#ethel cains sharp things collection

[lu667]

my scissors

[hoejosatoru]

Good Men Die Too

Pairing: fem!reader x hanma

Summary: Fic is based on Crush and Western Nights by Ethel Cain because hanma gives Ethel Cain lover vibes. Which is not a compliment but here we are. If you’re unfamiliar with Ethel Cain, basically just a super toxic and slutty relationship lol trust me

Word Count: 4.1K

Warnings: drinking/smoking, oral fem and male receiving, somewhat public sex, rough sex, gun play, hair pulling, hitting, bruising, blood, mentions getting you pregnant, cream pie, jealousy, possessiveness, violence, pet names (baby/angel/good girl), use of daddy, hanma is v toxic but so so is reader (support women’s wrongs!)

He’s never looked more beautiful, on his Harley in the parking lot

The night you met Hanma lives vividly in your mind. The flashpoint of who you were and who you would be. Call it fate, divine intervention, right (or wrong depending on how you looked at it) place at the right time, you ended up in the same bar as him on that fateful night. His sharp features cut through the monotonous crowd of faces, instantly intriguing you. His eyes connected with yours, a match into gasoline, sparking something inside you. He smiled and you knew he felt it too. 

You both watched each other for a while, recognizing that this was a game. Eventually, he slipped out the back door and you followed him like a moth drawn to a flame. You found him in the parking lot haloed by a pale streetlight, sitting on a motorcycle and smoking a cigarette. His hands, you noticed, were tattooed. Sin and punishment. You wondered how they’d feel on you.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing at a bar like this?” he asked, blowing smoke into the cool, dark summer night. You could feel him sizing you up.

“Looking for trouble, I guess,” you replied with a sly smile you’ve learned men love so much. You were close enough to smell him now - whiskey, smoke, and expensive cologne. It was intoxicating.

He chuckled darkly, “You may have found it.” Oh, had you. You always had a thing for bad boys; they were your vice. You wanted to say you didn’t know what Hanma was and, maybe in that moment you didn’t really. Maybe you assumed he was no worse than your other leather-clad nicotine addict boyfriends. But when you looked at him a small dark corner of your mind screamed, “Run”. You never had a great survival instinct, though, like a mouse entering a viper pit. Stupid fucking mouse.”You ever ridden on a motorcycle?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Mmm,” he smirked, flicking his cigarette to the ground and grounding it into the pavement with his rather expensive looking boot. “I’m going to pop your cherry.”

And that is how you ended up on the back of Hanma Shuji’s motorcycle, gripping his strong torso. Breathing in the ashy-sweet scent of cigarette smoke. No helmet, of course, men like Hanma don’t use them. His black and blonde hair whipped behind him as he sped through the dark, narrow streets. He looked so fucking cool. You felt yourself get slick between your thighs. 

Hanma pulled into a dark, quiet alleyway. You swung your legs over, sitting on the bike like a chair as Hanma stood, towering over you. He looked at you like he wanted to eat you. You looked up with faux innocence, “Gonna kiss me now, or what?” 

Sin cupped your face, as Hanma leaned close enough to feel his breath on your face, but not enough for your lips to touch. “I’m gonna kiss you, just not on the lips.” He dropped to his knees, looking up at you with a devilish grin. Your desire for him was a visceral ache. He slid your underwear down your legs, stuffing them in his back pocket. “Those are mine now.” He flipped up your skirt, licking his lips at the sight of your wet pussy.

His hands spread your legs wider, before he buried his face between them. His tongue slid up and down your hole, collecting your arousal. He loved feeling it clench around nothing, desperate for pleasure. He sucked at your clit, earning a moan from you. “Such a slut letting a guy you just met eat your pussy,” he teased.

“Hmm, and what does that make you?” you asked, your voice saccharine.

“A lucky man,” Hanma replied, punctuating his statement by nipping at your clit. You gasped, your hands flying to his hair. Hanma smiled against you, getting back to work. He was sloppy and sinful, eating you with such enthusiasm it made you blush. Your head fell back against the cool brick wall behind the parked bike, as you tried to keep your breath steady. It was all for naught, as you were cumming on his tongue seconds later. You moaned his name unabashed, completely forgetting you were outside.

He stood back up, finally kissing you on the mouth. He gripped you tight and kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself on him. Hanma was like a drug. You were hooked.

