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instasiswetrust · 3 years

Text

Bloodshot

Brown eyes stare into the void.

And the void stares right back.

Pitch-black and dark.

Dark, darker, and yet darker.

Vaguely, he registers liquid inside his mouth. His lungs. His chest. A part of his brain that's still working whispers that he's choking. Weird. He thought it would hurt more than this. Thought there would be more panic and flailing. Desperation to breathe.

Instead, all he feels is calm.

There's a sense of peace that instills in his body. Fills every crevice, nook, and cranny inside his flesh. Inside his bones.

Yes, he's dying, but he's accepted this as an immutable fact.

What use is there for panic when the croon of Miss Death is already so sweet in his ear? Why should he flail and claw to a life filled with heartache and pain, when instead he could stay in this calm embrace forever?

He's dying, and he's fine with this.

At first, he thinks he might be at the quarry. It would make sense. Maybe he was too drunk, tripped, and slipped off the ledge. Those kinds of things tend to happen to lonely people like him. Maybe others will think he jumped, instead. That's fine too.

But the liquid in his mouth tastes salty and coppery. A little too thick to be water.

Oh. Right.

Blood. He was choking on his own blood.

Things are coming back to him in slow increments. Flashes of scenes. He understands now where he is.

Or was.

Time is confusing when you're dying.

They had been in the tunnels. The demodogs had been close at their heels and the entrance just a few feet away. He had been so scared, utterly terrified, but not for himself. Never for himself. He needed to get the kids out first, all of them.

And he had.

Too bad it had been just a second too late for him.

Just as he was about to reach for the rope, a strong body had crashed into him and he had fallen on his back. Pain had jolted through his nerves as claws dug themselves into the skin of his chest. He remembers being vaguely concerned about the wetness spreading in his chest before that maw had bloomed into the most horrifying of flowers, and the petals wrapped themselves around his neck.

He thinks Dustin might've screamed. Steve felt bad that the kid had to see him like that.

But now the pain was no more and he was suspended in the void. Calm. Serene. Accepting.

Death was peaceful.

Until it wasn't.

---

The thing that crawled out of the earth, a whole week after the gate was closed, was not Steve Harrington.

At least not anymore.

Not in a way that mattered.

He still looked the same. Sounded the same. Moved the same. Felt the same.

He could think, and like, and long for things the same way he could when he had been alive.

But his mind was never quiet these days.

Hunt. Feed. Claw. Rip.

Blood.

A never-ending loop of words strung together until they sounded unrecognizable until they no longer made sense. And yet the feelings that came with the words would never go away.

Not when he started cooking his meat less and less to the point he resorted to just shoveling spoonfuls of raw hamburger meat into his mouth.

Not when he passed by the rotting corpse of a deer in the woods and had to take a moment to wipe the drool off his chin because for some reason the scent was appetizing.

Not when he gave in and hooked up with Nina Collins, and she let him bite her neck until he drew blood.

They never went away. Neither did the gnawing hunger inside of him.

And Steve could only be so dumb. He knew perfectly well what it was the voice in his head wanted. Could recognize it in the way his dreams had been filled with spiked bats hitting skin, breaking bones, and hands burying themselves in a mess of blood and guts.

He only wondered for how much longer he could hold himself back.

The answer came to him less than a week later.

---

First thing he notices when he wakes up, is that the hunger is blessedly gone.

For a single moment, he's glad. Happy and relieved. Until realization settles in and horror fills his chest.

Second thing he notices is that he's naked, sitting in a puddle of blood. The scent is strong.

And appetizing.

It makes him curl up onto his side and retch, but thankfully nothing comes up.

Quiet breathing is what clues him on the third thing. It also freezes him in place.

Somebody is looking at him. Saw what he did. Who he is. What he is.

Fuck.

Then they speak.

Double fuck.

"I knew you were fucked up, Harrington. Didn't think you were this fucked up though."

It's not the words that make him turn, eyes open wide. It's the voice. Because he knows that voice. Because it's Billy Hargrove's voice.

Ain't that just nice?

With the hunger and the voices gone, at least for the time being, it's much easier to try and recall the events of the night before. Steve almost wishes he couldn't though, because what he experiences -- not sees because those creatures don't have eyes -- is so repulsive that he can feel nausea clawing up his throat again.

"I killed your dad."

It's a fact, not a question. He doesn't need confirmation, his memories of the event are clear albeit fuzzy.

"And ate him. Yeah."

The fact that Hargrove doesn't sound horrified, or scared in the slightest, confuses Steve. He forces himself to ignore the panic, the nausea, and the embarrassment warring for his immediate attention and instead focuses on Hargrove's face.

Hargrove meets his gaze unflinchingly.

There's not a single ounce of remorse in those blue eyes but then again, why would there be?

After all, the bruises and cuts that litter his face and naked chest, speak enough about the type of man Neil Hargrove was.

"I did not... hurt you, right?"

Steve doesn't remember having approached Hargrove. The demodog hadn't wanted to hurt Hargrove, like at all. Still, he has to make sure. Just to put his mind at ease, of course. Not because he's worried about Hargrove or anything.

Hargrove shakes his head, frowning. The bruises must hurt pretty bad though because he winces. "You don't remember?"

"The memories are... fuzzy." Steve grimaces, pushing down another bout of nausea that threatens to overwhelm him. "It's not- I'm not- I know what it looks like but I'm not that thing, okay? The dog- That's not me."

"And yet I watched that thing morph back into you. You are still lying in a pool of blood, you know?" He sounds unimpressed. Slightly annoyed too. "You just said you have memories of it. I'd say that counts as you being that thing, Harrington."

Yeah, okay. Steve can't really counter that logic. Doesn't help lessen the knot of guilt that sits heavy at the pit of his stomach, though.

"Fine. Okay. Yes. I just-" But the words die on his tongue because he's not sure how to even finish that sentence. He's just what? Horrified? Guilty? Considering taking a dive off the quarry or meet the bad end of Nancy's shotgun?

Hargrove must have read the indecisiveness on his expression because he huffs, crossing his arms. He winces again and Steve’s almost tempted to demand he take it easy.

"Here's what we are going to do, Harrington." His voice has an unexpected strength to it that commands all of Steve’s attention. “You're going to take a shower, borrow some clothes, then I'm going to clean off all this blood before Max and Susan get back, and then we're going to talk about Neil’s sudden disappearance. Understood?”

“Uh...”

Hargrove was... helping him. He was helping him cover up a murder. The murder of his own father. Hargrove watched as the demodog fucking ate his dad, morphed back into Steve, and now he was helping him.

Steve wasn't sure how he was feeling about this but grateful and confused came pretty close to explaining it.

“I asked if you understood, Harrington.”

“Yeah I uh, yeah. I understand.”

So that's how he found himself in Hargrove's kitchen half an hour later, clad in grey sweatpants and an AC/DC shirt that had seen better days. Hargrove sat in front of him, idly eating from a bowl of Lucky charms, his gaze not straying far from Steve.

The clank of the spoon as it fell back into the empty bowl was jarringly loud in the awkward silence.

"You really don't remember what happened last night, then?"

His gut reaction was to say no. He didn't remember anything. That the memories were fuzzy and the thing wasn't him. But that would be lying, wouldn't it?

And he had to admit that being able to share this secret with somebody else, even if it was Billy Hargrove of all people, felt like a much-needed reprieve of all the bullshit life had been throwing at him lately.

"I do but as I said, it's fuzzy. Fragmented, I guess?" He looks down at the table, drumming his fingers on the worn tabletop. "This thing, it doesn't see things as we do. Doesn't have eyes."

Hargrove hums, and Steve can see the way he leans back on the chair. Feels those eyes on him, not moving. It should set him on edge but instead, it makes him feel grounded. Like this is the first time, since he crawled out of the earth that somebody bothers to truly look at him.

It makes him want to look up and meet that gaze.

So that's exactly what he does.

"It was you that I- that the demodog was hunting, not your dad." Steve is glad he doesn't look away because it allows him to see the shadow of regret that crosses those blue eyes. "But then I- it jumped through the window. Saw what was happening. So the prey changed."

"And you have lived with this thing for how long?"

"Technically speaking, I'm not alive. Haven't been since that night in November, a little after the whole thing at the Byers."

Hargrove blinks, taken aback by what must surely sound like nonsense considering Steve was sitting across from him, breathing and talking. He's not sure how to explain it either but he knows with unwavering certainty that he's not alive anymore.

Not like he should be.

Not completely.

Liminal spaces. Whatever. Fuck.

"One of those things bit me. Dustin saw it happen too. Or at least saw the blood. And I remember dying." He shrugs, drums his fingers again just to have something to do. Restlessness eats at him but he's still under Hargrove's gaze and the itch to run has settled for now. "A week later I apparently dug my way out of the earth and Hopper found me at the junkyard. I can't remember it at all."

The marred skin of his throat is evidence enough. These days he does his best to cover it up with makeup or turtlenecks, not wishing to deal with the unwanted questions that would undoubtedly come. Not to mention that Dustin can't see it without tearing up. Kid still has nightmares about Steve covered in blood with his throat ripped out.

"Shit, Harrington." Hargrove tangles a hand in his blond curls, pulling lightly on the strands. As if the pinpricks of pain could reassure him about all this being real. "This is what you and those snot-nosed brats were up to that night? Fighting these things? Are you insane?"

"Only a little." The self-deprecating grin that accompanied it really sold it.

Steve watched as Hargrove's hands formed into fists, a dangerous sort of fire lighting up in his eyes. It lasted for a second or two before the fight left his body in a rush, body slumping slightly into the chair. It was a little impressive.

"What even are these things?"

The thing is, Steve's not even sure what those creatures are. He says as much and spends the next fifteen minutes explaining what he knows -- and what he's theorized -- about Will Byers, the Upside Down, the Mindflayer, and Hawkins Lab. Surprisingly enough, Hargrove listens through it all without commentary.

"Nobody understood how I was alive but I didn't want to question it too much. Guess I already knew something was wrong with me but I didn't want to see it."

Hargrove's eyes have drifted down to his empty cereal bowl but it doesn't seem like he's really looking at it. After a moment, he nods. "Okay so what now, Harrington?"

Steve's taken aback by the question, not understanding what Hargrove is getting at. "What do you mean what now?"

If looks could kill, he's sure that he would be dead again. Hargrove heaves an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before facing Steve.

"Harrington, I knew you were an idiot but this is too much even for you." Steve makes a sound of protest but Hargrove throws him a look and he goes quiet again. "The demodog needs to eat people to live, meaning you need to eat people to live. So tell me, what are you going to do about that?"

"Oh."

Well fuck.

#WIPS #bloodshot au #stranger things #steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #this kinda got out of hand but i kinda wondered if maybe this idea worked for a fic #possibly #idk feedback is appreciated lol

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seekingseven · 3 years

Note

Another drabble request: how does Four find out about Twilight's wolf form?

Linked Universe Prompt Requests #8!

Oh, that's a great question! Here's one possible way it could have gone down...

