Disclaimer: Do not own Marvel or The 100
Okay, so this is another prequel to my long fic, "There's nothing left to do, except leave." So, this is another one and yes, it's the second prequel, even though I was sure that the first prequel I wrote, "To give her the world," was going to be the only prequel I was going to write. Yeah, sorry. Couldn't help it.
Warnings for descriptions of extreme violence and heavily implied rape.
We will paint this world with their blood
The plan had been set up by all of them.
There were a load of them. Clarke Griffin's soulmates.
Laura Barton, Clint Barton, Barney Barton, Simone Barton, Peggy Carter, Frank Castle, Jessica Jones, Danny Rand, Christine Palmer, Stephen Strange, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, Natasha Romanoff, Yelena Belova, Melina Vostokoff, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Sam Wilson, Maria Hill, Thor Odinson, Loki, Sylvie, Hela Odinsdotter, Luke Cage, Elektra Natchios, Carol Danvers, Eddie Brock, James "Rhody" Rhodes, Bruce Banner-all of them were after the same person.
Their soulmate, Clarke Griffin.
But before that?
They needed to dispose of all the threats to their girl.
They didn't know how exactly this happened, however, they time traveled.
They learned of a dropship falling to the ground, and learned that their mate, Clarke Griffin, was one of the 100 people inside.
But they learned this too late.
She died, before they could get to her.
But time had restarted. And they were going to secure Clarke, keep her safe. And to do that, they would start with killing all the people that had ever threatened her.
They would paint this world with the blood of all eight Abby Griffin, Marcus Kane, Octavia and Bellamy Blake, Raven Reyes, Jasper Jordan, Nathan Miller and John Murphy.
They would cut all eight of these people open, spill their blood, tear their insides out, tear their teeth out, carve their tongues and throats out, break every bone in their bodies.
Every amount of pain these fuckers could feel, they would inflict it.
And after that? After Clarke was surrounded by the blood of those that had derided her, threatened her, treated her as if she was not human?
That was when they would close in on her.
They suspected that Clarke would not at first, be welcoming of their attentions, given what they were planning on doing to people that she knew, including her own biological mother.
But one day, they hoped she would understand.
They intended to give her everything. To hold her, to love her, to care for her, to caress her, and suckle at her and lick her and cuddle her.
To hold her at night when she cried and had nightmares.
To fuck her with vibrators, and all sorts of other toys that would make her twist and squirm in desire and pleasure.
They would give her everything.
But before anything else?
They would need to eliminate the threats to her.
Kill the first eight threats, then kill anyone else that might pose a threat to Clarke.
The first of the threats, the eight threats, they would slice up and stretch their blood and organs all along the landscape.
The rest of the threats they would do the same to.
They would paint this world with the enemies' blood.
The Mountain Men would join that blood.
But the first eight, the people that hurt Clarke? They would die first.
They wished to tie Clarke's arms above her head and massage a vibrator against her clitoris for hours and hours, drive the young blonde crazy by doing so.
They wanted to each take turns, kneeling down between her legs, eating her out as she sobbed for them to stop.
But that all had to wait, for the time being.
What mattered now? Was the art of painting the landscape with the blood, muscle, meat and organs of Clarke's enemies.
This world would be a portrait of horror of all that would soon be inflicted on those that had tormented Clarke, had made her feel as if she was worthless, who had left her for dead.
They had left her for dead.
Clarke's mates would not.
They each looked at the soulmate mark that they shared with Clarke-a ring around their wrist that ended at a crescent mark, right at the wrist, where the pulse point was.
As if touching a religious symbol.
Clarke was their meaning. They would take care of her and protect her. And they would begin by tearing her enemies open and splattering every inch of landscape they could reach with her enemies' innards.
And when they were finished? When every piece of filth that had ever hurt or threatened her was dead?
Their worthless existence destroyed?
Then they would move in on Clarke, capture her, take her, make her theirs. Each of them pleasuring Clarke, touching her, stimulating her, licking her, stroking and caressing her lovingly and softly.
There was more, of course.
Clarke, they knew, needed nurturing love. Motherly love.
Abby Griffin was no mother for Clarke.
And them having sex with Clarke, would likely just make it better for Clarke.
And well, eight of them; Peggy, Jessica, Elektra, Wanda, Melina, Simone, Pepper and Christine? They were happy to be that for Clarke. To hold Clarke to their breasts as they overstimulated her with their vibrators as Clarke whimpered and moaned, losing herself in their nurturing love.
One day, she would understand. One day, she would forgive them. She would look past all the blood and torture they had committed for her.
Or perhaps, one day, she might even praise them for it.
But regardless of whether she admired them for their art of painting the world with the blood of those that hurt her or not?
What mattered? Was that Clarke would be safe, always.
And that Clarke would be loved by them, always.
