#and every time you touch him the bonk sound effect plays

[rickallensbarefeet]

Rick Allen is not real he is a goofy ahh cartoon character designed by Hannah Barbera. Ain't know way a human is capable of being as unserious as he

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Judgement

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | seven

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: Things have changed, things have stayed the same.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: e m o (i can't stress this enough), illusions to mental health issues (?), emo, mature themes and language, EMO, family-trauma related angst, emo

Notes: I wanted to completely cut Din's perspective out of this chapter to emphasize the reader's pov. Hopefully it tracks? Big lovey-dovey shout out to @pedros-mustache for bonking me in the head with a proverbial pool noodle. ily friends. Be kind to yourself. Cheers x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

This is fine. You’re fine.

You’re okay with this.

You’re okay with this.

You’re okay

You’re

You think, perhaps, the sting is made worse by the normalcy of it all.

You think, perhaps, that this stabbing—this splinter in your gut, prodding prodding prodding—would not be so sharp if it were different between you—if things were different; if it were clumsy and cumbersome and mauled. Ruined.

But it isn’t; it’s the same. You and Din and his boy, his adi’ka—it’s ordinary. Evergreen.

You suppose you should be grateful—grateful your dynamic hasn’t shifted, hasn’t sullied any. Grateful you still have your Mandalorian piloting you home. Grateful you have his foundling to keep you company, to keep you preoccupied.

But you feel false.

It’s as if you slipped into an alternate reality—one where you and Din touched each other, held each other; one where he buried his frustration to the hilt in your womb and you moaned his name like your tongue was formed for it—and then were snapped back to this one here—this nothing, this void—without anyone taking note of your absence. Because your routines—those domestic tableaus—remain unchanged. They are well-oiled and operate regardless— undeterred, succinct.

The days start the same.

You set aside a warm bowl of fruit and porridge, steam rising to greet him as it fans over his helm. Good morning.

Exiting the fresher, you find the dishes washed and dried—the towel folded neatly into a square beside them. Good morning.

You return the bowls to their shelf, nestling them right next to your unfulfilled expectations and embarrassing desires—butted against your silly, silly heart.

“Anything good?” he asks one night, passing through the galley as you thumb through the news on your holopad

You nearly choke on it—your throat closing up tight around the casual banality of the question. Because that’s what you two share now: you have things. You have quips and lines and normal and none of that disappeared after you’d made each other unravel not four paces away, pressed there against that wall—the wall that stands there even now, a tall and mocking reminder.

You wonder, if you sealed your ear to the bulkhead, could you still hear yourself? The symphonic reverb—your girlish pants, Din’s hoarse rasps— trapped there in the seams of the steel siding like the grooves of a record, to be played and played again.

“Never,” you say, like you’ve always said, and do your best to flash him a grin—the one you’ve worn before, the one, perhaps, you hope he likes. The one where you go dimpled and dove-like.

And then he makes for the cockpit and you are left

without.

The afternoons stretch familiar, too.

Din flies the ship and you watch the child—steering him clear of disasters and shenanigans the best you can. He tugs gentle at your hair; you nip at his little hand until he’s dissolved to giggles—the same the same the same, all of these acquainted patterns continuing to revolve on. Din lands and prepares for his hunt—banging around the belly of the ship, gathering weapons and ammunition and rations—and your eyes skitter along after him, following his hulking figure as he steps past where you and Munch are seated, heading towards the mouth of the Crest.

Din.

You’re half afraid of what it will sound like now— what it will feel like, bruised and jagged in your mouth. Like it doesn’t belong there, like it has no right laying claim to your tongue.

“Din,” you call hurriedly to the span of his broad back as he leaves the ship, your spine straightening out of the chair. You say it; you speak his name and to your surprise find it is none of those things—none of those ugly fears, none of those roughened gums. It’s worse.

Because scarier still, it comes out cotton soft; it comes out comfortable and true. It tastes like home maybe — like a version of home where people could come and go and laugh and not be frightened. Where they could hold little children in their arms and sleep and breathe and be and say I am here with you. Here we are. How special. I have chosen this. I have made this with you.

Din.

His shoulders tense and his feet stop short, just before the apex of the ramp. He turns to you, slow. Controlled.

“Good hunting.”

Din looks at you, the heavy umber of his eyes settling on your own, and he freezes—stock-still, his blood and muscles and bone thickened to paste, rendering him motionless. His dark gaze scans over you—the wisps of hair dancing around your face, the sag of your shirt lolling from your shoulder, his son in your lap. You bounce Munch on your knee and he gurgles out a quieted hum, glancing between his surrogate parent and you.

“Thank you,” Din replies, stilted, and you think you discern a subtle scrape of his modulator; you think you sense his lips part, pained and breathy, the cusp of another thought—of more, anything more— corralled by his sense of duty, hampered by the armor that plates him.

You untangle the boy’s claws from your hair and slip your fingers around his wrist, waving his green hand in a delicate to and fro.

Goodbye, it says. We’ll be right here when you get back.

He stays. For another glimmer of a millisecond he remains, sunlight pouring in through the opening of the Crest—shining off his beskar, off the gunmetal grey covering his body—focus trained on you both—before he pivots, cape whipping behind him as Din vanishes like he does without fail—away. Away.

To vapors.

Three days of this—three miserable days. Seventy-two suffocatingly mundane hours.

You figured this would be easy. You figured it could be as painless as you chose to make it. You were two consenting adults, after all—you both had needs, and you both met them—and you thought that this would be simple.

What you failed to take into consideration however, is that Din Djarin is anything but a simple man.

Because he is all these things, paradigms and paradoxes, coiled into one very tightly wound warrior—a warrior who can dismember a blaster just as effectively as he can sop up baby vomit from his foundling’s brown robes—one handed, no less. In flight. Din is all sharp edges and smooth silver, he’s cold and calculating and roguish and endearing and you can’t grapple with the dichotomy of him—with all these mismatched pieces at odds with themselves that somehow fit perfectly, inexplicably together.

You were naïve to assume you could go back—as if you could unremember the shape of his fingers as they filled you; as if you could make yourself forget how needy he bowed against you, how hot and thick his cock rested in your palm when he pitched his hips and released his desperation in white streaks along your skin.

And when your mind isn’t wholly consumed—smothered with the crushed velvet sin of that time-capsuled memory—it’s tortured in other ways, with crueler techniques. Pointed. Specified.

You watch him. You wish you could look away, but there isn't anywhere else to look. There isn’t a corner you can escape to, nor an inch of the Crest that isn’t him—isn’t an emblem of him, isn’t an extension of his personage.

You see him - day in, day out - interact with the child and Maker, it’s so precious and he’s so damn good. Two arms, cradling Munch snug to his chest—you know their strength now, you know their weight—and you observe as Din holds this boy with the same hands that unmade you—that molded you like clay and parted your wet heat. You see this man��so stoic, so reserved—dote on his child in a way that you never were, and bit by bit, it breaks you.

You caught them napping together once, compressed in that dingy of an alcove by the refresher. Your feet halted in their tracks at the sight and you held your breath—he’s a light sleeper, you didn’t dare wake them—Din’s helmet nodded to his chest and the kid, open-mouthed and adorable, nestled into the crook of his arm.

It made you want to sing. It made you want to cry.