⚠️CW: Alcohol Mention! ⚠️

(You can also read the fic here on Ao3!)

~~~~~~

Four was not the kind of person who spent his evenings in a places like this, and he knew Twilight and Time weren't either.

Maybe that was why he was so uncomfortable.

Music pulsed through the floor, amplified by the tavern's high ceilings and the patrons' warbling voices. Drinks clinked, beer frothed, and lantern light clotted over polished countertops. Across the room, a red-lipped waitress tossed a red-faced patron a pinched smile, the kind that crinkled at the edges with professional, faux patience, and the man let out a wheedling chuckle. A group of boys howled at each other as glossy cards splashed across their table. Behind the bartop, a tenderfaced bartender dropped a stack of glass mugs, and a nearby group of tipsy women had begun to crackle out the Hylian national anthem.

Four pressed his hands over his eyes and tried to cough out the smell of vomit and rotting sweat. No use. Spirals pulsed at the edges of his vision--he was pressing too hard--and he let his hands slide into his lap. The muscles in his neck tensed as he slipped deeper into Twilight's pocket.

This was not what he had in mind when he had decided to follow Time and Twilight on their "quick, fifteen minute errand." He had been right in deducing it was more than that, of course; reports of local children going missing near a known monster hideout hadn't inspired confidence in Four that grocery shopping was all on the two's minds.

But, a tavern?

To each their own, he supposed, but he couldn't entirely stifle the little flame of disappointment in his chest.

Adrenaline gushed through his throat as the world swung around him; Twilight was moving again. Vibrations thudded through the cloth around him. The overhead lanterns flickered crazily, blocked by Twilight's shoulders one minute and blazing down his backside the next. Four shielded his eyes under his hands and stared at his knees. This whole shrinking thing had been a bad--terrible--idea. He could only hope that Time and Twilight had a lower alcohol tolerance than they appeared to.

The movements stop, and Four sighed as the acid in his throat slipped back down. A booming echoed from overhead, and Four couldn't help but wonder if this is what the Minish had to deal with whenever he came to visit.

"Is Mr.Garto here?"

Four's ears perked up; that was Twilight's voice, and that was the name of the man who had first begun reporting the disappearances. Interest piqued, he righted himself until he as peering just over the small slip of space between the pocket and Twilight's tunic. If he turned just enough, he could catch a glimpse of Time's legs and the mahogany bartop behind them.

"He's not here right now," a voice whispered. The muscles crisscrossing Four's chest cinched. That wasn't the sound of a bored bartender, or a dolled up waitress, that was...

"A child?" Time asked, voice thick with its typical lack of tack. "Where are your parents? A tavern is no place for a boy your age."

Silence--at least, between the three parties. The debauched din around them showed no interest in smothering itself for the sake of dramatic tension.

"My parents work here," the voice replied. It was soft, but there was a bristle underneath it; a boy, Four would bet, and a frightened one at that. "My dad's Mr.Garto. Amerigo Garto. He's out right now. If you have questions, then you can, uh, demect them to me."

"Cute," Twilight murmured, voice lowered so that he was its only listener. Four would have rolled his eyes if he didn't happen to also find the childish mispronunciation endearing.

"Very well then," Time cut in. Whatever spell the boy's subtle stutter had cast on Twilight was lost on him, judging from the clipped words and serious tone. "Please tell your father that we would like to speak to him about the abductions. If he has any information, he's welcome to contact us. Here's the postal address of the inn my teammates and I are staying in."

A shuffle of cloth, and the faint sound of a hand bumping a counter. Four pulled his arms over the pocket and strained his neck to the side. The cloth around him dipped under his weight, threatening to give, and Four flinched so hard that he slipped back inside.

"You're looking for them?" the voice came again. "The lost kids?"

Time chuckled. The paternal sound felt oddly out of place in the drunken supernova around them. "Of course we are. We have an idea of where they might be, so we wanted to get in contact with your father to see if he had any more information."

Twilight leaned forward, letting both his pocket and his pocket-sized stowaway swing along with him. "We'll find them for sure. Don't worry."

"You will? Do you think you can find them? My sister and my puppy, I mean."

"Your sister?" Time asked.

"Your puppy?" Twilight added.

The boy's voice seemed smaller, now, lighter, and it took little imagination to envision the pale faced, blue-eyed seven ear old that was undoubtedly cowering under the others' combined stares. "Yes. They were the first to go missing, sir. Sirs. I hope you can find them. Let...let me know if I can help."

Across the bar, someone threw a bottle of wine against the wall. Glass powdered around the purple stain in the wood. Twilight flinched. A gaggle of teenage laughed in their testosterone-saturated way, unabashedly amused at the adults making spectacles of themselves, and Four stifled the urge to slap all of them.

"We will," Time said. His voice was a breath's distance from inaudible. "Take care, little one. We'll speak to you soon."

A mumble of agreement, muffled, and Four clutched the fabric of Twilight's pocket as the world spun on his heel. Left, right, left; he was swaying with each pull and pinch of movement, and he caught only a heartbeat's glimpse at the boy before Twilight and Time exited the tavern.

He looked exactly as Four had imagined him to.

"That's so sad," Twilight murmured, letting the tavern door close softly behind him. "I hope we find them."

"We will. Hopefully Garto gets in contact with us soon. For now, we'll just need to brief the others and see if there are any other locals who might have more information."

"Yeah, yeah. That sound about right."

This time, the silence was real. Only the sounds of feet squelching against mud and dirt interrupted their thoughts.

Twilight stopped. Four gripped the back of his head and hissed as it bonked against the raised metal of Twilight's scabbard.

"Hold on," the rancher began, "I forgot something back there."

"Forgot? What?"

"...something. I'll be back. Don't wait for me."

"Sure. Try to not stay out to long, though."

Twilight assured he wouldn't, then turned heel. Feet against the floor, night air, cold, and then a flush of heat. The air is stuffy again, and the quiet is gone, and Four is peering precariously between gaps in the pocket stitching. He thumps against the back of Twilight's leg as the rancher makes another sharp turn. It's a wonder that the rancher hasn't grown suspicious of the wiggling in his pocket yet.

But perhaps he was too occupied to grow suspicious, because Twilight slowed to a stop and leaned forward on what Four assumes to be the bartop.

"Is the kid still here?"

A grainy voice responded with a huff and grunt. "No, he went outside. Just through the hallway. Something about wanting to play hopstoch."

"Ah, okay. Thank you."

Another snort. "If you find him, tell him to come back inside. It's too dark to be out alone."

Twilight made a sound that could have been construed to be somewhat affirmative, then hurried out the door. The evening breeze, greased with the steam and sweat spilling from the tavern's backdoor, greeted them again. A clink of metal and the cloth ruffling; Four furrowed his eyebrows. What was Twilight up to?

It was the last cohesive thought he would have for a good minute.

The cotton confines around him popped out of existence. Air rushed against his head and through his air as he fell, weightless, and he had barely processed the fact that Twilight had vanished before he thumped against a tree stump. Dazed but unharmed, he sat up, eyes widening.

In the place where Twilight had stood mere moments ago was a massive grey wolf.

A wolf...

Wolfie?

"Who's there?" someone whispered. A figure on the other side of the backyard inched forward, and Four's throat tightened when he recognized it as the boy from earlier. His eyes were red. Little hopstotch stones dangled between his fingers, shining and unused.

The wolf--Wolfie--barked. The boy flinched, squeezing his elbows to his sides. Wolfie barked again, insistent, and wagged his tail furiously. Blue eyes watched silently as Wolfie rolled on his side, then chased his tail, then made an impressive show of chasing a terrified chipmunk through the yard. Gradually, the boy's eyebrows slipped downwards. Wolfie let out another bark. A whisper of a smile pinched at the boy's mouth.

"Where did you come from, big guy?"

Wolfie barked again, advancing further and, when the boy didn't recoil, butted his head against scabbed knees. The boy laughed again. Wolfie's tail wagged harder.

"You're so big! Who's your owner? They must take really good care of you. And you look really strong, too. Look at these muscles!"

The boy carefully closed a hand around Wolfie's paw, then lifted it upwards. Strength roiled beneath an oily coat, and the boy let out a small gasp of awe.

"Wow! You look even tougher than my sister! Hey, wanna play hopscotch with me? I think you would be good at it."

If Wolfie licking the boy's face wasn't confirmation enough, him hopping towards the dilapidated hopscotch court was. The boy laughed with delight and rubbed Wolfie's snout, giggling harder as the wolf licked a wet strip across his cheek.

"Huh," Four murmured, picking stray wood chips out of his hair and grinning to himself. "Looks like we both have a little secret."

~~ Fine ~~ I hope you enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading! [Previous Request] - [Next Request!]

#linkeduniverse #linkeduniverse twilight #linkeduniverse wolfie #minish four #linkeduniverse fanfic #so sorry for the plethora of typos here im just #this fic turned out to be a lot more of a challenge than i thought it would be #haha!#hope you enjoy!#seeking's prompt requests #ope forgot a tag #linkeduniverse four

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pumpkinpot · 3 years

Text

Hoshi

A/N: this is part of the Citrus Dome Sci-Fi collab. this is also pure fluff. no smut, no real angst. just spooky summer vibes and poly love. I hope you enjoy. (I’m sorry for grammatical errors in advance.)

synopsis: since beginning your relationship with Katsuki Bakugou and Ochako Uraraka you’ve developed a love for exploring abandon places with them whenever you three have time to explore. This time, so happens to land on a derelict observatory. (additional head canons for this story on my tik tok under pumpkinpots)

“It says here it was abandoned in the mid-nineteenth century due to the spike in light pollution with the growth of the city,” you say, pointing to the dome at the peak of the building. “All of the mobile telescopes were transferred to the university's observatory, while this placed rotted away.

Uraraka half listens, levitating sheetrock from the doorway and discarding them in the nearby field.

“Why just abandon it?” Katsuki asks, fiddling with varying lenses in his camera bag. “Couldn’t this have been a museum or something?”

“Yeah,” you agree, shifting a glance to make sure Uraraka doesn’t need help. “It looks like it was bought by a merchant in the eighties who wanted to turn it into a house, but he was indicted for tax evasion before the renovations ever finished. It hasn’t been touched since.”

He scoffs with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Rich idiots.”

Uraraka brushes specks of dust off her palms across her cut-off shorts before urging us alone. “Shall we?”

It takes two and a half pushes to nudge the door wide enough to squeeze through. The observatory opens to us with a groan of whining metal and the scratch of loose dirt on concrete.

Centered in the main foyer, a gaping mural of blue and white cobblestone depicts a dusty map of astrology stars.

Katsuki has to be coaxed with a promise to be flashed to pose under the Taurus constellation for a picture, meanwhile, Uraraka floats just above Pisces with a cute puffy cheeked expression.

Names, small sayings, and symbols decorate the wall in vibrant graffiti, the place a cocktail of color and wild Ivy.

"It's a lot more lit than I thought I'd be," Uraraka says, stuffing her flashlight into her bag.

Katuski keeps the light attached to his camera lit as he weaves in and out of rooms, zooming in on old books and broken equipment.

We follow him through a puzzle of what seemed to be living quarters and small classrooms, ending in a half oval auditorium.

At the center of the stage a white globe balances on a pillar of cement.

“What’s this?” Uraraka asks.

You touch where someone had attempted to derail the sphere like a baseball before trailing your eyes above the layered seating. “It's a projector ball. Technicians would likely project light from there into the ball to make it seem like the planet or star they were studying. That's why it's,” you knock on the sphere's cool solid surface. “Crystal.”

Uraraka shines her phone’s light into it, the shattered pieces reflecting shapes in a dim glow.