Camo jacket robbing corner stores

You found out soon after that Hanma was in a gang, a rather infamous one at that. He wasn’t exactly hiding that fact, rather he boasted about it. He was proud. You loved the way his eyes shone wickedly when he talked about it. He oozed power and confidence. 

Hanma didn’t need to engage in petty crimes. Evidently, this gang was lucrative and being an executive got him all the money he could need. However, petty crimes were like a drug to Hanma: once you get a taste for it, you’re always going to crave it. Hanma loved to show off, which meant you got a taste of them too.

“Yell if someone’s coming,” Hanma instructed you. He kissed you through the bandanas that covered your faces. It was your job to sit on his bike and stand watch. You didn’t get nervous anymore, Hanma was a robbery savant. You bit your lip as you watched him enter the corner store, pulling his shiny black glock from the back of his waistband.  

You heard the sound of alarmed voices and smiled to yourself. Within minutes, Hanma was walking back out to you - as casually as if he just bought a pack of smokes - with a sack full of cash. He was glowing, eyes shining with deviance and success. If you could have fucked him right then and there, you would have.

Hanma hopped on the bike and sped away. You gripped him tightly, loving the way his gun pressed hard against you. It got you excited for a certain hard part of him. 

When you got back to Hanma’s place he was on you the second the door closed. He kissed and touched you, boasting of his latest success. “God that was almost too fucking easy.” He pushed you back on the bed, opening the sack of cash and letting the money flutter all over you. “Fuck you look sexy like this.” He leaned in and licked up your neck. “Almost as sexy as you sitting on my bike.”

“But not as sexy as you coming out to me,” you mused, playing it over in your head, “One day I wanna watch you do it. I wanna see them submit to you.” 

Hanma grinned, incisors catching the light. Even kneeling above you on the bed he towered over you. “You’d love how they beg,” he said, “Never seen a man go soft that fucking quick. Nearly pissed himself he was so scared.” He narrowed his eyes, calculating something. Then, he pulled his gun back out from his waistband and pointed it directly at your forehead. “You’re not scared of me, are you baby?”

You knew Hanma would never shoot you, yet your heart still raced. Looking death in the face will scare anyone. You’re only human. Yet, as your heart raced you felt your pussy thump with desire. What no one tells you is looking death in the face is also one hell of an aphrodisiac. You kept your eyes locked on Hanma’s, not showing an ounce of fear. You sat up slowly, pressing your forehead directly against the muzzle. When you spoke, your voice was strong. “Never.” 

Hanma gave you an approving smile. You passed the test, you knew. You had never been more safe; he was not going to hurt you now. He slid the gun down to your lips. You kissed it, licked it. He continued down your body, pressing the cool metal of the barrel against your clothed pussy. You let out a soft gasp, egging him on.

“Fuck my gun,” he commanded, “Go on, angel, I know you want to.” He pressed it hard against you, sliding it up and down to stimulate your clit. You rolled your hips, grinding against it. Hanma watched you, mesmerized. It was surprisingly easy to get off; you’d been ready to cum the second you saw Hanma pull his gun out at the corner store. “Fucking slut,” he said with all the love in the world, “Look at you cumming on my gun.”

He tossed the gun to the side the second you finished, yanking his own pants down. You bit your lip at the sight of the heavy bulge in his black Versace boxers. He leaned into you, licking up your ear. “Gonna ruin my good fucking girl.” 

I owe you a black eye and two kisses, tell me when you wanna come and get ‘em

Hanma liked crazy. He could act annoyed all he wanted, but nothing got him going more than his girl acting crazy. His actions proved that. Not answering your texts or calls. Going out for drinks with his boys. Flirting with some stupid girl. You knew this because you followed him here, of course. He knew what he was doing.

If you weren't so mad, you’d laugh. This girl, bless her heart, looked as sweet as the bubblegum your dentists warned you not to have because their sugar would rot your teeth. Hanma would chew her up and spit her out. He showed no real interest in her until he saw you. He smiled a twisted, smug grin. You walked right into his trap.

You didn’t go up to him right away, no you couldn’t give him that much satisfaction. You sat at the bar, ordered a drink and watched out of the corner of your eye. You had to bite your tongue so you wouldn’t laugh at the girl coughing when Hanma lit a cigarette. The girl was talking up a storm from what you could see, Hanma not paying attention to any of it. He was too busy making sure you saw him put a hand on her thigh. There’s only so much button pushing you can take.

