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on giving flowers to monsters

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She sat in perfect stillness as the creature that had been Scott struggled in his chains. Heedless of the dirt and blood, the screams, her head tipped to one side- studying, learning, knowing. An open wound across her palm dripped sluggishly, knife set carefully to one side.

Lydia had not been surprised, when he emerged from the ground with his fangs bared and his fingers tipped in claws. Death had made monsters of them all. His name was on her wrist again; that was all that mattered. And although she hadn’t taken the man, she would have this snarling wolf-thing as her own. It would take time, but time she had in plenty- time and patience and the will to bring him to heel.

Teeth snapped as she stood, animal eyes dark and wary. She reached out regardless.

“You smell of the grave,” she crooned. “Of decay and the moon.” Lydia swayed closer as she stripped off her dress. She was already wet, intoxicated with the rage and the death, the monster her soulmate had become. It was as if his form matched hers, now, displayed on the outside for all to see.

His nostrils flared as he scented the air. He could smell the heat on her, and she watched as his cock rose, hard and thick. A murmur and a gesture unlocked his chains. He was on her before they hit the ground.

She welcomed every bloody, painful moment of it. Her teeth broke skin before his did, in fact, tearing at the soft place under his jaw until copper spilled across her tongue. Lydia hadn’t ever cemented her bond with Scott, hadn’t even been sure she ever would, or that he was her Scott; she knew it now. She slid her palm up, wound to wound, blood to blood, and let the collision happen.

There was nothing so conscious as thoughts in his head anymore. It was rack and ruin, a sensation of seeping chill at the bottom of his consciousness. She wrapped it around herself. Sweet gods above, but he was so empty; she could fill him with anything. He would be her tool, her vessel, her hellhound. She had paid dearly for him, promised the Old Gods things about which she did not think, but every penny of the price had been worth it. It had brought her this, a precious monster who ravaged her body even as she took his mind.

They would bring death to their enemies and delight in sharing it.

*

Scott was more focused after they sealed their bond. Not sane- not ever that, and who among them were? But he grew attuned to her needs. He seemed to feel her wants as his own. he welcomed those she welcomed, bared his fangs to those she distrusted.

His old place in the pack was gone. She and Stiles, Derek, they forged him a new place. It shouldn’t have been possible, what Lydia and Stiles did that night, and the other packs knew it. Scott was tied to Beacon Hills now, now that he had died and been reborn in its soil.

Even Lydia hadn’t anticipated the effect it would have, on the night when another pack finally dared to step foot on their territory. The dark was deceptively calm, the air soft against her skin, damp dirt between her toes. Mouth open, she keened a song to the lush full moon. Their wards were strong, a combined effort between herself and Stiles, but all things were cyclical. Blood and voice, spent in the spell, would keep them together for another phase. Stiles made… other sacrifices, at moon-dark.

Something jarred against her subconscious, and by her side Scott went berserk. In the true sense of the word, the old sense, wild with fury and craving the destruction of their enemies. She could hear Derek and Isaac take up the call, howls creeping closer as the pack circled towards those who would dare intrude on their ground.

Lydia closed her eyes and continued to sing, death spiraling towards the sky in sweet notes. When she opened her eyes again, the spell was complete, and the pack was coming through the trees. She no longer felt the intruders. The night was charged, now, with enemy blood spilled and the moon fat in the sky. Having tasted death, rejoicing in life would only make them closer, stronger, more.

She watched Stiles take Derek to the ground. Allison already had Isaac on his knees, one leg thrown over his shoulders as she writhed against his tongue, claws pricking droplets from the back of her thighs. And Scott- her Scott, her soulmate, hers… he came towards her, face blood-soaked, eyes perilous, shameless and magnificent. She went down in the dirt before him, her ass in the air, already wet and ready as he mounted her.

There was dirt on her tongue, cool and appropriate. Lydia slid one hand towards her belly. They had said she would know the time- it was now, certainly, with the pack around them and their victory sealed with flesh and seed. The words of the spell whispered from her mouth. It was sacrifice and plea and payment, as her mate’s knot swelled and he spilled inside her. A flutter, a spark- maybe only in her mind- but she knew the spell had taken.

A child. A daughter, a priestess, given to the old gods from the very moment of her conception, birthed from her father’s burial shroud and her mother’s death-touched soul. Lydia had seen many things, when the gods asked her for the coin that would bring Scott back to her. She had seen what their child might have been, given love and sunshine and a sweet meadow childhood. A wolf-pup, an alpha, strong and joyous and ready to lead.

That was not the child she would bear. Nor was it the child she wanted; not now. She was a banshee, the Emissary of a pack on a knife-edge. She was content with the image of the child she had seen, a girl with her father’s dark skin and hair pale like parchment. A daughter who would play where even Lydia feared to tread. A beautiful abomination.

Lydia turned in Scott’s arms, staring up at the moon. Fingers spread wide across her abdomen, she prayed for its blessing. This tiny spark of life belonged to the pack even as Lydia did; she gathered up the threads of the pack bonds, spilling the knowledge of her daughter down to the others.

Derek’s bays to the moon, Allison’s ululating cry, Scott’s growls- Lydia’s daughter would be born already knowing these things in the marrow of her bones. Stiles would teach her how to use a knife; Isaac, how to wear the collar of the gods with grace.

Lydia would teach her the craft of the Emissary. She would braid wolfsbane and bluebells into that pale hair, guide delicate hands through the motions of a spell. She would teach the girl not to fear death, not to tremble at her own power the way Lydia had. She would raise a priestess-queen to walk with the strongest of alphas.

Their daughter would rule the world.