Katsuki points the camera into the orb, the bluish tint reminds you of the similar one in the abandoned lighthouse you’d explored with them two years ago. Though that one would have lit from the inside.

Quickly you explore the base and second levels, eager to get to the actual observatory. It's evident where the renovations to make this a home had been started and never finished. Small cracks in the floor, sealed with caulk, loose wooden planks pillaring knocked in walls.

It could have been a beautiful home, you think to yourself.

Up the second flight of stairs gradually more and more light fills the space until you are bathed in the orange glow of early dusk. A large open scare slits the dome, edging with rust and ivy. The circular room holds nothing of true value, nothing left behind but broken tables and a ladder to the viewing balcony tailing the opening of the dome.

“The big telescope that would have been here-” Uraraka says, fiddling with the screw holes in the floor, “- would have been a refracting telescope. It uses small bits of glass to magnify what you’re looking at, then is bent back through the telescope hitting the eyepiece. The other kind is a reflector,” she continues, “It's got a primary mirror at the bottom of the lens into a second mirror than a third eyepiece mirror. This one is mostly used to see the different parts of a star to see what it's made out of.”

Katsuki and you exchange looks of pure astonishment. "how do you know all this?" you ask.

She fishes a gum wrapper from one of the holes, tossing it to the side. “Before I was accepted into UA I was really considering going into astronomy. I thought it fit so well with my quirk, but the courses were too expensive.”

"More expensive than UA?" Katuski asks, refocusing his camera.

She nods, seeming just as dumbfounded as us.

“Do you think it could work on my explosions?”

“If you were in space maybe,” you hypothesize, “but in that case, we probably wouldn’t see it for a long while.”

He seems semi disappointed as if his evening plans had been somehow derailed.

You run your hands across the walls of the dome, dusk sun baking its metal frame like a soup pot.

For a moment you just watch them. It’d been so long since the opportunity arose for the three of you to go exploring. With you still temporarily stationed in the American hero commission and those two workings in Japan it was rare to find time to skype let alone go on adventures. You were lost in the bliss of having your partners so near without having to scream about a lost wifi connection when your hand hit something protruding from the wall.

“What are these?” you ask, inspecting circular gears attached to a crank.

“It looks like the wheel to turn the dome,” Uraraka says.

Katsuki zooms in on the puzzle of rigid plates. “This bitch turns?”

“Yeah, that slit doesn't move so the dome has to, to accommodate where in the sky they were looking.”

Katsuki fingers the gears a moment, mapping its track all across the sphere. He traces along the parts not layered in rust until he’s back at the start. “Do you think it still works?”

“Not without some serious lube and strong arms.”

“We’re one for two,” you suggest.

Katsuki hands over his camera to Uraraka, positioning himself opposite you to push the lever, while you pull left.

At first, the dial stays put, its stance unforgiving, but after a bit more pull than push a deafening whine reverberating through the entire observatory.

No visible move happens until the second crank roundabout when the shift of light against concrete becomes clear.

Katsuki’s eyes light with sheer amazement as the entire dome rotates around you. We are halfway through a full rotation before Uraraka shouts for you to stop.

You push on the lever stilling its movements as quickly as you can.

She holds a finger head tilted to the side. “Do you hear that?”

Your breath balloons in your chest as you lean in closer. The tiniest of whimpers echo around the dome from the viewing balcony.

One after another you file up the ladder, hopping on the edge of the dome. Balancing on the concrete crease between the moving track and the rest of the building you search for the sound.

“Here!” Uraraka yells from the other side.

You sprint as much as you dare, teetering along the two-story edge.

She squats over the body of a squirming animal, a tuft of fur caught in the track of the dome's rotation. She coddles its little frame, before reaching a hand out to you. “Y/n, your knife-”

Hesitantly you hand it over. She snips away the stuck pieces muttering thanks that none of the actual tail got caught. She folds the blade back into itself, pinching leaves and sticks from the animal's fur and tossing them over the side.

She holds it up, floppy ears and a black nose making it a nearly recognizable creature. A puppy.

He looks to be light brown, but that could be the soot.

Katsuki checks around the dome for any signs of a litter or mamma, before joining us with a shake of his head.

The pup squirms and with an open mouth, letting all sorts of noises tumble from his dirt-covered tongue.

Uraraka floats the puppy to the floor of the dome, as we file down the ladder. You empty the contents of your water bottle into a cup for drinking and the rest onto its back for cooling.

His fur peaks through white and brown spotted under layers of grime.

“Well,” Uraraka says, “we’ve been talking about wanting to expand our family.”

“I suppose there’s no better place to start,” you add, both of us looking to Katsuki for consensus.

He passes glances between the three of us. “Fine, but I get to name it.”

“Alright, but we get veto power.”

“Explosion-”

“Veto,” you say in unison.

He looks around puffy-lipped. “I didn't even get to finish.”

“Explosion nothing,” Uraraka clarifies.

He’s silent for a long moment looking around the space. “Hoshi?.”

“Star?” you confirm.

“This observatory was used to study the stars, wasn’t it?” He bats.

You and Uraraka exchange a satisfied, yet surprised look. You hadn’t expected something so- normal. This is after all the same man that made you name your golden pothos “boom boom boi” in his honor.

“I like it,” you say.

“Approved,” adds Uraraka.

We better take our picture before it gets too dark,” he says, turning away so you can’t see the blush on his cheeks. He switches out his filming camera for a smaller polaroid, propping it up on the edge of a broken table.

He runs back as the timer ticks down. He slides to your right side, Uraraka on your left. Their arms link behind you as you hold Hoshi up to your mid-chest. Clicking down from five you all give your cheesiest grins. A rectangular card spits from the bottom of the camera.

Ochaco shakes it a few times, swapping you a picture, for a puppy.

You wait for the picture to pixelate before opening the ninety-cent notebook of film slips and position it in the next available spot.

Urarka’s cut-off shorts and Katsuki's tanned shoulders are a stark contrast to the puffy blue coat and chunky knit beanie from the last abandoned mansion expedition last time. Before that, the three of us accidentally matched our windbreakers to Midoryia during a tour of The Ghost Candy Shop in Kyoto. We look like a group of tourists.

The small book seemed to be filling quickly despite the rareness of time to get away. Memories pile up from when it was just Uraraka and Katsuki to when you became a staple to their adventures. They’d given you responsibility for the book to garner your importance to them in their relationship until the reasoning for the gift became nothing more than routine. You were theirs, and they were yours.

Now a new member had sprouted in your little family, and if you squinted, you could imagine the rest of the pages being filled with the pup in aged years to maybe more as time goes on.

Right now, you were happy with the three and a half of you.

#bakugou x reader #uraraka x reader #bakugou x uraraka #ochako x reader #mha x reader #bakugou fluff #bakugou x y/n #Uraraka fluff #mha fluff

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bittermarrow · 5 years

Text

Imagine Slashers With an Angel S/O: (part 2) Michael Myers

Sorry that it took me forever to finish this! This is also more of a tiny fic than Jason’s was since it got so lengthy and has a more in-depth meeting scene. (I’ll be doing Bubba’s next!)

Warnings: Nsfw at the end, but nothing graphic.

Words: 3900+ (This is embarrassingly long T-T )

Michael

Michael knows what angels are, the family he spent six years with was religious enough for him to know. Did he really care about all that stuff? No. The point is he knows or at least he assumes that's what you are when he finds you, well, in all reality you found him. It was very hard to find someone who doesn't want to be found, and you made a conscious effort to avoid any and all human contact. You didn’t like humans very much, or talking to them so you kept a low profile.

You lived in a small house you rented from the old man that had originally found you when you fell, he was nice enough- and religious enough to offer you a place to live. He and his daughter were trying to move, and apparently, no one wanted the house, so if anything he was more grateful of you taking it off his hands than you were receiving it. With the promise of protection of his family and all that God stuff, it was a bit shady for you but you were desperate.

You’re stuck living on Earth now, your wings saw no real use indoors, and since you never left you never flew. Your misuse of them is leading you down a path of some pretty bad wing cramping, so you'd have to get a good couple of flights in soon. It's not like anyone was roaming out and about anymore, Haddonfield had gotten itself quite the gruesome reputation after all.

You had heard about all the murders that went on around this time of year, you may be an outsider, but you did own a TV.

There was a barely recognizable, blurry photo of the killer’s masked face plastered all over the news station you kept on literally all day. The background noise makes you feel less alone, you may purposely isolate yourself, but that doesn't mean you don't get lonely.

It was the quiet life that most people would die for, but it really isn't all that it appears to be. You can see the appeal, but sometimes you really wished you had friends.

And then you found him, Michael Myers, The Boogeyman of Haddonfield, The infamous escapee of Smith’s Grove, being chased by cops and jumping your fence.

Why in the hell you had shouted, “Hey!” and beckoned him into your home was beyond you. It really was pitiful how lonely you must be to let in a mentally deranged psycho killer into your home.

After a long stare, he inevitably entered, seeking shelter from the police rather than the heavy downpour, and was now dripping all over the hardwood floors of your kitchen. You looked up at the towering man, only slightly beginning to regret letting him in. Why had you let him in? Maybe it was some sick form of sympathy, or maybe you just finally lost the rest of your fucking marbles, because no mentally stable person with any sort of intelligence or common sense should ever attempt to house a sociopathic serial killer.

But you did.

And there was no going back now.

The stove light caught and reflected against the cold metal in his hand, and as he stared you swallowed the dread and turned on your heel, disappearing into the hallway. The feathered drapes of white and black that dragged behind you as you padded across the creaking floors did not go unnoticed by the motionless stranger’s watchful eyes.

When you returned he had moved further into the kitchen observing his surroundings, you passed him and set a folded up blanket, a towel, and a pillow on one of the cushions of your couch. When you turned around he was inches away from you, you didn’t even hear him move. You held his soulless stare for a minute, and then walked around him and back into the hall to retire for the night. He watched you leave, with a loose grip around the handle of the stained steel blade. Maybe God really wouldn’t let him die after all…

. . .

When you woke the next morning, you crept out of the hallway and as you went to prepare your morning coffee you threw a sideways glance over to the couch. It was empty, no sign of the monster that you’d sheltered last night. But the bunched up blanket half-hanging off the cushion, and the slightly damp towel hanging over the back of the sofa told you he had no doubt been there all night. As you poured your coffee you noticed an empty slot in your rarely used knife block, puzzled, you looked around for it and saw an unfamiliar knife stained with dried blood laying on your counter.

It was not in bad enough shape to be considered useless, so the only other explanation for him leaving it was that he would be coming back for it. And for a moment -just a fleeting breath of a second, you felt the heavy gloom that had kept your mood dark for years, lifted at the thought of someone else's company. For once you didn’t mind rotting here than hot tubbing with Hades down below after you'd been banished, like you were certain you would have, had you not escaped in time.

You decided to keep the back door unlocked, just in case he did come back.

. . .

You turned out to be right when night fell and you heard the loud screech of tires skidding across asphalt, the screaming of sirens and flashing blue and red lights shining through your windows, illuminating the darkness of the room as you sat in front of the television. Your feathers stood up on end at the sound of your back door creaking open and slamming shut, and then light footsteps across your kitchen floors.