You had to pry your boots from the floor and force yourself to move, to scram. You had to be anywhere else but there, ogling like a spectator at a zoo, nose smushed against the glass, watching the last of some great species simply be as nature intended—calm, drowsy, at peace.

You busied yourself then, scuttling preoccupied about the Crest but the image never evaporated, it never faded—it dogged you, tacking itself onto your psyche: the picture of him there, Din and his boy, holding on to one another like anchors while they slept, and you can't resist drawing the question.

Is that what it’s supposed to look like, to feel like—a father’s arms around your shoulders? Is that what safe looks like? Is that what family is?

You wouldn’t know. You cannot recollect the glow of it—the memory of such an embrace—on your own skin, and isn’t that what makes it all so achingly befitting, so inevitable. As if the Moirai—those weird sisters—spun this string of fate tailored to your being and plucked it like a harp, curating a melody for you and you alone.

Because you see Din give what you never got, and it makes you want. You want him. You curse yourself for it, but fuck you want him—every sordid part of you is tugged and pulled in his direction. You want him, magnetically, you want him you want him you wa—

And Din is fine. A Mandalorian pillar, undisturbed. He is bedrock. This is the Way.

And while he withstands the weathering, you crumble beneath it. It's eroding you. Like tides crashing monotonous against a beaten shore, you are in granules—and these morsels, ever-fine, they nick you - gritting - sanding you raw, abrading you rugged.

You thought you could ignore them at first. They were but lace whispers behind your ear—muted and tickling and just far off enough to deflect. But with each passing moment those feathered words grew loud—rude and vocal and you couldn’t keep them out. Round and round, they wriggled into your most tender swathes of skin. Skipless. Poison.

He regrets it.

He didn’t want it.

He didn’t enjoy it.

He didn’t want me He doesn’t want me I’m not wanted

These thoughts, insistent and pervasive, they are sewn into the bed of your mind one ugly seed at a time. You water them. You don’t mean to, you don’t wish to cultivate these errs but you know they will fester and grow with or without you. So you tend them—watchful, you garden—and they push up through the soil, sprouting weeds, choking the dirt. Marring it fallow.

But you’re okay with this. You’re fine—look at you, you’re fine.

///

The planet of Jelucan is bustling.

It’s got a pulse of its own, energetic and thrumming; there’s an electric current charging the cool air. It’s alive. This place is alive. Towers and buildings are chiseled into the cliff faces of the mountains framing the city, reaching tall towards the pale blue sky overhead. The capital—Valentia, you learned—is almost offensively busy— far busier than any of the backwater territories you and Din had explored in the recent months. There’s so much noise, it’s cacophonous— speeders dodging pedestrians milling about the throughway, engines whirring and backfiring, merchants arguing, hawking foods and goods from their windowed shops and brightly colored stalls, politicians and well to-dos seemingly gliding above it all as the common rabble of varying species and origins mingle and mix.

You suppose it reminds you of Coruscant. You suppose that makes you nervous.

Because you’ve been holed up in his ship and flitting through the Outer Rim, seeing the stars and the moons and planets and there’s just so much life—everywhere, everywhere— this galaxy is chalked full of it; it’s spilling over the sides with it all. And Maker, these months have felt like an adventure; they’ve felt like a fantasy, like an escape. You’ve eloped, caught in the whirlwind romance of it all—shirking your duties, your career, absconding from your shitty, shoebox of an apartment back home.

But Valentia is all too quick to ground you, all too eager to remind you of that blissfully forgotten reality; it taps on its wristwatch, gutting you with a look:

your time, my dear, is up.

The cobbled pavement underfoot is stony and industrial, each step landing too hard, too hollow—like everyone can hear your chipped heart pounding through your boots—exposing you, coloring you a liar.

This is fine. You’re fine. You’re okay with this.

You’ve been telling yourself that—bargaining, pleading—attempting to manifest into fruition; speaking it to yourself like a chant in hopes it’ll stick—in hopes you’ll fall for the ruse.

But it’s as if each dulled footfall shakes the rust from your neglected truth, revealing all too plainly that no. No, you’re not. You aren’t.

You and Din do not walk in tandem—his gait is longer, and he’s a stride in front of you—but there isn't so much space between your bodies that his presence doesn’t distract you completely, doesn’t eat you up and make you fizz. Your gaze could latch anywhere in this packed, teeming city, and you would still see him. Still feel him—on the nape of your neck, in the wet pink of your cunt. Throbbing reminders of the man that has knotted himself so seamlessly into your world.

You shake your head, locks rustling— as if you could rock him loose from where he clings on to your mind— when you feel a spindled hand at the wing of your back. Startled, you spin towards the touch.

There’s a woman— she isn’t human, but judging by her general appearance she’s some species close to it. She’s old. Whittled. Her maroon eyes are clouded, her silvered hair swooped back into a low bun, wiry frizz haloing the crown of her head.

She’s petite, but it looks wrong— inorganic. Too knobby, she’s all elbows and boney angles where she shouldn’t be. It’s as if she’s shrinking, right there before you. Time, pressing her in— pressing her down.

She’s lived a life in the sun; she wears lines on her face, deep and haggard, and her skin is pulled taut around her skull like hide stretched over a tanning rack. She’s ancient, prehistoric.

She’ll probably outlive you all.

An alien language you don’t recognize comes spilling fast from her thin mouth. You can’t decipher the string of words rushing like river water, the current unstoppable, but you garner she’s insistent; there’s no misconstruing the earnest fervor in her voice. Something woolen is held tight in her grasp—a blanket, by the looks of it, intricate and pleated—and she’s handing it to you like her very existence depends on it.

“I’m sorry,” you begin, confusion evident on your brow, “I’m sorry I don’t—”

She continues speaking, urgent and desperate and pleading—gesticulating as she offers you the throw, the shiny golden thread needled into the patchwork winking in the afternoon sun. The child slung at your side chirps curiously, saucer-large eyes following the shimmer of the fabric.

“I’m sorry, it’s beautiful - really - but—”

You’re jobless and blowing through your savings at a blistering speed. You barely have two measly credits to rub together; getting supplies is tricky enough as is. Purchasing something as ornate and superfluous as a blanket was out of the question. Munch coos sadly, a twitter of his voice, and it ruptures your heart to say it, “I can’t afford something like this.”

The bell on the door to the adjacent shop grabs your attention, producing a Twi’lek as it opens. She’s younger, perhaps around your age, and her lilac lekku bob as she bounds over to you.

“Hi,” she breathes, lips pulling back to reveal a charming smile as she glances between you two. “Everything okay?”

Before you can get a word out the elder resumes chattering, incensed as she addresses the other store attendant—you think it might be Old Corellian, some archaic dialect you presumed died out eons ago, predating the Battle of Yavin by centuries.

Just how old is this woman?

There’s a hushed exchange between them—the Twi’lek’s attempt at the language proving stiff. Her cadence is clunky, nowhere near as smooth and lilted as the other woman’s, but they must come to some sort of a conclusion, because they face you—two sets of eyes, burrowing blinkless into yours. The girl takes a small half step towards you, speaking - blessedly - in Basic.

“The blanket. It’s for you. She wants you to have it,” she explains, “for the little one.”

