp, so you’ll be in good hands,” Janaff salutes, ready to fly away. Ulki grabs his hand.

“We were told to-”

“I’ll be fine. I can see the keep from here,” Pelleas bows, or imitates one, his gut getting in the way. “Thank you for your assistance. We’ll help assist you all with whatever items to facilitate heading back home,” Pelleas smiles, following Volug’s pace.

“See ya, and thanks for the tip on transforming, I’m sure Tibarn appreciates the tip more than us!” Janaff salutes, dragging Ulki behind him.

“Thanks for checking up on me Volug,” Pelleas pats his head. “Though I guess you wanted some snacks,” Volug barks back, Pelleas smiling. “I’ll get you plenty, keeping up with the hawks was difficult. Thanks for walking slow,” Unknown to Pelleas, Volug’s slow pace was from halfshifting, running far too strenuous.

Arriving at the keep, Volug heads straight back to Pelleas’s room. Pelleas waddles to the mess hall, cheers and praises aimed at a blushing Pelleas who returns the compliments. The chefs happily supply Pelleas with his favors, several sweets being made. Shoved out of the kitchen, Pelleas heads back to his room, the sweets being delivered soon.

Back in his room, Pelleas finds it far cleaner than he left it, his books stacked neatly on his desk. “I guess I have you to thank for this too?” Pelleas jokes, patting Volug’s head, the idea of a dog cleaning a room entertaining him.

Pelleas sighs as he sits on his bed, the large matress offering a break for his tired feet.

The door slightly open, the knock signals the sweets’ arrival. Several thanks ushered the chefs way, Pelleas smiles as they leave.

Pelleas pales at seeing the mountain of a cake. Sighing, he pats Volug’s head. “I suppose you earned it,”

Heading to bed, Pelleas lies down, the creaks sounding out loudly as his matress digs down from his weight. Volug watched patiently, Pelleas’s breath evening out.

Pelleas now asleep, Volug shifts back and locks the door. Eyeing the strawberry cake, Volug hauls the cart to the desk. Taking a tentative sit on the desk chair, it holds his weight, the creaking not alerting Pelleas.

Too tired to bother with utensils, Volug grabs the cake with his hands. The first handful shoved into his mouth, it goes down smoothly, the creamy silkiness of it pleasantly alarming his taste buds. One handful devoured, Volug grabs another, and another, and then another, Volug making a process out of it.

One hand for feeding, his other is for his stomach, the mass complaining and kicking as even more food enters. Ignoring it, Volug eats the cake, more and more of it disappearing down his throat.

Head tilted back, Volug groans as he eats the last handful. Napkins appreciated, Volug licks his fingers before wiping himself, the chunks of cake now off his face.

Huffing, Volug grips the desk as he stands, his stomach yelling at the movement. Scooping as much of his stomach as he can, Volug groans.

Halfshifting, Volug immediately reverts out of it, finding it far too taxing. The door locked and no one bothering their king, Volug wheezes as he waddles towards the bed.

“Being this charming is hard,“ Volug complains in the ancient tongue. His stomach churns and bubbles as he rests on Pelleas’s large matress. The matress evens out from his weight. He just needs to wake up early tomorrow and halfshift back; that should be easy enough.