From the couch you watched Michael return the borrowed blade into its rightful spot in your knife block, swiping the familiar knife off of the marble countertop, which had been cleaned of gore. He stopped in the entryway of the living room his head tilting to the side as he caught your eyes.

You searched his eyes, but you found nothing but cold blankness in them, was he really human? Creating space for him to sit down if he chose to, your eyes transfixed themselves back onto the TV, and your fingers pulled the blanket around your shoulders a bit tighter.

You had forgotten how uncomfortable it was to be stared at, it'd been so long...

To your surprise, you felt the couch cushion shift with someone else's weight and a quick glance to your left confirmed that he had sunk down beside you— on the opposite end of the sofa, of course, keeping some space between you. You could feel his eyes on you, specifically on your wings when they shifted with a soft rustle against the back of the couch, and while you couldn’t blame him for his interest, it was still uncomfortable.

You decide to bravely turn your head and meet his eyes straight on, and you notice his dark, shaded eyes widen a fraction. But as soon as the change appeared it was gone just as quickly, his blank stare boring into your soul through the eye-holes of that dirty white-faced mask.

Seeing his face obscured by the rubber skin only strengthened the urge to look away, this guy really had the fear factor working for him. What's scarier than a psychotic murderer? One you don't know the face of. It sounds like such an unfulfilling death… not even being able to remember the face of your killer in whatever afterlife existed.

“Your name is Michael, right?” You rasp blatantly, your voice scratchy from misuse as it leaves your throat. You don’t expect him to reply, and he doesn’t. But his head tilts, much like an owl’s would, and you knew his name and bits and pieces from the news but wanted to see how he’d react— if at all to you asking. “Thought so.”

Michael continues to glare at you as if there was a specific detail about you that he didn't like.

“Do you talk? or are you just going to stare menacingly until I leave?” You manage to croak, intending to sound humorous but it came out more bitter than you'd meant.

He didn't acknowledge your attempt at a joke in the slightest, his eyes burning holes into the side of your head.

“Ah, you must be quite the strong silent type, the ladies must love you.” You let out a short chuckle, too tired to really care if you were annoying him, which you most likely were.

You turned your attention back to the flashing colors on the TV, the headlines of the news reporting several murders that no doubt had been committed by the man you so casually had let into your home. You were testing your luck with this, it was like letting in a stray cat, you never know if it’s rabid or if it's too wild to be a house pet. Best case scenario, it's going to have a few fleas and can be fixed with some TLC. Whatever the worst case scenario was you didn’t want to think about it.

You think of mentioning your own name, although you doubt he truly cares, you decide to tell him anyways.

“I’m, Y/N, by the way.” While you're unsure if he's tuning you out or not you continue, trying to shake your nerves.

“You can stay here if you want.” You can feel Michael’s eyes, but don’t bother to look back, instead, you answer whatever questions he may or may not have been silently asking. “Don’t bother to ask why. I don’t really know either.”

And that's true, you don't know why you're offering for him to stay, especially considering he that he still had a knife in hand and could easily bury it into your skull if he so chose to, at any moment your life could be cut short. And based on his size and whatever motivation he has to slaughter people, he would be able to overpower you easily.

A sickening shiver of pleasure envelopes your body at the thought, and you feel extremely weirded out by your body’s reaction to it. What the hell is wrong with you? You hide your inner conflict and clear your throat, speaking a lot less uneasily this time around.

“I don’t care what you do, but if you decide to stay I leave leftovers in the fridge and the bathroom’s down the hall, the first door on your right.”

You feel silly adding in all those details. like you knew he’d stay. Your cheeks inevitably go a bit pink at how lame you must sound. Why should you care if he starves or can’t find the bathroom? You convince yourself that it’s that sick kind of pity from the night prior, and decide to go with that, it makes the most sense to you. You sigh and get up from the couch letting the blanket slip back onto the couch and walking to fetch another pillow from your linen closet.

When you re-emerge from the hallway Michael is laying down with the blanket draped over himself, the small thing not nearly big enough to cover his feet and you are shocked to find it… oddly… —nevermind. You hold out the pillow to him and he slowly grabs it, not bothering to linger you briskly turn on your heel to leave when a hand catches your left wing. It’s enough to make you jump and let out a short shriek, you try to push out of his grasp, but it’s a futile attempt. He's much stronger than you are. Panic starts to set in as you consider your options, knowing escape isn't one of them. You look down at him, not sure if you're scared or just uncomfortable with being touched to the point of beginning to tremble.

“Let go- that hurts.”

He does, and you return to your room. You don’t know why he stopped you, but you’re not about to ask, you absentmindedly feel around the spot where his cold hand had been. Did he just want to touch you?- No, that was stupid, you were being stupid. You slip under the covers and shut out the world for another night of meaningless dreams.

So they are real. Michael had first thought you were one of those adults who were ‘never too old’ to dress up for Halloween, and when you had irritatingly not taken your ‘costume’ off after the holiday had passed he had begun to question if it really was fake. A childish thought, but when you flinched he had no doubt in his mind that those wings were attached to your back.

He stares at the plain white ceiling and lays flat on the couch, he thinks about your actions from the last night and just now. He's never had someone willingly let him into their house before, better yet invite him in. Surely with all the TV you seem to watch you know who he is, then… why? Your behavior towards him is shockingly indifferent. Like he isn't a cold-blooded murder machine with little to no sentiment or empathy, it's almost insulting.

He doesn't have to try to be intimidating, his sheer height alone is already effective enough without the extra nightmare fuel. He feeds on making people suffer, seeing their blood stain his hands and watching their faces turn blue with death. Why weren't you afraid of him? You should be, and you were for a moment when he'd reached for you.

But still, you had let him stay.

You are interesting to him, an angelic kind of figure, yet somehow darker. Your lack of fear of him must have something to do with your inhuman-ness, and while he doesn't really understand your apparent interest in him, he cannot say he hates it.

For now, you are simply a convenience to him, a place to crash and a roof over his head that isn't full of doctors and other mentally disturbed patients with petrified nurses is too good of to pass up. You're offering a good deal that he's not opposed to, at least that's how he sees it. He'll keep you alive until his urges force him to kill you, which could very well be soon if you get annoying.

. . .

It’s been months and Michael hasn’t grabbed you like that again, and you don’t bring it up, doing so would probably only earn you silence. You’ve grown used to having him around at night, and sometimes during the day, he decides to pop up. You can only assume what he does when he’s gone, and although the idea of letting him murder innocent people isn’t something that sits well on your conscience you’ve learned to live with it. Learned to live with him.

He’s grown on you somehow, it’s strange how easily you coexist together now. 90% of the time he is distant and seemingly uninterested in anything you say. But you spend an awful lot of time together, sometimes you can get him to play board games with you. He is unfairly good at them too, and you have the presence of mind to tell he likes playing them, he was always more relaxed. You have taken an initiative to talk to him. Even when you know he won’t talk back you still enjoy your conversations, no matter how one-sided they may be.

You don't know it, but he thoroughly enjoys listening to you speak, he has taken a liking to your voice. It's calming, and it's different, he was in constant silence for years at Smith’s Grove the only noises being moans of pain, meaningless chatter among staff and… Loomis. He listens a lot more than you give him credit for, and although he is often unresponsive overall, he likes that you continue to talk to him.

He doesn't want to admit it, even to himself, but he really has grown attached to you. He couldn't think of harming you now, even as unpredictable as his urges are, and when he does get them he goes out. It's better for him to separate himself from you when he’s overwhelmed by the voices in his head, telling him to hurt, to kill, to make others suffer. You're safer with him gone when he's like that, and he realizes this.

But it becomes harder to leave your side as a year goes by, he stays for days at a time now, sometimes your mere presence is enough to keep his murderous impulses at bay. Michael hasn't had someone that cared for him in his life in a very long time, and while he insists that he doesn't need to be loved he’s already making exceptions for you.

Only you can touch him, only you can soothe him, only you get to see the weaker side of Michael that is still hurting. He even let you teach him how to sign so he could communicate with you without having to talk, which you knew he didn't like doing.

He doesn’t realize how dependent you are on him, he's more thoughtful than he gives himself credit for. He notices everything, so he knows when you are upset or angry or simply having a bad day. Whether or not he is in the right place in his mind to attempt to comfort you is unpredictable, but he is trying.

He isn't the best at showing you that he cares but you know he does, he just struggles with expressing himself after all he's been through. But a particular quality about angels is they can sense discontentment in people who they are close enough to, so inevitably you begin to learn how to notice when he needs to be comforted. Michael won't initiate cuddling or let you hold him for long, but it helps him feel safe. He feels protected when he's in your arms and that can frustrate him, too many overwhelming emotions at once can lead to him pushing you away.

Don't worry, he'll always come back to you. He just needs time.

. . .

You can hardly call your relationship platonic anymore, you don't think you've been ‘just friends’ since the first time you felt his chapped lips crushing against yours one night. Not the mask’s lips, his lips. You can't recall what had originally encouraged him to kiss you or why his mask was off, but you were glad it happened.

In the beginning, he only let you press small kisses to the rubber lips if his mask, and for after awhile you were convinced he just he hadn't liked it and refrained from kissing him anymore. Suffice is to say, he noticed and became confused when you stopped doing it, he never told you to stop.

Michael began initiating affection more after that, but the mask stayed on for a while even after being together so long.

One of Mikey’s very favorite things about you were your wings, he has a bit of an odd fascination with them. He touches them quite a lot. You could be in his lap or his head in yours, or simply walking by and you’d feel him reach out to give them a good pet. You can't say you minded even if you did find it odd, you embraced any and all affection that Michael had to offer. This is because there were only a few times where he's loose enough to touch you without you asking him to.

He's moved from the couch into your bed to sleep since your first few encounters, and you'd found he slept much easier when he was close to you. Something about being around you comforted him and kept the night terrors at bay, there were often times where he would hallucinate or wake up from nightmares.

The first time it happened he jolted awake and reached out to grab you as if in fear that you were gone. You were half-asleep and he was shaking, so you rolled over onto your stomach so you could snake an arm around his shoulder and draped a wing over his front to keep him still.

“It’s just a bad dream, Mikey, go back to sleep.” Michael relaxed slightly under your touch, both of his arms had locked themselves tightly around you in his scramble to find you. Sensing he was still tense and not liking how tightly he was squeezing you, you mumbled something to him.

“You're safe… “

And that's when he realized how much he needed you, and that thought alone scared him more than his nightmare had.