A twitch notches your eyebrow, gaze flickering back to the older woman, something akin to a crinkled smile worn into the grooves of her wizened face. She nods, fervent and solemn—a seriousness set in the desperate way she bores into you, urging you to understand. To see.

More foreign utterances pass between them— the younger woman listening to her soft vowels and gritting consonants for a beat, before continuing to translate.

“She says, you have a beautiful family. It makes her—” the Twi’lek pauses, choosing her next words, “yearn for the past, to reclaim time.”

Family. A beautiful family. A beautiful—

You consider telling them.

You consider correcting her, informing these kind souls that you’re only temporary. A fleeting thing— like the seasons, autumn dying cold into winter— you’ll leave when the time comes. You consider telling them that that’s the arrangement you agreed to, and that you’ll be delivered back to Coruscant and deposited off at your doorstep with nothing but a cheap, portable cot and an unused blaster the bounty hunter had unfathomably given to you once upon a time. That they’ve mistaken you for someone else—someone important to Din and his foundling. Someone relevant. Someone permanent.

But, you don’t.

You don’t rectify their assumption. Your silence betrays you, confirming the lie, and you grant yourself to revel in it. Like slipping into silk sheets, you roll in the luxury of the imaginary sentiment— letting it swaddle you, comfort you, kiss your skin.

And just for a moment, maybe you allow yourself to believe that this is real: the three of you, a perfect band of misfits; entwined together, fated and star-crossed.

A family.

“She hopes you know that what you have is special. She says, she hopes you hold onto them—never let go. Never.”

Fuck.

Can they hear it? Can they hear the way parts of you fracture like slate and quake to the asphalt in shards? Can they see the shiver in your knees—how your nails dig into the rough tweed of the satchel hung long beside you?

You steal a trepid glance back at Din who has since stopped and stands idle in wait—there in the middle of the lane, a single stone splitting the sea of people passing through. He’s unreadable, his visor illegible. He appears statuesque, arms immobilized in plaster by his sides—inhuman under all that effacing steel as life moves in flurries, eddying around him.

The kid babbles, snapping your focus off the Mandalorian and returning it to the two women. They adorn their sincerity openly, as one would a badge, extending the blanket to you—you, a perfect stranger.

Shit. Tears prickle the wells of your eyes. There’s something lodged in your throat— a canary in a cage, batting violent against its bars. You attempt to swallow it down with an ugly gulp, but it provides no relief. This emotion you’ve leveed—your joy, your pain and embarrassment, your desire and need—it swells in you, threatening to slosh over. You blink it back, keeping it confined safely behind your lash line.

“I—thank you,” you manage, looking between them. Awed and humbled, you accept their offering, handling it with the care of something holy—something sacred—and drawing it to your chest. Immediately, Munch latches a claw into a drooping corner of the woven material, a happy hum sounding from his droll grin. “Thank you,” you murmur again, reverent and breathy, reversing away from them—refusing to drop their gaze until you must—before finally righting yourself and walking on.

You’re shaken. You’re shaking.

And it is on shaky feet that you meet Din some steps later, pausing once you arrive next to him. His helm shifts; you register the sweep of his eyes roving over you—the burn of them along your shoulders, sloping down to the blanket folded against your breasts, slipping lower to his adi’ka sitting in the satchel at your hip. He’s clutching at the new token, dipping the edge of it into his tiny mouth to teethe.

And then,

he lifts at the wrist, orange glove tips raising - reaching - towards you. Din takes the hem of the quilt between his fingers experimentally, massaging the feel of the fabric—his knuckles brushing the exposed skin of your arm, searing into your flesh like a hot iron, lingering there mesmerizingly.

It’s the first he's touched you. It’s the first he’s touched you since, since—

His hand drops, hinging back to his side.

“Ready?”

His modulated voice crackles indiscernible and your stomach leaps to your neck. Are you breathing? Kriff, you’re not sure. You have to check—deliberately drawing in a gust of chilled air, the rush burning your lungs as you suck it down. With a nod of your head, a placid smile glosses over the shudder of your features, dousing the singe of your nerves.

“Ready.”

///

You think about that old woman later that day, and the many days that follow, her visage marked with centuries and regret and history. Life, evident in the spider’s web of wrinkles engraving her. But there was love too, clearly wormed into the lines of her face. So much of it— almost too much for a galaxy this hard and war-torn. The things she’s possibly witnessed: the atrocities, the devastation, the loss.

The wisdom she has gained while all of those she’s ever known succumb to the inevitability of age, as her past decays around her. The knowledge she absorbs while she withers—while time does nothing but skip by. Blameless. Forever onward.

In your dreams that night, she appears in front of you like mist rising off a lake, astral and ephemeral— there, but not. Haunting you, inescapable wherever you fix your eye. The woman nods silently. She’s mouthing something to you, but the words never come.

You understand.

tags:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @sammysdaisy @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey

[yastaghr]

Geno Run Exiles

Summary: Continuation of my Sanster Week 2017 (that I have been working on since 2017). Underfell Sanster fluff with being on the Surface for the first time.

Relationship: Fell Sanster, Sans/Gaster

Warnings: Mentioned genocide run

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24594760

The goopy monster, formerly known as Gaster and newly dubbed Trip, closed the door with a decided click. As much as he appreciated this other Toriel’s help, he really was capable of dealing with this problem by himself. He was a doctor, a medical one. He might not be able to do things as fast as her healing magic could, but he’d get there in the end. He didn’t need or want to be reliant on someone else’s help. You never knew what the price would be.

Like this apartment, for example. He’d expected to be dumped into the worst suite in the building, or worse, out on the street. Instead he was in this place. This place, with its leather furniture and brand new tv. This place, with its stainless steel appliances and double oven. This place, with it’s sleek wooden table and chairs. This place, with framed art on the walls. This place, with a jetted tub and two shower heads. This place, with its two bedrooms and a balcony big enough for another dining set and a telescope. This place, with it’s amazing view of the river and a park full of trees. This place...this place was so far above what he had imagined it was outside the solar system.

Trip shuddered. He hoped that whatever these new monsters demanded on him wouldn’t be too hard on him or Sans- no. That wasn’t his name anymore. Just like he was now named Trip, his Sans was now Kiks. It was the others’ universe after all. They deserved to be able to keep their names, no matter what the other Sans had said.

Speaking of Sans...er, Kiks, he should go and check on the other. Her Majesty had said it would be a while before his boyfriend woke up. Maybe yes, maybe no. Either way, Trip did not want the other to wake up alone. So he slowly oozed his way into the first bedroom.

The bedroom was just as well appointed as the main room. A king bed with an ultra-soft blanket and plush mattress stood in the center. A walk-in closet stood empty on one side. Two nightstands with beautiful lights whose bases were in the shape of conch shells lit the room in a soft glow. The comforter was patterned with curves of color; blues, tans, and light pinks gave the overall effect of a beach scene. He wondered if the sea was nearby. That would be nice.

Beneath the comforter and the blanket was Kiks. He was out cold. Her Majesty had removed most of his layers, so all that was visible above the blankets was his red sweater and spiked collar. The sight of it made Trip happy. His matching one was tucked safely in his inventory.

Trip planted a loving kiss on Kiks’ head and settled into the bed next to him. He didn’t lie down, just perched on the side of the bed and looked towards the foot of it. Beyond it, in the wall, was a window to the outside world. At the moment it was shut to keep the rain cascading down its surface out. Trip decided to fix that. He got back off the bed and oozed over to the window. He unlatched the bottom and started spinning the little lever that extended the brace. The window opened upwards since its hinges were at the top.

