Work Text:
1.
in this dream, you are a child again. you woke up in the middle of the night because you heard soft moans coupled with your mother’s breathless laughter through the paper-thin walls. when you nudge open the door to her room, you see your mother sitting on the edge of her bed, her dress hiked up to her hips, and a woman’s face pressed between her thighs. she’s smiling downwards in a way that she's never smiled at you. the woman kneeling at your mother’s feet turns her gaze on you, and you see how brilliantly green her eyes are.
this is where your memory differs from your subconscious. what actually happened, was that the woman pulled away with an embarrassed look on her face. your mother just sighs irritably.
“go back to bed, vriska.”
your dream goes a little differently than that. for one thing, you only have eyes for your mother. you see one hand resting on the woman’s shoulder; spidery fingers against soft bare skin. the other hand pulls a knife out from under the sheets, and stabs the woman through the back of her neck. there’s gurgling, and a great spurt of blood. as she falls to the ground, your mother looks you in the eye.
“you see this? remember this. you've got to hurt them before they hurt you.”
2.
in this one, you’re standing over tavros nitram’s corpse. there’s a gaping hole in his chest, where you’ve impaled him. in the dream, his insides are brown, like shit. sure says a lot about what you think of him. your feet are wet with the blood soaked through the soles of your shoes.
the skin under your eyes and the crotch of your pants are wet, too, but not with blood.
3.
you’re the corpse this time, and terezi’s sitting beside you. you can’t see a thing, and the only thing you feel is a phantom ache of a blade between your ribs, but you can hear.
“i don’t want you back. you’ve caused enough problems to give the biggest saint in the world a headache--not me, of course, i’m nothing close to a saint. but i digress. you just...pranced around like the sour blueberry rascal you are, making things complicated for everyone. i just did what was best. carrying out justice is in my job description...or it will be, if i have my way.”
you would smile, if you could. she's callous as ever.
“this sort of thing’s never stopped you before, vriska. i bet you’re fucking shit up in the afterlife as i speak.” terezi’s voice takes on this bitterly affectionate edge that catches you off guard. “remember when we used to get along, sis? it’s hard to believe that there was a time when you didn’t backstab someone every time you inhaled.”
you hear a can of something being opened, and a poorly-repressed sob.
“this is so dumb. i’ve never missed anyone as much as i miss you.”
you always want to answer her, whether to tell her it will be okay, or to let her know that it won’t. you never can, either way.
and when you wake up, you’re itching to dial a number that’s blocked you a long time ago.
4.
you dream of every girl you know, distorted beyond recognition. kanaya grows fangs and tears at your throat; nepeta’s fingernails sharpen into claws and rip your stomach open. she and feferi plunge their hands into the gaping cavity and pull out shiny-wet coils that they bite into like animals.
terezi’s tongue becomes impossibly long as it unfurls down your windpipe and chokes you. you note how kanaya’s chin is dripping with your blood, how her eyes are a brilliant green, as she kneels between your legs. you note how her immaculately manicured her nails are, as she slips her fingers inside you. you note how your hips jerk, when she curls her knuckles a certain way.
“what was that you told me once, vriska? hurt them before they hurt you?”
sometimes aradia megido is there too. you don’t know why you’re even thinking about her. she’s been dead for years. you growl and lash out at her. funny, you didn’t notice that you have claws now as well. when you tear her skin off, you find metal instead of bone.
she smiles, and hits you until your vision dances with stars.
5.
sometimes, you dream of flying. it’s a relief: this is what normal people dream about, right?
you’re powerful and free. it’s just you and the gorgeous sky, orange and pink like some postcard sunset.
eventually, it starts to bug you how the most normal dream you have is one where you’re alone.
6.
you’re on a pier. you recognize it, it’s the one in the backyard of the house you used to live in. you’re sitting on the edge, your feet dangling idly over the water.
something tugs at your leg, making you fall in before you even register what’s happening. a pair of arms entrap you, keeping your struggling body under the surface. eridan’s gaunt, scornful face fills your vision.
he drags you down deeper and deeper until you can’t see, oh god you cannot see a fucking thing. everything is murky and black and cold and then eridan kisses you vengefully. you suffocate in this pathetic, terrified state with a disgusting taste in your mouth. you probably hate this one most of all.
7.
this time, you’re on a pirate ship set to fire. you can make out the outlines of your crew members leaping into the water to escape. some of them beckon for you to jump, too.
you decide not to. you’d rather burn alone than drown.
instead of throwing yourself over the side, you stand boldly on the front bow. you don’t flinch even a little, as the flames lick at your boots, as your lungs protest against the rising smoke. you just stare upwards, because the way the fire lights up the night sky is the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.
8.
it’s snowing. the swing you’re sitting on is icy-cold. you can feel your lips and fingertips turning blue. but you don’t care, because john is sitting next to you. he’s smiling at you like you’re not a bitch, or a monster. he laughs at his own joke like the precious dweeb he is, making a cloud of hot air between your faces. you can’t help but laugh with him.
john leans over and kisses you, or tries to. his teeth get in the way, which makes you both laugh even more. his hand rests on your thigh, and for once you’re glad that you have a habit of picking holes into your jeans until there’s more fraying empty space than actual denim.
his kisses aren’t romcom perfect by a long shot. you both taste like shitty junk food. you’re both positioned far too awkwardly for an effective makeout session. you’re both freezing your asses off. but you’re so, so happy that you cannot possibly give a damn.
this is the only dream you have where you don’t wake up crying.