. . .

From then on your wings have changed from a fascination to a comfort. when you do cuddle it's best to keep at least one of your feathered limbs wrapped around him. He feels secure when he's being held by you, and the more security he finds in you the longer he will allow you to hold him.

He keeps knives stashed everywhere in your house in case of emergencies, behind pictures, inside vases, between the couch cushions… hell, you'd poured yourself a bowl of cereal once and a knife fell out of the box into your mini wheats. No one fucked with your cereal. You had definitely scolded him for that, you didn't mind so much that he kept blades around the house, but in your cereal box? That's too far.

Heaven forbid someone walks into your house uninvited or with the intention to harm you, the thought of someone hurting you is enough to deny him into a boiling murderous rage. The few times your home has been invaded you've had the worst of gorey messes to clean, how the fuck did he get blood on the ceiling?

It’s not just the mess he made of your house that bothered you the most, it was the mess he would make of himself mentally afterward. When Michael thinks you have been put in danger he brings clinginess to a whole new level, he will follow you around the house for days. He even sits outside the bathroom door!

The truth is, he’s afraid to leave you alone, and it's that paranoia, that fear of losing you that makes him cling. You won't change his mind so don't bother trying to get alone time, the only thing you can do is wait it out until he can trust himself again.

NSFW

Intimacy with Michael is something that doesn't take long to develop, you've gotta realize that this man spent most of his life in a Sanitarium, so he has a lot of pent up sexual frustration.

But since sex is something Michael knows only so much about you are going to have to be his teacher. You will also have to remind him constantly to be patient in the beginning. He's eager and while that's good and all… have you seen how big he is? Like, he's definitely proportional down south so if you don't remind him to go slow he'll end up hurting you.

It doesn't take him long to learn though, he'll rarely need to be reminded of where to touch you. He’s pretty intuitive and prefers to learn things on his own, so just let him explore if you have the patience. One sensitive place he found on his own was your wings. The absolutely obscene noise you made when he had first reached down to get a good handful of feathers told him all he needed to know. Just make sure you don’t try to drag things out for too long, if there’s anything at all that Michael lacks the patience for, it’s intimacy.

#michael myers x reader #michael myers #slasher x reader #Slashers Imagines #angel!reader

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chalabrun · 6 years

Text

between the dirt & desperation, ch. 3

Word count: 2,191 Pairings: Symbrock Rating: T Warnings: Mentions of character death Summary: Sequel to “Angry & Half in Love with You”, it’s been well over a month since Eddie moved away from San Francisco to start over in his hometown of Manhattan. Yet, it’s difficult to return to a normal life when what you were once addicted to becomes addicted to you. A/N: This is a crossover between Venom (2018) and Sam Raimi’s Spiderman trilogy (2002-07). This is also the last chapter!

( READ ON AO3 )

When he was kid, there was a morbid game Eddie would play with the other school kids. When it was too cold to go out and play, they’d be remanded indoors since the gym wasn’t large enough to play host to them and whatever PE class was going on at the time. There was a large, old globe in one of the corners. It was a game he started, and he didn’t entirely remember why; maybe something to do with the silent blame his father hung over his head for his mother’s death.

He and what few friends he had would take turns spinning the globe with their eyes closed, a digit suspended over the revolving world until a few seconds passed and they’d bring their finger down like the arm and head-shell of a record player down on the actual record. Then, wherever it’d landed, they’d invent some outrageous story on the spot. Of how they’d died.

Eddie remembered one in particular out of the innumerable times they’d played it, where his had landed smack dab on NYC itself. He didn’t remember entirely what story he’d invented, but it had to do with aliens and an explosion—some War of the Worlds crap.

Funny how those things turn out.

Eddie coughed roughly upon awaking, feeling as though he’d been dragged through cement and then an ocean, all tactile sensation rough and dirty, starched and coarse. Too much heat. Too much smoke when his lungs craved air. As though he’d been incubated in a volcano, Eddie craned up at his vision that was still black and interrupted by jettisons of water. Too familiar. Too fucking familiar. His breath misted and tasted like plastic, robotic.

Eddie…

“He’s awake! Man, you really got caught up in the wrong place. Can you hear me? That was quite an explosion.” He blinked blearily at the white-masked EMT who had propped him up enough to sit from the temporarily gurney inside an ambulance. How…? “We thought we’d have to take you to the hospital, but aside from some superficial scrapes, and the dirtiness, you seem fine. Unless you’d rather be taken in…?”

“Nah…’s okay. Thanks, though,” Eddie mumbled after unhooking himself from the respirator and picking his way through the cramped ambulance and to the edge of the site where the warehouse had been, looking like Galactus had punched a crater in the earth where it’d stood. Its gaping maw somehow barely strafed any nearby residences, just far enough, though debris and cinders scattered everywhere.

He needed air. Needed something blue or gray and without the acrid stench of smoke rotting dark and his lungs, to get away from this hellish ruin.

The blond’s clothes were intact, Eddie slipping behind a gathering bevy of news vans hastily setting up shop that he didn’t intend on sticking around for. Better for Spiderman to think he was dead than have his face plastered over the news. Thankfully, with the gathering throng of people, his restitution had been in a place off from the center of chaos where no one really paid him any mind. No one knew that there had been a single man, or that he’d survived

Eddie didn’t know how long they walked down bleak streets and slanting buildings that leaned into each other, this clearly a dilapidated part of town. Trees hung heavily, already beginning to turn their leaves, a phenomena that didn’t really occur in the sunny latitudes of San Fran. His walk was shaded, hood pulled over his head and feeling miserably cold. But quiet. Still. Something pulsed in him that wasn’t his.

Venom emerged and he could practically sense that it was weak, burrowing like a kitten into his neck, craving warmth. “Hey,” Eddie greeted throatily as they paused briefly, pressing his cheek against its squishy morass that began purring weakly. It was exhausted. It had been the only thing that had kept him alive. Just like last time. Kittenish licks could be felt against his jaw, meaning that the symbiote at least heard him.

This neighborhood became more familiar the more he walked. It was like a high pressure, nostalgia. Creeping like a tide to lap at his feet. Overgrown sidewalks gave way to a clearing that revealed a modest church, red brick and chipping white paint. Its belfry pierced the sky alone amid a ring of trees that encompassed it. If he looked close enough, he could see the playground he used to play at while his dad conversed with the priests. They’d be drinking buddies if vices didn’t go against their vocation.

Without really thinking of it, he walked towards the stoop and opened the double doors, the interior inside dusky and quaint. You’d think it was a church from some backwater, landlocked Midwest town and not Long Island, but here it was. Rays of pale sunlight filtered weakly through narrow windows, motes of dust swimming in it. Pews crowded close together, the interior firm and Spartan. Exactly as he remembered it. His father and he had always sat in the middle.

This was all before they’d moved to San Francisco when he was still a little kid, maybe in elementary school or so. Never mind that it had made things strained between him and his older sister, Mary. Aside from the bullying and trying to excel in school so he’d have some scrap of validation his father never gave him.

“This…is where your parents wed.” Its voice was still weak, but it was better than silence.

“Yeah,” Eddie confirmed, pocketing his hands in his hoodie pocket. “Looks’a lot smaller than when I last remembered it, Ven. Though, I was kinda a tiny tot way back when.”

Venom emerged cautiously as a beginning thaw, marveling at it as though it were the most amazing thing it’d ever seen. He could feel its swell of affection, something that made him freeze, but not with rejection. It felt heavy and he wasn’t ready to be crushed. While his expression seemed to darken, a note of hope was in Venom’s voice. “Here is where humans bond. Like we did. And we’re here now.” It sounded excited, and nervous.

Eddie leaned against the prayer rest of the front pew, one of his hands curled around its shape, against the lacquered grain. “So, what—you sayin’ we ought’a get hitched, is that what you mean, Ven?” The dry dubiousness in his voice cause Venom to shrink away. “We get ourselves all dolled up, then what? Get a fuckin’ priest to marry us? Invite my family that doesn’t acknowledge I exist and the rest a’ those buddies a’yours on Klyntar sure as hell wouldn’t come, since the betrayal an’ all? Anne’d… Nah. God!” He laughed bitterly.

Raking his fingers through his hair in frustration, his hood came off in the process. He was still filthy. But, maybe it was just karma. This was like a reflection of the outside, right? Everything ruined and decayed in him. The effigy of Jesus affixed to the crucifix gazed down at him with an old Bloodhound’s gaze. Eyes turned down like they were too heavy to smile with again. They were accusing, reminding him of what he was jabbing almost too intentionally.

“’m sorry, Ven. It’s just…a lot at once,” he sighed tiredly, feeling the symbiote emerge again. He felt like Lucifer from Cinderella, only a lot less humorous. Getting dust and grime everywhere he touched. Let alone on Venom, of all things.

“It’s gonna take awhile. Hell, I dunno how long. To get used’t—this. Whatever we think we are. Whatever we’re trying t’be.” Jesus’ eyes bore down at him, as if demanding he continue. So did thirteen more from the painted Stations of the Cross that encompassed the church. He had to drop his gaze back to the plain tile ground. “People don’t work that way. They don’t live inside’a each other’s heads, knowing what they’re seein’, smellin’, hearin’, thinkin’—it just ain’t like that. Hell, I’d say it makes us pretty damn stir crazy, Ven. We’re so used to livin’ like fuckin’ goldfish in a bowl and sometimes, the bowl is clear enough for people t’look in. But, the fish don’t get inside’a each other’s heads. Hell, if they’re together for too long, sometimes they downright start maulin’ each other. Two people in the same small space. Nevermind in each other’s bodies—”

“Know you’re not like us, Eddie. Never thought you would be, but—we’re trying to understand. Understand you, and the world. Can’t stop how we feel about you,” the symbiote reasoned adamantly, pearl-bright gaze holding his when he couldn’t meet that of the divine. “And…it’s strong. Very strong.”

Eddie’s brow wrinkled together in disbelief. “D’you really mean that, or ya just standin’ too close to the speakers and it’s all you can hear?” he asked defensively, feeling himself clam up again even while Venom was trying to get in.

It manifested as a large humanoid blot that swallowed the lights of the many candles, those for the prayers people lit as alms. A good head taller than him, all symbiote sinews and impenetrable density, Venom pushed him back against the pew he’d been leaning on—enough that his back curved from how it loomed over him. The burn of frustration and indignation welling passionately in its throat.

“Said it yourself. You know everything we think, feel—and you think we aren’t sincere? That we’re faking it?” Venom scoffed disdainfully, lips curling in a snarl, bringing its gaze level and powerfully over Eddie’s, strands of matters clinging to the hem of his jeans from their proximity. Even if he wouldn’t yield. “We know you’re bullshitting yourself if you really think that, Eddie.”

That didn’t mean he’d falter. Eddie pushed back, craning up to sink his teeth into Venom’s neck like that first night. That night he still couldn’t tell was a mistake or not. Venom’s chest rumbled audibly and it was enough to loosen its hold, insinuating more but instead taking Venom by its chin and forcing it to look in his eyes. “Not here,” he commanded firmly, but not cruelly, gaze boring with insolvent stone into Venom’s. By its chin did he guide it away, stepping from their intimate closure.

“That’s not what we’re here for,” he murmured after a long moment, Eddie’s gaze growing distant with grief as he fished for a wad of cash he tossed indiscriminately in the donation basket nearest the candles. He procured a relatively long but intact match and suspended it over an already lit candle, jerking his head for Venom to join him at his side while he knelt. “Help me with this. We met because’a Maria, y’know. We owe her one.”