The sound of heavy rain hitting a window pane was one Trip had never thought he would hear again. It soothed him, just like it had done when he was a child. He went over and sat down on the edge of the bed. Soon, he laid back. A little relaxation wouldn’t do him any harm, right? And neither would laying flat. He was just enjoying the softness. Just… enjoying… the… rest…

=====

Trip startled awake. Someone was touching him, and in his world even letting someone close enough to touch him basically meant you were dead. He looked around, magic coming to his aid in a desperate burst. Then he saw who it was and all of that went away.

Kiks smiled at him. He was sitting up in bed, with his hand outstretched towards Trip. There were tear tracks on his maxillae, but no actual tears. They had dried up.

“if this is a dream, i don’t wanna wake up,” Kiks whispered hoarsely.

Trip smiled widely back at his boyfriend. His voice still sounded high and smokey, just like Trip had remembered. It was so nice to hear him again. Trip went to speak, but then changed his mind and signed, -I don’t think it’s a dream. It’s been too weird for even the worst of dreams.-

Kiks held out his hands imperiously. “hug first. story later.”

Trip smiled even wider. Yep, this was his boyfriend. He surrendered to the hug happily. They cuddled like that for a few minutes. Every time one of them went to leave the hug the other squeezed. Eventually they both pulled back.

“so, tell me about all this weirdness you were talking about.”

Trip did so, signing to Kiks about tripping over a safety railing on his way to work one day, about falling into the void, about the desperate loneliness of waiting in a place that was nothing for something, anything, to happen. He told him about Kiks showing up on the edge of death.

“before you go on, lemme tell you about what happened to me. i was hanging out at my sentry station - i’ve been a sentry pretty much ever since you fell - when a really loud scraping sound came from over by the big door. i went to check it out, and there was this human. well, not exactly a human. it was like something insane was wearing a human’s skin. also a lot of dust. and that wasn’t the end of the dust.”

“they, uh, pretty much decimated the underground. they didn’t just dust everyone in their path. they searched everywhere for even more monsters to dust. the only reason they didn’t get everyone...well, pap distracted them at the edge of snowdin. people got to the lab and hid in the basement. he, uh, wasn’t one of them. i was watching. they dusted him, and then they took his dust, swallowed some of it, and kicked the rest into the river.”

“needless to say, that hit me kinda hard. it pissed me off. by the time i’d stopped being in shock, they were all the way through hotland. i set a trap for them in the judgement hall and waited. the trap...didn’t work. they almost killed me just like they’d killed everyone else. but i couldn’t stand to let them have my dust. so i, uh, kinda teleported into the core?”

“i must have passed out, because the next thing i knew i was waking up in this creepily comfortable bed next to you. this definitely isn’t in the underground i know, so, uh, mind filling me in on the rest?”

Trip signed to him about the void suddenly giving way to his floating body. He told him about the door appearing out of nowhere, and how, eventually, he had braved his way out, Kiks in hand. He told him about the other Sans, Toriel, Undyne - all the other monsters. He told him about the healing, about their new names, and, finally-

“wait. are you seriously trying to tell me we’re on the surface here? that’s...way too good to be true, g.uh, trip.”

-It’s true,- Trip signed with a smile, -I made them take me outside to check. We have a balcony here we can safely go out on. It’s enclosed on both sides and several stories up. Do you want to?-

Kiks leveled a look at him. “trip, are you seriously asking me if i want to see the surface? of course i do!” He pushed himself upright. Trip caught him before he could fall. He had been seriously injured. It wasn’t surprising that he would take a while to recover. “um...might have a problem here, trip. trip? trip, stop laughing at me!”

-I’m not,- Trip signed quickly, fitting it in between belly-shaking, glitched-sounding laughs, -I’m just laughing at myself. I should have known it wouldn’t be possible for you to walk just yet. Do you mind if I...carry you?-

The other skeleton bonked Trip’s forehead. “you’re not omniscient, dumbass. just pick me up and take me out already!”

Trip obliged, scooping his lover up in a comfortable embrace and slowly oozing over to the balcony. Kiks operated the handle and sighed when he saw the view outside. It was a beautiful, green park that stretched for miles. Trees of all sorts were scattered around a creek. Children were laughing and playing in the wet grass. Their voices floated up to Trip and Kiks, then floated further up into the colorful sky. Sunset was just beginning, and it was gorgeous.

Kiks didn’t breathe for a solid ten minutes while he took everything in. As skeletons they didn’t strictly need to breathe, but it was still a good habit. Trip was starting to get worried when Kiks let out a wild whoop and hugged Trip around the neck tight.

“it’s the surface! doc, doc! there’s clouds and everything! i didn’t know that the sky got this colorful. what’s it called?”

Trip smiled and set Kiks down in one of the chairs so he could talk. -It’s called a sunset. S-U-N-S-E-T. It’s caused by the light rays from the sun hitting the atmosphere at certain angles. These angles, when coupled with the crystalline nature of the upper atmosphere, create a rainbow of color. This color is always present at some arc in the sphere of the globe, but is constantly moving and changing in shade. There is a similar, although not identical, phenomenon known as sunrise. S-U-N-R-I-S-E. It happens on the other edge of night and day.-

Kiks smiled softly at him, his head in his hands. “you know you're really cute when you get all nerdy on me, doc?”

Trip blushed at that and coughed. Then he signed in a flippant way, -I’m just answering your question, Kiks.-

Kiks’ smile spread into a wide grin. “yeah, right, and i’m the queen of the underground. queen of the surface? what’s this toriel like, anyway? i know the one back home had a wicked sense of humor and a love of dust pie.”

-This one seems to be very much in everyone else’s business. I don’t know about her sense of humor, but it was hard to convince her to leave you to me. She’s one of those bossy healers who thinks magic is a substitute for time. You know how I feel about them,- Trip said with a shrug.

Kiks cocky grin was a relief for Trip to see. He’d always loved his boyfriend’s sense of humor. “do you want me to start planning a prank?”

Trip nodded, letting his own face split into a savage grin. -Oh, yes. Nothing too bloody, they seem to be very peaceful here, but she definitely deserves to get dunked on. Also, try not to let it trace back to you. I don’t know what the price for this apartment is going to be yet, and I really don’t want them adding onto it.-

Kiks cocky grin vanished. “fuck, trip, we’ve been through this. not everyone is like that. i’m not, my brother’s not, and i’m pretty sure that these people aren’t, either. if they are, well, we’ll deal with it. but try not to worry about it in the meantime. you’ll just get stressed.”

Trip sighed. -I know, I know, I just…-

Kiks stuck his tongue out at him. “no justs, just wills. you will put it out of your mind and explain those weird light things in the sky now. Are those buildings in sky?”