You sauntered up to them, trying to stay as calm as possible. Hanma looked at you expectantly, but you turned to the girl instead. “Careful with this one,” you nodded over to him, a faux smile on your face, “He keeps a gun in his waistband.” The girl’s eyes widened like a deer in headlights. 

Before anyone could respond the doors of the bar busted open, men with guns filing in. You noted their colors instantly as a rival gang. The girl ran away screaming. Poor girl, you thought, just before the gun fire started. Hanma grabbed you and yanked you down, a glass shattered behind you. A second later and that would have been your skull. Hanma shielded you with his body as you ran for the back door, firing back with his own gun. A fleeting thought of he really loves me, crossed your mind as you ran. 

When you got to his apartment, he started to ask if you were okay, but before he could finish you slapped him across the face. “What the hell was that for?” he snarled, fists clenching at his sides.

“That was for trying to fuck with other girls,” you replied defiantly. “But this is for saving me.” You dropped to your knees, looking up at him seductively. 

“You’re a crazy fucking bitch, you know that,” Hanma said, sounding in love. 

“Yeah and you fucking love me.”

“God damn right I do.” He brushed a thumb over your cheek, turning serious for a second. “You’re mine, baby. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” You leaned into his touch, nipping sweetly at his thumb. Hanma smiled. “Now show me how thankful you are.”

You went to work, sliding his pants and boxers down. He was hard already, his cock heavy in your hand. You licked up the underside of him on the vein you knew drove him wild. He let out a low hiss as your lips enveloped his tip. You licked at his tip, before taking him deeper in your mouth. Hanma’s head fell back, letting out low sounds of pleasure. “Fuck baby, feels so good.”

Sin and punishment tangled in your hair, pushing you deeper on to him. He used his grip as leveraged to fuck into your mouth. You gagged, throat tightening around him and a few mascara tears sliding down your face. He fucking loved the view. “Taking me so good - fuck - so good angel.” You squeezed his balls, hollowing out your cheeks more, desperate to see him finished. Second later he let out a low, throaty groan and spilled his seed in your mouth. You swallowed gladly, earning a proud grin from him. 

You fell asleep tangled up shortly after. The next day when Hanma woke up, he found a bruise on his face from where you hit him. It got him so hard he got right back into bed and fucked you.

I watched him show his love through shades of black and blue, starting fights at the bar across the street like you do

You’re a bit of a hypocrite, you can admit that. You hated when Hanma tried to make you jealous, but that didn’t stop you from returning the favor. You liked riling each other up; driving each other crazy was your love language. Plus, Hanma never fucked you better than when he was pissed.

So, how could you not let the guy at the bar buy you a drink? It was easy enough to twirl your hair and bat your eyes and get him smitten over you. You could feel Hanma’s eyes burning into you. It made your pussy ache. Then this poor fool put his hand on your waist, sealing his fate. 

Hanma was on him in a blink of an eye. He grabbed him by the collar and threw him to the ground. Before the guy could even get out a what the fuck are you doing Hanma stomped on his hand. “You ever fucking touch my girl again and you’ll lose that hand,” Hanma spat, ignoring his cries of pain. He gave him a hard kick to the ribs. “Shut the fuck up.” No one at the bar - owned by his gang - reacted; it was a typical evening for them. A few of Hanma’s underlings dragged him outside as he turned to you.

Hanma gripped your hair, pulling your face close to his. “You think you’re so fucking smart, huh?” He was dragging you towards the bathroom.

“Aw, Shu, we were just talking,” you replied innocently.

“Like hell you were.” He slammed the door behind him, locking it. 

“You sound a little jealous,” you poked at him. He spun you around, pushing you against the sink. His hand ran down the length of your spine, bending you over.

“You’re mine,” he snapped, “Looks like I gotta fucking remind you.” You heard the familiar clink of his belt hitting the floor. He flipped your skirt up, ripping your underwear off your body and tossing it to the floor. “Dripping like a slut. You want me that bad?” When you didn’t answer, a hand came down hard on your ass, making you yelp. “Asked you a fucking question.”

“Want you so bad daddy,” you whined, making Hanma’s eyes darken with lust. He pumped himself a few times before pressing into you. Your head dropped, moaning at the stretch. He grabbed your hair, yanking your head back.