Reverently did Venom’s tenebrous hand envelop Eddie’s and it was warm. He smiled low but approvingly, lowering together to light an untouched candle. “I dunno if you had any gods back where you were from, on Klyntar—I mean. But just…focus on Maria. I wanna feel everything.”

Though Venom seemed reluctant to open those floodgates, it sank on the kneeler, emulating Eddie’s pose. “…Knull. He created us,” the symbiote said, not expounding further. And Eddie didn’t push for it.

Pain. So much pain. Maria hadn’t been healthy before she’d died, and his palms twitched spasmodically and he grimaced, feeling her death throes. Everything before she perished. The panic, the voices, the fear and remembering him— Eddie exhaled stiffly and deep, head tucked down and back bowed before he could straighten. Venom’s hand steadied on his back, expression discernibly concerned.

“She had happy moments, Eddie. She showed us you. Untouched mornings. Brilliant sunlight. Kind people who made sure she was safe. Like you.” He didn’t know whether it was supposed to make him or Venom feel better, but he felt…a little less guilty. She hadn’t been alone, and her death hadn’t been their fault. Venom hadn’t known any better. Maybe for a moment. He still felt at fault, even if— …No. Venom felt guilt. He knew what Maria had been to him. “…She didn’t die hating you. You saved her…and us.”

“…Maybe,” Eddie said, unclasping his hands and staring deep at that flickering flame. He folded his arms on the prayer rest, conflict broiling in his eyes. His lips quirked a little when he felt Venom rest its head on his shoulder, arm circling his shoulders. Funny how an alien acted more human than most.

“It won’t be an easy road, Ven. We make nice now, maybe we’ll know more than before. We’ve gotta lotta shit in shore for us. You sure you wanna put up with all’a that?” He felt Venom’s smile span wolfishly.

“Always did like a good challenge. You’ll trust us, we’ll prove ourselves.”

Eddie nodded, still feeling muddy and heavy. Sometimes, he tried pretending like Maria wasn’t really gone. That he’d wake up on a sunny morning with Anne’s petite form next to him, warm and gold swimming in her hair. That everything would be back to normal, even the cracked and broken parts of it.

“I jus’ hope you’re right, Ven. I really do.”

#eddie brock #venom #symbrock #veddie #spiderman #my writing #here have a bittersweet ending--#never thought i'd finish a fic this fast but--here we are 8'D

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greetings-from-the-suffer-puppet · 7 years

Note

heLL YEAH ID LOVE YOUR URSULA BASED LITTLE MERMAID STORY BRING IT TO ME I CANT WAIT TO PRAISE YOUR AWESOME WORDWORKS

heY YO YOU AWESOME ANON I LIKE YOU V MUCH AND JUST FOR YOU I WILL POST THE WHOLE DAMN THING IN ONE FUCKING GO

HERE HAVE A LOT OF TRASH IN A STYLE THAT CHANGED HALFWAY THROUGH AND PROBABLY FAILS AT BEING BOTH A RETELLING AND AN ORIGINAL PIECE

HOPE YOU LIKE IT

(Warnings: ...none? other than my shitty shitty writing??? i mean there’s cheating and like,,, disney-canon-typical villain slayage so,,,, also kidnapping i guess? oh and,, like,, mindrape? whatever the fuck you call the part of the movie where ursula puts a love spell on eric.)

Once upon a time, there was a young princess. She lived in a castle atop a cliff overlooking the sea with her parents, the king and queen, and her three brothers.

One brother abdicated to experience the life of the poor; they received news, years later, that he had died, but his son- settled many towns over- had climbed into the clouds and battled giants for their treasure.

One brother went on a hunting trip in the woods; the princess ventured in one day, weeks after his disappearance, and met a great brown bear with the same eyes as her brother. He spoke to her, told her to leave him to his fate: she cried for him and stroked his muzzle, and then she picked up her skirts and went back to her castle.

The third brother, youngest but for the princess herself, was made heir to the throne. He did not leave the kingdom, instead growing into a strong man with wise blue eyes and sympathy in his heart. He was content with his lot, and vowed to be as great a king as his father when the time came.

His sister was less happy. She loved her brothers, and she mourned the loss of the eldest two. She longed for a life beyond the castle walls; she did not wish to die, like the eldest, or be transformed and cursed, like the second, but she wished for adventure.

She loved the sea beneath their castle. They had many fishermen, and they traded the goods of the sea with other kingdoms, for the ocean had blessed her kingdom. She spent long hours on the beaches, skin growing gold and firm, chestnut hair streaked cornsilk-pale with the sunlight. Her parents, while very protective with the loss of their eldest sons, trusted their people to watch over their daughter while she was on the beaches.

One evening, the princess stayed on the beaches later than usual to watch the sun go down. The last of the fishermen wished her a good night and straggled off, leaving her alone on the sand.

Once the ocean had lost its pink and copper gilding from the sunset, the princess rose and brushed sand off her dress. She was about to leave, but she heard a splash, very close to where she stood, and instead of leaving, she turned around.

She was met with a pair of bright green eyes.

A man was in the water, covered up to his waist. He was staring at her like he’d never before seen a woman, and she stared at him, as well, for he looked like no man she’d ever seen: his skin shimmered in the moonlight like the silvery scales of the fish she ate at dinner; he had slashes in the sides of his neck that did not bleed, but flapped like those of the fish the seamen brought in; his hair was long, and bound back from his face by a length of red seaweed.

She stepped closer to him, into the damp sand. The tide washed over her bare feet as she whispered, “Who are you?”

The man turned away, diving into the surf and disappearing.

The princess returned to the castle, resolving to come back and meet the mysterious man again.

The princess returned to the beach every evening, staying out after sundown, watching the moonlight dapple against the waves and waiting for the man to return. For three days, nothing happened. The princess told her parents and brother that she merely enjoyed looking at the waves at night, and that the view was simply inferior from her window.

On the fourth night, the princess stood and called out over the waves. She asked to be met, and if she was not, she would not return.

The man emerged from the waves. He came closer, but he was not walking: he struggled up close to her, and she saw that he had a scaled tail instead of legs, one that shone green in the moonlight.

“I am Nereus,” he said to the princess. “I am of the sea.”

She stepped closer, entranced. Water ran over her feet and legs; her dress grew damp, but she cared not.

She reached out to touch the merman, to confirm to herself that he was real. Her hand made contact with his cheek: it was cool and wet, and he smiled at her.

“I am Vanessa,” she told him. “I am princess of this land.”

“What would you do with me, princess Vanessa?” Nereus asked her.

She smiled at him gently. “I would ask to kiss you, if you are amenable.”

He kissed her. His arms were wet and strong around her waist.

Nereus and princess Vanessa met every four days under the moonlight. They talked and kissed and smiled, and slowly, the two grew closer. Vanessa’s heart grew faint whenever she left him, for she wished for them to never be parted; and on the third night of the third month of their acquaintance, she voiced her desires to him.

��I wish to stay with you,” Vanessa whispered, drawing patterns against her merman’s tail. “I wish to see your kingdom.”

“Only by magic could we remain together,” Nereus told her, “for I cannot walk and you cannot swim.”

Vanessa kissed him and stood, walking back to shore. “We shall see about that.”

There were many gifted with magic in Vanessa’s kingdom. Most were mere hedge-witches or healers, not able to do much but able to do something.

There were, however, those much more talented. Warlock Martin and Warlock Sage, for example, lived together in a tower in the far south. But Vanessa was not going to see the warlocks.

She was going to see a witch.

The most famous witch in Vanessa’s kingdom was one no one was entirely sure existed. They called her many names, but the most common was the ‘corner-witch’, for it was said she lurked in dark crannies and came out only when summoned.

Vanessa traveled to town, spending hours looking through shops but buying little. When the dying sun spread red and pink streaks across the sky, she slipped away from her guards down an alleyway and whispered into the wind, “Corner-witch, I summon thee.”

“What do you wish of me, child?”

An old woman stood at the other end of the alley, draped in black cloth and stooped over a stick. Her skin was blue as the sky, and her eyes were pink as roses.

“My heart is in the sea,” Vanessa replied. “I wish to join him.”

“It will not be easy,” the corner-witch warned. “You will be tested, and your love may fail. The sea is not kind to land-dwellers.”

Vanessa raised her chin. “I love him,” she said stubbornly. “I will be with him. I can withstand these tests.”

“So be it,” the corner-witch said, and raised her hand. “Join your heart, but if you fail, blame no one but yourself.”

Vanessa blinked, and in the space between opening and closing her eyes, she was on the beach under her castle, in the waves. Her skirt was in tatters, and her legs burned. She cried out as her legs fused together and grew a thick, sharp skin of scales, and as her neck split open to form the gills she needed to breathe. Her tail was black as the night sky on a moonless night, and Vanessa cried with the pain of it.

She crawled forward into the ocean on her hands, and when she finally submerged fully, she felt the touch of the waves as the glancing blows of frigid knives. But her love was before her, somewhere, and she must find him and join him.

Vanessa found her love, but she found him in a palace made of gold and pearl on the seafloor, hand-in-hand with another mermaid. They floated before a man with a long white beard and a crown- the Sea-King- and he pronounced them married forevermore.

Vanessa’s heart shattered, and she screamed at Nereus. She cursed him, cursed his heart to bleed whenever he looked at his new wife and for his tail to rot if ever he came close to Vanessa herself.

Then she swam away, sobbing, as the pieces of her broken heart reformed themselves into something much sharper.

Vanessa traveled far through the dark depths, searching for something she did not yet understand. She stayed so long in the dark that her lovely golden skin faded into white, and the grime in the water began to stain it green and gray. She was still inexperienced with her tail, so she traveled slowly, but she was determined to find something of worth in the sea she’d given her life up for.

Eventually, Vanessa found a grotto tucked into the side of an underwater mountain. The entrance was half-hidden by tall, waving plants she had never seen before, and an unnatural light shone from within. She peeked inside cautiously, curiosity getting the better of her.

There was a woman there, a mermaid- but instead of a fish tail, she had tentacles, like those of the octopus Vanessa’s brother once ate on his birthday, though the woman’s tentacles had barbs along with suckers. The woman turned to look at Vanessa: Vanessa put her hands up to show that she was unarmed, and asked the woman her name.

“They call me the Sea-Witch,” the woman said. “Who are you, and why do you come here?”

“I am Vanessa,” the mermaid replied, “and I am here because I have nowhere else to go.”

The Sea-Witch smiled at Vanessa. “Come in, child,” she said kindly. “You have a place here, should you want it.”

“I want it,” Vanessa said, and swam inside.

Vanessa’s heart had grown cold and dark, so the Sea-Witch taught her dark magics, the magic of the deal and the trick and the lie. She taught her how to always emerge victorious and how to play all those she met like puppets. Vanessa’s power grew and grew, and years passed in the dark grotto under the sea. The Sea-Witch grew older and taught Vanessa other things; the best manner of swimming, how to change one’s form with the least amount of pain, the traditions of the Sea-Witches who came before.

“Our name is Ursula,” the Sea-Witch told Vanessa. “I was not always the Sea-Witch, but I am now, and thus Ursula is my name until I die.” She patted Vanessa’s gray-skinned shoulder. “Should you take my place, it will be yours as well.”

Vanessa smiled at the Sea-Witch. “It is a good name,” she said.

The Sea-Witch and Vanessa often swam among the wrecked ships at the seafloor; they could gather valuable supplies there that they would not get anywhere else. As the years passed, Vanessa began going alone: she had grown confident in herself and her power.

She ventured out on one of these trips one day, a few hours after a severe storm. A ship had drifted down through the dark, angry waves, the edge of a cliff piercing the bow and holding it in place. She swam inside, looking for anything useful or interesting, and came face-to-face with a body.