Trip looked up sharply. There, in the darkening sky, were the stars. He smiled and began to sign. -Those are the stars I’ve told you about so much, Kiks! Stars and planets, too. A planet is…-

[tarithenurse]

On my mind, in my soul - 11

Prompt:  Continuing the prompts from last chapter (just because I had written so much originally that it had to be split in two parts)…but I decided to chose a new song and got help from my hubby for that. Now the prompts are: “Dangerous” by Royal Deluxe, Asgard, Loki’s helmet. Pairing: Loki x Burglar!reader. Content: Swearing as usual (I think), the colour blue, a LOT of adult-only content! (avoid the itch - wrap the bitch) A/N: It’s been an absolute joy to watch the storm of demands for helmet-smut after the last chapter :) Please...if you like this chapter too, then reblog! Comment! Anything! Also...the art is obviously not made by me, because daymn!

Ready or not

Every ounce the man that drove you to temptation, Loki’s posture demands subjugation even if he must be weak still. Or maybe he isn’t? Studying the god, you notice a faint blue taint in his pale skin where raised markings are visible to any careful observer, proving that he’s putting on a show whether it’s for your benefit or not.

“I see you’ve been busy, my dear.” Moving his gaze to the golden headgear, there’s no doubt what he’s referring to. “I was…certain that chest had been locked…perhaps I was mistaken?”

His steps are careful, slow, but show no sign of strain as Loki walks to inspect the tools still lying by the chest. A hum reveals how impressed he is with what you’ve made do with, making you straighten up with ill-hidden pride. Adjusting his “crown” on your head, you consider the reflection in the mirror. Not bad. Sure, the dress is a bit odd in it’s foreign design, but the near-black purple silk that flows softly around your shape thanks to strategically placed golden ribbons. In fact, you decide, they match the horns very well. Flowy, long sleeves can easily hide the actions of your hands if needed, but that won’t be needed right now.

Turning fully towards Loki once more, you find him seated on the end of the bed. He’s been silently observing you as well, and a smirk hints that he likes the view.

“What brings you here?” you ask, crossing your arms below your bosom to push the breasts up towards the low neckline.

“These are my chambers,” the explanation is quiet, but his voice drops as he continues, “as are the contents.”

The low purr sends shivers through your body, and you know there won’t be anything you’ll refuse him even though you’re willing to play hard to get. “Is that so? I thought it was illegal to own people…at least I won’t be your slave.” ‘Cause I’m wearing the crown.

“My slave? No…you’ll attend to my needs of your own free will tonight,” he purrs deviously, “then we’ll see about the title later.”

“I may be benevolent…if you get undressed.”

Quirking and eyebrow, Loki doesn’t discuss the terms but merely waves a hand to magic his simple clothes away in a haze of gold and emerald, leaving him naked and very much at attention. Rarely one to ignore an impressive cock, your eyes are drawn to the semi-erection between the Asgardian’s thighs. Yes, you feel an aching need for it…but you want more than that, craving his touch everywhere on the skin. A hungry meeting of hot and cold. Past trails of kisses and love bites need renewing with a vigour that can only be found by those who nearly lost the way completely.

“Stroke yourself…my lord.”

He obeys without hesitation by grabbing the cock loosely, arm resting on the thigh as he sets a lazy pace without even once taking the eyes off you. Some incentive won’t go amiss. Reaching up under the dress, you find the delicate fabric of the underwear and pull it down. By the time it appears from under the skirts to pool around you ankles, Loki’s tongue is wetting his lips and his breathing has sped up. Moments later the tiny piece of clothing lands beside him on the bed.

“Move up to the headboard.”

Again, there’s no argument, and he’s rewarded by the golden sash that has held the dress tight around your waist. This one lands on the floor and is soon joined by the first layer of the dress (only leaving two more – Asgardian fashion is very different from temporary Earth-clothes). On his own, Loki has resumed the stroking but this time tighter, baring the dark cockhead each time his hand reaches the base. A bead of natural lubrication appears and is spread in a thin, glistening sheen.

This is how it's gonna be This is what you'll think of me

You pull at a few more ribbons, very slowly, before the most substantial part of the dress cascades off your shoulders. Gone are the flowy sleeves and the midnight-purple dabbled with gold, and you’re left in a thin shift in a ridiculously romantic lilac hue. You’d never have picked that yourself, but Loki approves, drinking in the vision of you.

“My dear,” the hushed longing transforms into the tell-tale purr, “had I know this would be my reward for sacrificing myself then I would not have waited so long.”

Head held high you cross the distance to the foot end of the bed. “Who says the reward is yours?”

You have to hold on to the horns perched precariously on your head as you climb onto the mattress, but as you settle down (kneeling or sitting on your heels) near Loki’s feet, it’s safe for you to occupy your hands elsewhere. Tracing every curve through the delicate fabric, you allow the god to admire what he can from afar. The pointed nipples are pinched and rolled through the almost transparent silk; waist is highlighted by broad strokes along the sides of the ribcage and across the stomach before  you roll your hips into your own palms.

A few feet away, Loki’s ragged breath is barely muted by the teeth he digs into the lower lip even though his hand has slowed. All he can do, it seems, is to hold on to whatever is near. His grasp on the Asgardian shape is failing, causing red to mingle with the normally bright colour of his iris while the blue shade reclaims his limbs by spreading from each ridge and marking.

Bunching the skirt up a bit, one of your hands disappears underneath it with a clear destination. Although the nimble movement of the fingers is nothing by a shadow underneath the rumpled fabric, you help Loki understand exactly what is happening by rolling your hips, guiding your own fingers between then slick folds. And you do nothing at all to mask the obscene sound produced each time a finger slips past the entrance to the core or the growing moans when you tease the clit.

“[Y/N]…” the god groans desperately.

“Yeah?”

Your other hand hasn’t been idle but working your breasts and nipples through the shift. Now you slide it down a thigh and begin to collect the fabric, pulling it upwards inch by inch. It’s torture for Loki. His cock is straining and leaking precum.

“Let me worship your gorgeous body.” The offer’s breathless, making you smirk at his attempt to hide the frustration.

“Don’t want to strain you,” you mumble.

Already kissing a path up his legs while trying to control the impractical headpiece, you whine as the golden horns are stolen for you. Looking up at Loki, however, you change your mind. Fuck me. Battling colours in eyes and skin takes absolutely nothing from the sight. Sex on legs? Sure. And confident, skilled temptation too. But with that thing on his head there’s no doubt in your heart that he does command you.

Straightening up on your knees, it’s a battle to pull the shift off slow enough to maintain some semblance of control. Don’t let him decide anything…else...It lands in a heap somewhere beyond the bed. Bending down to continue the path you’d started, the kisses and bites are only interrupted the few times you have to swat the impatient god’s hands away, each time earning a growl that does nothing but encourage you. You pay particularly good attention to Loki’s hipbones and sensitive area around the cock…but you don’t touch him there.

The balls get a slow lick (resulting in a tremulous gasp) before you move on up across his chest where each nipple get either a kiss of a bite, and by the time you’re indulging yourself with the neck and chiseled jaw, you’ve come to straddle Loki…but you still don’t touch his cock.

“[Y/N…]”

“Patience.”

And I'm about to make it clear It's going down like I told ya I'm the baddest mother up in here

Lips meet, tongues dance. It’s enough of a distraction that you can return a hand to your own sex, causing you to sigh into Loki’s mouth, and as cool hands caress your shoulders and back you realize just how easily the god would be able to push you over the edge.

“My pet.” Insisting arms are pulling you closer, a bigger hand nudging your to take over the sinful ministrations.

“I thin’,” you murmur through teeth pulling at his earlobe, “tha’ we’ve establi’ed I’m no’ ju’ your pet.”

Moving closer, tilting your hips is all it take to guide his throbbing cock between your slick folds until it’s glistening. A bonk from the headgear and a tremulous groan proves the effect it has on Loki. It’s all he can do, restraining himself from rutting into you, and you see the shimmer as his Asgardian shape threatens to fail.

“I wanna fuck you, Loki,” you purr, “don’t hide your perfections.”

His eyes snap open, red outside the blown blackness of lust, making you shiver with anticipation of this wilder side of him as he grows just a smidgen in all dimension while the skin takes on the Jotun characteristics that you’ve come to love.

“There we go.”

Sure, the praise makes him smile crookedly, but the expression changes to that of slack-jawed bliss the moment you begin to lower yourself onto his length. Fuuuuck. Thick, ridged, and cold, the intrusion send shiver rolling through your body and there’s no way to prevent how hard you clamp on to him with your pussy.

Slow at first, and with Loki’s hands tight on your hips for guidance, you ride the god to the verge of the first orgasm. It becomes difficult to maintain the dragging rhythm even with your hands wrapped around the horns for support until a breathy order tumbles from you lips and Loki keeps you in place while he thrusts into you. Hard and deep, the ridges seem to slide across your g-spot with a perfection you couldn’t attain on your own, and soon you’re gasping the god’s name as your cunt spasms and your womb shakes.

“Let m–“

“No!” You’re not done with him yet, raising high enough to release his cock from your hold before you collapse onto his chest. “Not yet.”

“Then allow me to taste you, m’lady.”

How can you say no to that? Rolling off of him, you barely have time to land before his tongue weaves between the shivering folds.

Shit. The moans Loki produces should be illegal, obscene in sound as he eagerly labs at you, there’s no doubt that he genuinely enjoys what he’s doing, and each satisfied hum and groan sends vibrations into your core and still-sensitive clit.

Guiding him by the horns, you bring his focus exactly where you need it. The cold might soothe the burning ache, but there’s no respite from the feverish pleasure rolling through you. A finger, then two and then three are added to the mix and this time he’s got you arching as you practically call out for him. High-pitched and ignorant of a world outside the bed.

“Lo-LoKII!”

You can feel him smile against your core. “Yes, m’lady?”

A cheeky idea pops into your head, and you smile down at his glistening face. “You’ve been so very good, my dear,” shivering subtly from the soaring ecstasy, a pleased sigh escapes you, “I’ll grant you a wish.”

Now that gets his attention. Prowling over your naked form, he reach far enough to explore your throat and jawline with his mouth before biting gently at your ear.

“A wish…” he ponders while sending new shivers down your spine, “I should like to take you on all four. My horns on your beautiful head to hold on to as I ram into your delicious quim.”

A deep kiss seals the deal, but before you turn around, he places the golden accessory on your head. Oh, it’s like that? A golden shimmer radiated like a halo around your skull and you feel the crown tighten until it fits perfectly.

“So…perfect.” Something else than lust burns in the red and black eyes as Loki takes you in.

Suddenly, he’s twisted you around and you scramble to find purchase against the intricately carved wood of the headboard as your god slams his cock deep into you, one hand digging its fingers into your butt cheek while the other grabs hold of one of the horns. The tug isn’t harsh, but it’s enough to force your head back and spine arching in a way that present your ass perfectly for him.

Gibberish. That’s all the words tumbling from your mouth are, but the moans and whimpers are easy enough to understand and they spur the man on.

You’re already keening from the impending bliss when a cold hand snakes around your hips to find the slippery folds and the tiny nerve bundle hidden away there. A few circular rubs is all it takes before you come undone, screaming silently with pleasure.

“My…qu-queennn!”

Cold and hot liquids mix within you, taking away your attention from the sharp bite on your shoulder. Moments later, the two of you have collapsed in an ungraceful heap of tangled limbs and sloppy kisses. Somehow the golden horns disappear on their own.

“I’m gonna…gonna wear that more…often,” you manage to gasp.

The arm that ensnares you and pulls you close is still blue. Big and strong and absolutely perfect like the chest you snuggle against.

“But now we sleep, my dear.”

Get ready cos here I come I'm about to come and get me some Hot as a smoking gets

[megairishrose]

Flaws Stitched Together With Good Intentions chapter 27: What she had to do

They were within the town line; the army was inside Storybrooke. The army of the Caldron Born seemed to stretch the entire length of the town. And the heroes stood a few miles away, facing down the enemy. There were so many of them, more than anyone had imagined. A sick feeling settled in Amelia's stomach. Neal noticed and took her hand into his. It gave off a little comfort.

Their army was better than she had hoped for. They had magic mixed with raw skill. This had to be the way to win a war, right?

The Horned King stood right in the center and on his right side was Sir Kay.

Neal leaned over to Amelia. "Now I understand why my father never scared you." He meant the Horned King. She nodded. "And I am taking him down." Now he meant Sir Kay.

"Well, here we are, about to go to battle. Amelia, you want to say a few words?" David asked.

Say a few words? Was Prince Charming asking for an inspiration speech from her? She wasn't one for fancy words, her words usually were harsh and full of sass. But maybe, this once she could be the light in the dark.

Amelia Hunter stepped up on a bench and looked out over her army, her friends. "I want to thank you all for coming out, I know how lame that sounds. So here's something better. I never liked to consider myself a survivor, I always preferred the term warrior. That's what we all are. We're all broken and damaged and we aren't quite fixed yet. A lot of us have gone through hell, but you know what? We came back. We came back stronger. You know why? Because we are warrior and warriors fight! To be heroic does not have to mean possessing the ability to stand against the evils of the world, either well or successfully, but just that one is willing to stand!"

Her words were meant with cheers, they almost brought joy to her heart. Almost. Neal clutched her hand and helped her down back to the ground.

"Regina, remember back in the Enchanted Forest, when I said that when he took over I would make sure you suffered. This is what I meant." Amelia felt she had to clear the air.

Regina gave the army a brief glance. "So in other words, I'm lucky you like me now?"

"Very lucky."

Storybrooke's and the Enchanted Forest's mightiest heroes stood against the legendry and unstoppable army of the undead. Amelia hoped no one ever told her the odds.

It was a face-off, who was going to make the first move?

A Cauldron Born threw an ax at them, it flew at them fast but it was Regina who sent up a protective shield.

"They started it, now we finish it. Who's going out first?" Regina asked, a magic fireball swirling around her hands.

"Not us, them." Amelia waved a hand over her head, the universal sign for 'roll out'. The trained assassins ran out of their formation and towards the Cauldron Born. "Always sent out the pawns first." Amelia asked, shooting David and Regina a tiny grin. "What, they didn't teach you that in battle school?"

They let the clash go a few moments before Amelia herself went into battle. And every one followed her lead.

Chaos.

That was the only logical way to describe the battle. If logical was even the right word.

Magic and might versus numbers. One to go down in the history books, provided there would be history books when this was all over. It was silent at first, then suddenly, noise like Amelia had never heard before. It was power and strength and cruelness all wrapped into one.

She was alone, that's how she preferred to work. Neal would be safe, her magical mark would save him, keep him safe. Even when she couldn't, forever, no matter what.