She jerked back in surprise. The body was of a young woman, olive-skinned and flaxen-haired; her eyes were shut, mouth open. She wore a green dress that swirled around her legs in the current.

Vanessa bit her lip and reached out, brushing her fingers across the maiden’s icy cheek. Black sparks followed in their path.

“You are young, unfortunate one,” she whispered, and thought of the wind and currents, the crash of waves and the color of the ocean. “You have a life yet to live. Awake, poor soul, and regain the life stolen from you.”

The maiden’s eyes opened. Her mouth opened wide, perhaps to scream or perhaps to breathe: gills gashed open her neck and her legs simmered together, fusing into a silvery tail. The maiden put her hands to her neck, her mouth; she looked around and then at Vanessa, dark eyes questioning.

“Your ship capsized,” Vanessa explained calmly. “You died. I revived you.”

The woman flinched. “You are powerful indeed, madam.”

“Vanessa,” she corrected. “Would you like to stay with me?”

The woman considered it.

“Yes,” she said finally. “I am Morgana, and I thank you for your kindness.”

Vanessa’s smile was akin to the slash of a blade. “It was no trouble. I know quite a bit about lives cut short.”

She brought Morgana back to the Sea-Witch’s grotto, and the Sea-Witch welcomed the young mermaid with open arms. “She will be your trainee,” the Sea-Witch whispered to Vanessa, “to take your place when you follow me.”

Vanessa brushed her tail against the Sea-Witch’s tentacles. “We shall make you proud.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” the Sea-Witch smiled.

The Sea-Witch grew steadily weaker, and she passed onward into the dark beyond ten years past Vanessa’s plunge into the depths. Vanessa held the Sea-Witch’s hand as the old mermaid breathed her last, and as she died, Vanessa’s own heart began to speed up. She gasped as the Sea-Witch’s corpse dissolved into sea foam, and cried out when the foam flew into her eyes: her heart grew heavy with power, and her black fishtail split into eight dark tentacles. Her brown hair bleached into ivory. Vanessa threw back her head, laughing at the surge of magic, as she became the Sea-Witch.

Morgana entered the death chamber cautiously. “My lady?”

“Ursula, child,” the Sea-Witch said, looking at her apprentice. “I am Ursula now.”

Many years passed in the grotto under the sea. Ursula taught Morgana all that her sea-mother had taught her, and she continued the legacy. When merpeople needed magic, they came to her, and she delivered- though she always claimed her price. She would give nothing away for free, not even advice or kindness. She cared not for altruism.

She found two baby eels and brought them back to her grotto. Morgana named them Flotsam and Jetsam, as they had been discovered in the wreck of a ship. Ursula kept them as pets instead of spell ingredients.

As the years stretched on, Ursula’s heart grew yet colder. The only beings she had any love for were her apprentice and her pets, and even with them, she was not kind. She treated everyone roughly and cared not for wounded hearts.

And then the youngest daughter of the Sea-King fell in love with a human.

The king was as stubborn and stone-blunt as ever. The little princess would never be allowed to follow her heart under his eyes.

And so the princess searched elsewhere, and as all desperate souls do, eventually she came down into the darkness to bargain for her desires.

“I love a human,” the little princess said, as blunt as her father. “Can you help me go to him?”

Ursula’s cold, cracked heart stirred. She thought of Vanessa, and she knew that she must do what the corner-witch had not. She must test this girl’s love, and the human’s love in return. She would accept nothing less than devotion from both parties to allow their relationship to flourish. No more girls would follow Vanessa’s footsteps.

Ursula sighed gently, the magic of the deal swirling faster in her heart. “Oh, of course, poor dear one,” she said, and began gathering ingredients. “Poor unfortunate soul,” she said, and gave the little princes the courtesan smile she’d perfected when she herself had legs. “But you must give me something in exchange.”

“I know,” the little princess replied. Her hair floated out around her face, a halo of fire. “The stories are very specific about that.”

Ursula laughed. “Clever girl,” she said. “Not quite so poor after all, are you?”

The princess did not reply.

“But then,” Ursula said, dropping ingredients into her cauldron and watching it glow and bubble, “love makes us all poor, and mad to boot.”

The princess’ eyes were fixed upon the cauldron. Ursula snapped her fingers; the contract popped into her hand, shimmering quill held carefully in two fingers of the other. “Now, unfortunate one,” she said. The princess raised her gaze with effort, focusing on the magic paper. “I hereby agree to give you the means to win your heart, if you will swear to pay me the price I ask.”

The princess hesitated, and for a moment Ursula hoped. The little princess seemed smart, unafraid to speak her mind; perhaps she may yet avoid her fate?

“Give me the quill,” the princess said, and Ursula’s icy heart sank.

“Sign here,” she said, her voice steady. “Good.”

The quill and contract disappeared as soon as the princess finished her signature. The magic filled Ursula with bubbling heat and she roared with laughter, her cauldron surging and the princess cringing.

“As the sea flaps and crashes, so does your tail,” the Sea-Witch called. “As the earth scrapes and breaks, so shall your feet.” Her eyes were wild as she looked at the princess, full of white fire and green lightning. “Sing, dear one! Sing, and he shall be yours to claim!”

The princess sang. It was a lovely sound, clear as a bell and bright as gold.

Soon enough, the sound was swallowed by Ursula’s laughter. The princess clutched at her throat: the Sea-Witch clutched at the golden clamshell that still emitted muffled notes.

“You have three days to seek your heart,” Ursula called. “Good riddance to him if you fail!”

She waved her hand, and the princess thrashed as her tail began to split apart at the bottom. Ursula waved her hand once more, and the princess rocketed toward the surface of the ocean as her gills closed.

She didn’t want the girl dead, after all. It was only her suitor that needed to die.

Ursula gave the princess one day of solitude, one day of uninhibited time to catch her lover. On the dawn of the second morning, Ursula waved her hand to create a glittering bubble, in the surface of which she watched the mute little princess stumble into a dress and wait faithfully at the prince’s table for him to join her.

Ursula was surprised. The princess worked fast, apparently - or her suitor was just that biddable. If it was the latter…

Ursula smiled. Her white fangs glinted in the low light of her grotto.

If it was the latter, then perhaps Ursula could sway the deal in her favor and get the princess back into the ocean with her heart intact.

“Morgana!” she called. “Watch over the cave until I return. I have a price to collect.”

It was not exactly the truth, but Ursula had never claimed to be the Truth-Witch.

It was a simpler spell to turn Ursula human than it was to give the princess legs. The poor little princess had always been a mermaid; giving her legs and lungs and all the messy little land-dweller bits was like taking a doll and replacing half its parts without instructions.

Ursula, however, had once been Vanessa. All the Sea-Witch had to do was reach back to the dark-haired princess of years past and pull on the skin she had shed all those years past. It was like slipping into a familiar dress, old and worn but still comfortable, still the right size.

Vanessa surfaced beneath the cliffside. The castle had changed, but the beach was the same - though, it was noon, and all the fishing-boats were out on the waves, too far to see the woman suddenly appearing on the beach.

Vanessa tapped a long fingernail against the humming golden shell hanging round her neck. “With a voice so captivating as this,” she decided, “only the truest and strongest heart could resist.”

The princess slept in her little bed, and Vanessa visited the prince in his room. She hummed soft music to him and stroked his hair, and he turned his face into her touch and smiled. She smiled too, her magic wrapping as a net around the sleeping prince, the threads reaching through the castle to ensnare his staff.

Only the princess and her pets would know something had changed. Now to see if the princess believed her prince still loved her, or if she would turn back and return to the kingdom she belonged in. Her heart may break, but it would heal. She was young and alone in a strange place. It shouldn’t take much to send her back, cracked but alive. She would live on, as Vanessa had not.

Vanessa did not sleep beside her entranced prince that night. Instead, she wandered the halls of the castle, taking in what had changed and what had not. She knew not how long she had spent in the ocean, but only the architecture of the palace was familiar to her. Surely many generations had gone by. Perhaps the bloodline Vanessa hailed from was entirely gone now. Perhaps that would be for the best - only one brother had remained royal, and he was long dead. Who could say if his descendents were any good at ruling?

No, Vanessa decided. The prince caught in her web could not be of her brother’s line. His mind was far too easy to ensnare. No one of her brother’s blood would be so weak.

Besides, he looked nothing like any of the family Vanessa had known.

Dawn broke over Vanessa sitting at the breakfast table, looking at the waves. Perhaps land was her birthplace and two-legged her natural state, but the air was cold against her pale skin and she missed her eight prehensile limbs. Morgana had not woken her with a smile or story today, and whatever mischief Flotsam and Jetsam were getting into, she was not there to see.

It was no matter, Vanessa told herself. This was the dawn of the third day, the final day of the princess’ deal. The prince’s heart was Vanessa’s and so the princess would go home tonight, hurt but better for the lesson.

The prince fawned over her, paying her more attention than the wedding plans Vanessa had planted in his mind (what greater show of devotion was there, after all?). The red-haired princess, Vanessa noted, stood in corners with wet eyes and trembling lips.

Vanessa shot the princess a smug grin, but there was no joy in her heart. She was doing a job, nothing more. She had no desire for this weak-willed prince or his dry, windy kingdom. All she wanted was to send the princess home before the land caught her up in its claws.

So she endured the prince’s soft words and warm glances with only the merest of shudders. She parried his touches with words of propriety, replacing the disgust she truly felt. Vanessa belonged to no man, and never would.

The wedding was to be held on the grandest ship in the kingdom’s fleet, and the vows were meant to be completed as the sun went down. Ridiculously romantic, but it served Vanessa’s purposes. On sundown of the third day, the princess’ deal was off, and she’d be a daughter of the sea once more. Ursula would return and take the princess with her back into the waves. The spell on the prince would break, and the kingdom would return to normal. No permanent damage, other than perhaps to Ursula’s reputation as a heartless, merciless dealmaker. But she could make that back up easily enough. There are always hapless merfolk looking for help on the wrong side of the kelp.

The breezes on the ship was laden with the smell of salt. It soothed Vanessa’s harried nerves, allowing her to smile at the silly prince next to her. The priest who would read the vows was a short man whose glasses kept slipping down his nose. Vanessa tuned out his droning voice and the prince’s dull eyes by wondering if Morgana’d had to turn away any customers in her absence, and whether Flotsam or Jetsam had gotten into her stash of candied shrimp again.

The necklace around Vanessa’s neck was unnaturally warm, the faint hum of the princess’ stolen voice keeping the prince nicely in line. A token of a bound heart’s true beloved always strengthened such a spell as Vanessa had caught the prince in.

The priest was winding down. The sun was sinking. Just a little more time, Vanessa reminded herself. Just a few more minutes, and she could go home and the little princess would be safe.

“I do,” the prince said, and Vanessa’s hands shook.

The priest turned to her. She couldn’t hear his voice over the ringing in her ears. She’d thought the deal would come before this. She could not say it. She could not.

The priest’s mouth stopped moving. She stood, still and silent. The prince frowned at her. The priest looked concerned.

A bird landed on the priest’s tall, ridiculous hat.

Vanessa jerked back from it, startled. It was a mangy, ruffled thing, half its feathers out of place and long orange legs grimy. The priest shouted, hopping about and flapping his hands, but the bird was off his head nearly as soon as it landed. Instead, it flew at Vanessa.

On instinct, her hands went up to guard her head. That was her mistake.

The bird was not aiming for her head. It was aiming for her necklace.

The string holding the golden shell around her neck snapped as the bird pulled away. Vanessa gasped, reaching to grab the bird before it ruined everything, but it was faster than she. It swept away, to the cabin of the ship, and dropped the necklace to the deck.

Directly in front of the bare, scraped feet of the princess.

She met Vanessa’s eyes. Struck mute by the crumbling of her plan, Vanessa only shook her head, knowing the gesture was useless.

The princess slammed her heel down on the gold shell, not flinching as it cracked apart against her delicate skin.

The lovely, bewitching voice surged free of its prison, flowing back into the princess’ throat. She cried out for her prince, and Vanessa watched his eyes come alive.

He stumbled away from her, looking toward the princess.

All inconsequential. The deal wasn’t sealed yet.

Vanessa looked to the horizon, where the sun was a thin slice of molten gold. She smiled.

The little princess could still be saved.

Vanessa raised her arms. The breeze picked up, a cold wind rustling the fancy clothes of the wedding party and the long hair away from Vanessa’s shoulders. She felt the sea, far beneath her feet, and thought of her grotto.

Vanessa’s skin tore apart like paper, fading into dust motes as Ursula ripped free, limbs sprawling across the deck. The people screamed and ran. The daring little princess grabbed her prince’s arm and stared Ursula down.

“I won!” she yelled. “I won! Go away!”

Ursula cackled and slid toward the two of them. The prince stood strong with his love’s grip on him. Hmm. Perhaps Ursula had underestimated his devotion. Her magic was so terribly strong, after all, and his mind was so terribly weak...

“You haven’t sealed the deal, darling,” Ursula purred. “And look at the horizon.”

The last sliver of the sun disappearing under the waves was reflected in the princess’ horrified eyes.

“Sundown of the third day, poor dear,” Ursula cooed, one tentacle curling around the princess’ bare ankle. “And the deal is unfulfilled.”

“No!” the princess screamed. The prince reached for her free hand, but she fell quicker than he could move, legs melting together and taking her whole body down to the deck. She flopped and gasped as her gills opened back up, unprepared for a sudden new source of oxygen - one that wouldn’t work properly until the little princess was back under the waves.

Ursula dragged the coughing princess closer with the grip around her tail. “Goodbye, princey!” she yelled, laughing. “Love is a fickle mistress indeed!”

And she dove back into the ocean with the princess tangled in her coils.

The princess fought her, but she was young and single-tailed, disoriented and readjusting to life without legs. Ursula was the Sea-Witch. There was no fight the princess could win against her.

Morgana greeted Ursula at the entrance to the grotto, Flotsam and Jetsam curled around her arms. She said nothing; the weeping princess tangled in Ursula’s tentacles told the story without unnecessary chatter. Instead, she swept the kelp curtain back to allow Ursula and the princess entrance to her cavern.

“Hush, princess,” Ursula sighed, releasing her grip. Morgana closed the kelp curtain but remained in front of it, effectively guarding the princess’ only escape route.

“Why?” the little princess whispered, curling in on herself.

Ursula crossed her arms. “I always carry through on my deals, dearie. Isn’t that why you came to me?”

“No!” The princess’ eyes were a cold, cold blue. “You- this was a technicality! He loved me! And you interfered! You bewitched him! How was that fair?!”

“It wasn’t,” Ursula admitted calmly. Her deals were never kind and rarely fair. They were always in her favor. It was hardly her fault none of the merpeople knew how to haggle. “It was never meant to be fair.”

The princess stared at her.

“Why so shocked? I’m the Sea-Witch, dear. You saw my garden outside. How many stories of the deals going as their makers expected have you heard?”

Shame flushed the princess’ pale cheeks as she ducked away from Ursula’s mocking gaze.

“Go home, little princess. Live in your father’s court and find a nice merman to marry someday, or never marry at all - one of your sisters can take the throne, I’m sure.” Ursula shrugged, the motion carrying through her tentacles. “Never give your heart to a man of another world. Nothing good will come of it.”

The princess looked at Ursula with her mouth open, seemingly about to argue.

Then something impacted with the top of Ursula’s grotto and sent a shockwave through the rock.

Morgana darted outside. Ursula, with a final glance at the stony-faced princess, followed her apprentice. She’d told the girl to go home. There was no purpose to continue her imprisonment.

She began to reconsider when she saw the source of the shockwave.

The wedding ship - or another from the royal fleet, all ship bottoms looked the same - was floating right above them, and a volley of harpoons had just sunk into the top of her grotto.

“Morgana,” Ursula said, perfectly calm. “Take the eels and go.”

“What?”

“The Sea-Witch must live. The prince won’t stop until I’m dead or he is, and the princess will bring the wrath of the Sea-King down upon my head if I kill him. He has no quarrel with you. Go.”

Morgana gave her a silent, searching look. Ursula held firm. Her apprentice nodded, holding Flotsam and Jetsam against her chest, and swam swiftly away.

Ursula heard the princess come out of the cave behind her. “Your suitor has come for you,” she said, not looking back.

“He loves me,” the little princess said.

“You’re certain?” Ursula prodded. “I did not lie, poor dear princess. Love between the land and the sea never lasts.”

The princess demanded, “How would you know?” She crossed her arms. Her hair floated out around her head, a scarlet sun shining behind a pale moon.

“A long time ago,” Ursula said, turning away to watch another volley of harpoons slam into her home, “a princess of your heart’s kingdom fell in love with a man of the waves. She gave up her legs and her crown for him, but his heart belonged to another. The princess came to the ocean seeking him, and still he married that other girl. The princess was left alone and forgotten.”

Ursula did not turn back to see the little princess’ expression. It was a story she had never told another soul, and some details she would take to her grave. “If another silly young princess is going to give her heart away,” she said, and allowed her magic to spark thick and black between her fingers, “I will make sure it is to a worthy man.”

She rocketed up to the surface, eight limbs propelling her far faster than a single-tailed mermaid could ever go. She burst through the waves and did not stop: her magic crackled like lightning under her skin, and she swelled larger and larger until she towered over the little ship bobbing in the waves, her limbs brushing the ocean floor and her hair parting the low-hanging stormclouds.

She recalled the old stories she’d read in her bedroom, about gods and mountains and thunderstorms. She laughed, the sound booming louder than a thunderclap. She raised her hand and drew her fingers through the clouds, gathering the electricity in her palm.

“HELLO, LITTLE PRINCE!” she called, and threw it.

The stern of the ship cracked right off, bobbing and sinking slowly in the churning waves. If there were any crewman on that ship, they didn’t stand a chance against the sea’s wrath.

She could still see a little figure dressed in white at the wheel. That wouldn’t last long.

Ursula plucked the prince right out of his ship with her tentacle, bringing him up to her face to see her target more clearly. If she was going to truly kill a man… well. Even a sandy-legged man like him deserved a witness, even if she was also his murderer.

He looked up at her. He had wide blue eyes that almost matched the princess’s, and the black of his hair almost matched the black of Ursula’s tentacles.

She felt, very suddenly, that this was a man who did not deserve to die.

The prince struggled and swatted at her, though it was obvious that he couldn’t kill her and if she dropped him, he’d likely die anyway. Certainly a tenacious one.

“HEY!”

Ursula turned. The ship had drifted closer, tossed by the waves, and a familiar shape was flopped across the deck. It would seem the princess had learned how to coordinate her two sets of respirators.

“Let him go!” the princess shouted. Her tail flapped weakly against the wooden boards of the deck, but she’d hauled herself up with a firm grip on the ship’s wheel to get a proper view of the Sea-Witch and her captive.

“AND WHY SHOULD I DO THAT?” Ursula asked, truly curious. Would the little princess truly put her life on the line for this prince? What had she seen in so little time to entrance her so?

“I love him!” the princess screamed. “And I don’t care if you think he’s not worthy, I do!”

Ursula paused, thinking. It was the princess’s heart, after all. It ought to be her choice to give it away or keep it safe.

But... if someone else had seen Vanessa’s infatuation... if someone else had stepped in and saved her…

No. A mind in love was a mind clouded. The princess couldn’t be trusted to make her own decisions about this prince.

“OH, LITTLE PRINCESS,” Ursula said. “IF ONLY YOU COULD PROVE IT.”

The prince looked Ursula directly in her massive eye and said, almost inaudible over the winds, “Who are you to say I don’t love her?”

Ursula looked right back. “THE PROOF.”

She loosened her grip on him, wanting to watch his fear as he dropped. Sure enough, as the only thing keeping him from falling to his death began to give way, he started vainly clutching at the smooth surface of her tentacle despite his hatred for her.

She laughed. “GO AHEAD, LITTLE PRINCE. IT WON’T SAVE YOU.”

The prince’s eyes were very wide. Ursula could see herself in them, her shock of pale hair and her glittering sharp teeth and the lightning crackling around her head.

“No,” he said, fingers relaxing. “But she will.”

Ursula frowned in confusion for a moment. Then his meaning hit her - literally.

The ship’s broken, sharp bow rammed into her side, digging through her flesh and burying itself in her guts. She felt bone snap against the heavy wood, and felt the pulse of her heart pushing blood out of the gaping hole in her side.

She dropped the prince.

He fell, but not to the sea. He bounced off her tentacle and slid down the curling, twitching mess of her limbs, dropping into the roiling waves with only bruises.

The princess cried his name and dove off the ship after him.

Left alone, Ursula gasped. She could already feel herself fading, the blood bubbling from her wound turning to foam as soon as it left her body.

“Morgana,” she whispered.

She pushed feebly away from the ship. Already damaged, the bow broke from the rest of the ship and remained stuck inside her.

Ursula fell. The waves crashed back from her impact, and she looked dully up at the sky as her body continued to dissolve.

The clouds were thick and gray. She could still see the lightning crackling, waiting to be unleashed.

She closed her eyes and let the sea claim her.

A good distance away, hiding in the thick kelp gardens by the Sea-King’s palace, Morgana gasped and shook as a current of sea foam collided with her, carrying in its wake a sudden, burning rush of power that lit her up from the inside. Her silver tail split into eight and her eyes glowed. Flotsam and Jetsam moved away from their new mistress, wary.

She calmed, and reached out for them again. “It’s alright,” she said. “I am Ursula. You know me.”

The eels accompanied Ursula to her hidden watching-place a week later, where they spied upon Ariel, princess of the sea, receiving her father’s blessing and running into her prince’s arms.

Ursula climbed the hull of the rebuilt flagship to observe the wedding of Ariel and Prince Eric. Their eyes hardly left the other, and they smiled with no trace of falsehood.

It would seem her predecessor was wrong about this prince.

Ursula took up the mantle of Sea-Witch, as she had promised. She made fair deals and did not lie to her customers about their chances.

Times changed, and so the Sea-Witch changed with them.

Ariel and Prince Eric had several children and lived a happy life in their kingdom, ruling their lands and keeping up diplomatic relations with the Sea-King next door. The kingdom flourished under their rule, and continued to flourish when they left the throne to their youngest, Melody - their only choice of heir, after their elder sons and other daughter had all went off on adventures to other kingdoms.

The Sea-Witch lived on under the waves, the title and magic switching hands and hearts for as long as life thrived in the sea. There were more disputes with the royal family, but none lead to death again.

And so, at least someone lived happily ever after.

#asks #replies #writing #adrian speaks #my writing #adrian wrote a thing #little mermaid rewrite #twisted fairy tales #fairy tale remix #this may or may not be the first in a series of remixes/retellings i'm working on #if you have any questions about the.... implications i left in the story go ahead and ask!!#(if you're wondering i did put both of vanessa's brothers into actual fairytales)#morgana is named morgana bc that was the name of ursula's 'sister' in the shitty shitty sequel #if anyone wants The Tales Of The Merkiddos i will 100% write them for you #Anonymous

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