Amelia stood her ground, she thanked her lucky stars she had put a spell on her quiver and Robin's also so neither of them would run out of arrows. One arrow after another went into a Cauldron Born's neck or chest. But as soon as one fell, two more took its place. It was almost like Hydra.

Arrows stopped and Amelia switched to fists, her first and best weapon. She was trying to avoid using magic. She had no idea if it would work. Her magic was like her, temperamental.

She bit back cries of pain and used her healing on her wounds. She couldn't afford to be hinged by minor and simple cuts and blood.

Then there was a blur and the ten soldiers surrounding her went down at once. Was that …? Amelia saw something brush past her legs and she looked down and to her astonishment, saw her Luna.

Amelia threw up a magical dome. She got down on her knees gratefully. "How did you find me? Is this Derek's way of protecting me?" Luna leaned her head against Amelia's, not trying to avoid its bloody teeth.

She was thrilled, beyond belief in fact. But Amelia was not the one who needed the protection on the battlefield.

"I need you to go protect Henry." Luna looked confused. "The kid, he's my step-son. I can handle myself. Now go." Her head got bonked lightly but Luna took off in a hurry.

Amelia grinned, now it was no more miss nice guy. She was now ready to go into full bounty hunter mode, well magical bounty hunter. Which was more dangerous and fun for her, but very dangerous for anyone and everyone she was going to be up against.

Amelia's magic was on point during the battle, more than on point. She could feel the powers of heaven and earth coursing through her veins. She felt unstoppable. The ground obeyed her command and acted like a shield against the army. Amelia sent waves of power to the nearest soldiers, making them topple to the ground like wheat. Did the Horned King have any idea who he was dealing with?

She was Bernadette, bounty hunter of the Enchanted Forest, sorceress of ancient magic of Prydain, she had legions of heroes and creatures at her back. She was a force to be reckoned with.

Fire and electricity poured out of her hands, turning everything it touched to dust. For the first time since the mark appeared on her palm, Amelia felt in control, like she could take on the world and win.

Then she sensed trouble behind her. She focused her mind and saw Marian was losing ground against a Cauldron Born soldier. Time for Amelia to step in. She whistled loudly and held a hand high above her head. Suddenly something large tightened around her wrist and lifted her off the ground.

"Thanks for the lift, Bucky. A bird's eye view definitely changes one's assessment of a siltation." Amelia called up to the large griffin. "Now get as close to Marian as you can. If you feel the need to take out some soldiers along the way, be my guest."

From her new angle, Amelia saw everything. David and Mary Margaret hadn't left each other's sides. What did Amelia really expect from them? Emma and Killian seemed to take a page from their book as well. Regina and Gold used magic while Robin and Belle used weapons. They were playing to each other's strengths. Henry was back to back with Neal. Everyone seemed to be holding their own. It was a comforting thought.

Then Bucky's grip on her wrist was gone and Amelia was falling to the ground. She could control it and when she landed, the earth moved, causing a cloud of dust to rise around her.

"What did I miss?" She yelled over to Marian.

"You're messing up my rhythm. I have him right where I want him." Marian scolded, pulled an arrow out of the chest of a solider.

"Lending a hand never hurt anyone." Amelia said with a grin. She blasted an oncoming solider away.

"Whatever happened to the old fashion way of fighting? Yes, it's a little messy, but it gets the job done. I think using magic is cheating."

Amelia whirled on her friend, speechless. But she noticed the joke in her voice. "Cheating? I would never cheat. It's not in my nature." And to prove her point, she whipped out her dagger and flung it into the face of a Cauldron Born. It went down with a scream.

"Messy but effective." Marian nodded, impressed.

"No time for more chatting, keep up the good work." Amelia said before finding herself surrounded by six soldiers. "I like these odds. Come on; give it your best shot." She yelled.

They came at her, but her daggers were ready. She slashed and kicked with everything she had. They fought back but one by one they failed, as was expected. Then one of them got the upper hand and his blade hit Amelia in the stomach. She wasn't ready for the force of that blow and was forced to the ground.

Her back hit something hard and pain shot up her spine. The soldier's blade was high above her head, ready to deliver the final blow.

But instead, he was blasted away by a beam of purple light. Amelia looked up and saw Gold walking towards her. She actually accepted his hand to help her to her feet.

"Nice timing. Not sure what would have happened to me if you didn't show up when you did."

"You would have found a way out of it. You always do, dearie." Gold said.

Amelia opened her mouth to respond but an incoming blast of power stopped her. Gold threw up a barrier at the last minute. A few yards away stood Mim.

So Mim's magical skills were better, Amelia had to give her that much. But would they continue to hold up?

Gold took a step forward, ready to engage Mim in battle one on one. But a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"No, the witch is mine." Amelia calmly stated. She was done with Mim, all of this started because of her. Now she was going to pay.

Amelia raised a hand over her head and spun her fingers twice. Instantly she appeared right in front of Mim's face.

She wasted no time grabbing the witch's neck.

"What are you doing, really? You think you can stand toe to toe with anyone on this battlefield?" Amelia growled. She finally had the upper hand when it came to Mim. Pulling out her heart seemed like a very good option.

"Of course darling, I have a few tricks up my sleeves. You want to start a wizard's duel?" Mim said with a grin that Amelia wasn't sure how she was pulling off with an almost closed windpipe.

"Not with the likes of you." Amelia threw Mim to the ground and yellow power appeared between her hands.

"I won't cheat, no pink dragons from me, I swear." Mim got to her feet. And her grin hadn't faded. Was all this a joke to her? Did life and death mean nothing to the purple haired sorceress?

Amelia didn't answer, instead she sent ice crystals at Mim, freezing the woman in place.

She was stuck for only two seconds, the ice that had trapped her broke off into a million pieces, spraying everything that was close. Amelia threw up a barrier to protect herself.

"Yes, I think, no correction, I know I can stand toe to toe with the warriors on this battlefield. You want to know why, darling? Because I am the marvelous mad Madam Mim!" At that, the woman transformed into a huge purple dragon.

Amelia had to cram her neck to be able to look the creature in the eye. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and shot. Her aim was flawless. Right in between the eyes.

The dragon roared in pain and began to shrink back to the ground in a cloud of purple smoke. When it cleared, Mim was back to her normal form, hand held to her face. "Ouch, was that necessary? Did that even scare you?" She pulled her hand away and there was a murderous look in her eyes. "I know how to scare you…" Suddenly the two women were transported to a different area of the battle, within eye shot of Neal. "The former Dark One's son, you certainly know how to pick them, don't you Bernadette. You're not going to last much longer; you know that right? You can't possibly win against the Cauldron Born. But don't worry, I'll take good care of him, back in my castle. The Horned King isn't the most pleasant company and it gets so lonely…" She would have continued her statement but Amelia acted fasted. A wall of stone appeared behind Mim and she was thrown hard into it.

Amelia's yellow murderous eyes were trained on Mim. "You can break my soul, beat me, hurt me, even kill me, but. Don't. You. Dare. Touch. Him." She didn't yell, didn't raise her voice, she growled and the words echoed through Mim's whole being. Mim raised her hand to push Amelia away but her wrists were held back by stone handcuffs that appeared from the wall.

Amelia's hand lightly touched Mim's chest then her neck. Take her voice or take her throat? Which one, which one? Well, she could always do both…

And she did. One hand wretched out Mim's heart while the other tore out her voice. The combination of magic crackled in her hands… it was almost more than Amelia could bear. She struggled to stay on her feet but her attempts were useless.

Mim seized the opportunity and broke her bounds. She ripped her heart and voice back from the fallen bounty hunter. They were put back in their correct place and Mim stared down at Amelia, rage written in her eyes.

Amelia stood her head, trying to clear her mind. She looked up to see Mim's finger trained on her forehead. No, she couldn't lose her memory of anyone else. Losing her memory was worse than death. She would be nothing, nobody. But she was helpless to stop it.

Mim's finger lightly touched Amelia's forehead and the pain sent Amelia over the edge. The sudden magic burst of magic blasted Mim away.

She sat there alone, her protective dome flickering uselessly around her, she didn't feel confused, she remembered everything. So what had Mim done to her this time? Amelia slowly got to her feet and a shadow fell over her. The scent of sea air and stale ale engulfed her. She closed her eyes; she knew exactly who was standing behind her even before the sword tip touched the middle of her back. Mim hadn't taken her memory of someone this time; she had pulled someone out of her mind.

"So we meet again, bounty hunter." The guff voice said.

Amelia heaved a heavy sigh and noticed Dyrnwyn lying within arm's reach. That was a very convenient sword.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Captain?" She meant no respect with his title. Part of her didn't want to be bothered with him; she had enough on her plate but the bigger part of her wanted to put him in his place.

"Yes, darling, I do."

Really, pet names? "Your funeral." Amelia held out her hand, Dyrnwyn flew into her grip. She spun around and her blade met Black Beard's.

"Your skills have improved; my compliments to Jones." He swung at her at and she blocked it perfectly. Honestly, it was the sword doing most of the work. Amelia was grateful.

"He's not my teacher anymore."

"Are you looking for a new teacher? I would never say no to a beautiful woman, especially when she needed it." He leered at her.

"Be careful, I picked up some new tricks since the last time we met." So many new tricks.

"So you aren't going to use your signature move on me?" He asked, she only responded with a confused look. "Shooting me in the stomach and stabbing me in the heart?"

"Remember my response last time? That you need a heart for that." Then a cruel smile grew on her face. "Let's test a theory, shall we?" Without another word, Amelia plunged her hand into Black Beard's chest and tore out his heart. She held the sad sorry excuse for a heart. And she thought Gold's heart was black.

"Well, would you look at that? You do have one." Black Beard had pure fear in his eyes and he actually prayed to every Higher Power that Bernadette wouldn't do what she was considering.

"And. Now. You. Don't." Each word was punctuated with a squeeze of her hand. The last word was accompanied with the final squeeze and dust slipped through her fingers. Black Beard crumpled to the ground.

"Pirates are such pathetic opponents." Amelia observed, wiping her hands on her pants.

"If I didn't know you better, lass I would be highly insulted by that observation." Killian was suddenly by her side. There were cuts on his face and arms.

"You weren't pathetic, you were easy." She told him with a silly smile.

A loud horn sounded through the entire battlefield. Both Amelia and Killian were forced to throw their hands over their ears.

"Send in the second wave." The Horned King's calm voice traveled over the field.

Second wave? This wasn't everything he had? There was more? Were these his pawns? Amelia looked over at Killian, panic written all over her face.

"Go, find Emma. Be safe." She pushed him in the direction she knew Emma was. Killian was slightly reluctant but he did listen.

Amelia stood there alone for a moment, she looked around and saw the one object that could stop it all. The Black Cauldron itself was about a mile away, a green mist slowly pouring out of it. That's what gave the warriors their power, their life.

Suddenly the noise of the battle got a hundred times louder. All of her senses were on overload and her mind went back to her very first traumatic experience. The massacre that killed her family. The murders that forced her into a shell and built walls so high only a miracle could get through to save her.

Amelia couldn't collect her thoughts with all that was going on. She needed silence and one person to talk to.

It might have seen cowardly, kneeing in the middle of a life or death battle under a protective dome. Then Blinky joined her and sat in her cupped palms. Amelia needed to silence the inner demons. She heard nothing of the battle.

She and Blinky had a conversation. It didn't last as long as she thought it would have.

Something important clicked in Amelia's mind. She knew what she had to do. Amelia Hunter had to be like her mother. It was the only way to ensure everyone's survival.

She had to do it, no, she wanted to do it. She had started this mess, she would finish it once and for all.

The barrier fell and suddenly Neal was next to her. He was battered and bloody but somehow in decent spirits. "Babe, I know I look bad, but you should see the other guy..."

He stopped mid-sentence when Amelia grabbed his face and kissed him hard. It was everything their relationship was: gentle, passionate, everlasting, impossible, soul-searching, recovery, repairing.

He responded even though he was confused by her actions. Making out in the middle of the battlefield? What was she thinking?

Amelia pulled back and rested her forehead against his. "I love you, Neal Cassidy, more than words can ever say. And I will love you until the end of the time."

What was she talking about? What did she mean by that?

Then Neal Cassidy realized what was happening. His hand moved to grab her, to stop her. Something, anything to make her change her mind. But she was faster and smarter, his wrist had a vine wrapped around it, rooting him to the ground. "Amelia, no… don't! There has to be another way! Please don't do it!" Neal screamed as he desperately watched Amelia back away from him and then run at full speed towards the cauldron. No words were needed, not even her usual 'I'm sorry'.

She blasted anything that stood in her way. Her mind was clear, free and light, for the first time in her life.

Amelia Hunter took a running leap and threw herself into the Black Cauldron, sacrificing herself to save the ones she loved.

When the willingly body entered the cauldron, there was an earth-shattering explosion and a blinding light. The green mist that had been slowly pouring out of the cauldron now reversed its path

The vine around Neal's wrist fell and now he could do something. He just wasn't sure what.

His purpose suddenly stood in front of him. Sir Kay had his sword ready but his skin was being torn away by the pull of the cauldron.

"Not so fast. My time might be over, no thanks to your woman, but I will make sure you join her!" Kay swung his sword; Neal was ready and met his with his own blade. Kay stumbled to his knees, his strength quickly fading.

Neal plunged his sword into Kay's face. "Not by your hand."

The knight turned to dust while all around him, the Cauldron Born were forced back in to the cauldron. None of them were safe, including the Horned King himself. He tried to grab anything to stop his final destination. Emma, Regina and Gold helped him on his path to enteral imprisonment.

The Horned King, the current Dark One, entered the Black Cauldron. His power and evil forever trapped.

The dust settled and the residents of Storybrooke looked around. They were alive, they won but they were confused. They knew the only way the Cauldron Born could be stopped, but who had done it?

Neal franticly searched the battlefield and saw the one body he needed. Amelia Hunter was lying cold on the ground, free of any cuts she suffered from the battle. Next to her was the powerless cauldron.

Neal ran to her and pulled her into his arms. "No… no… Amelia. Don't be gone. I still need you. You said you weren't going anywhere. I love you." He pressed a desperate kiss to her lips.

Amelia Hunter woke up slowly and peacefully. She felt well rested. She sat up and realized she was in the middle of a forest.

"Bernadette?" A soft gentle voice touched her ears. It was a voice that she barely remembered. She twisted her body in the direction of the voice and the sight made her heart leap for joy.

"Mama?"