“You’re gonna watch me fuck you,” he growled. Your eyes locked with his in the mirror as he pounded into you. The smack of skin echoed in the bathroom. You gasped as Hanma’s tip brushed the sensitive spots inside you.

“Fu- nngh - fuck Shuji,” you moaned.

“You think he could fuck you this good?” Hanma said, breathless as he fucked you, “Bet he wishes he could have you like this. Shit I should kill him for even thinking. I’d kill for you baby, you know that?” Your pussy squeezed around him at his words, lighting a fire in him. “Oh you’d like that, huh? Like me killing somebody for you? Such a nasty slut.” 

You whimpered in response and nodded, but it wasn’t enough for him. Punishment gripped your jaw vice-tight. “Wanna hear you say it.”

“Want you to kill for me,” you panted, pleasing Hanma. He licked up the length of your spine.

“I fucking love you,” he said, “want this whole bar to know how much I love you. That you belong to me.” Punishment slid down to your throat, squeezing. “Gonna scream my name and let them all know?” You nodded  furiously and Hanma smiled wickedly. Sin gripped your hip as he pounded into you impossibly harder. His hold on you was so strong you wouldn’t have been able to move an inch even if you wanted to. Not that you did; you were quite happy where you were.

Hanma kept a tight grip on your throat, choking you. He slipped his free hand forward to run fast circles over your clit. Just as your orgasm was on you, he let go of your throat, letting all the blood rush back to your head. Your orgasm was white hot with intensity. You screamed his name shamelessly, squirting all over the both of you in the process.

See you all fucked out pushed Hanma over the edge, cumming in you with one deep final thrust. He moaned your name just as loudly. He leaned over you, kissing and nipping at your shoulder. “You’re mine. Forever.”

“Forever,” you repeated like a prayer. 

The next morning, Hanma told you to get dressed. He was taking you to one of his gang meetings. You were instantly excited. You loved getting to watch him at work. You beamed with pride watching men cower before him. Hanma asked you to wear his favorite dress - a silky black number - and you obliged. 

You sat at your vanity doing your makeup. You had a few lavender bruises along your jaw and on your neck from Hanma’s hands. He came up behind you, kissing the bruises and telling you how much he loved you. A smug grin slid across his face as he looked at the little gold “Hanma” necklace that hung just above your breasts.

“If I didn’t have so much to do today, I’d fuck you right now,” he breathed in your ear, before giving your tits a squeeze. You giggled and followed him out the door.

The meeting, you realized, was less a meeting and more a doling out of punishments. Hanma, being one of the most feared members, was in charge of punishing some of the worst offenses. If you were a traitor or a member of a rival gang, he was the last person you wanted to see. 

Hanma enjoyed the dirty work. He much rather be here, knocking the teeth out of his enemies than sitting in a boring exec meeting. One traitor was dragged in begging and pleading, then dragged out unconscious. Hanma smiled through it all, only the blood on his knuckles and shirt would give away that something unsavory was going on to an outsider. Watching the beatings all you could think was, Hanma never hits me this hard. He must really love me.

You were there because Hanma liked to show off, both to you and the people who worked for him. He liked having his girl, dressed like you were, sitting beside him as if to say, “Look what I get to go home to.” He liked you to see how strong and powerful he is. It dawned on you, watching this, that this was also a warning of sorts. Betray me and this is what happens. But you couldn’t find it in you to be scared. You loved Hanma and you knew he did too, in his own twisted way. Hanma chased after other’s fear and you never giving it to him is what makes you so irresistible. You needed him and you’d make it so he always needed you. Worst case scenario, you knew where he hid the guns and you weren’t afraid to use them.

All those months ago, when you met Hanma in the parking lot you may truly have been a mouse. But now, sitting here, drinking in the sight of your lover beating his enemies, promising to yourself it would always be you and him, you became a snake yourself. Venom and all.

Good men die too, I’d rather be with you 

It was one of the rare days Hanma showed true, vulnerable emotion. He held you tightly, but delicately, like you were the most precious thing in the world. It made you feel so powerful; no one else got to see him like this. 

“I’m so sorry baby,” he murmured against your neck. You and Hanma got jumped while out on a date. Hanma had handled things, beating the two guys bloody. You got away unscathed, though he did have some bruising on his cheekbone and busted lip. You thought he looked handsome like that.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, you saved me Shu,” you replied, kissing the top of his head. 

“Don’t deserve you,” he replied, “You deserve a good man. Who’s gonna protect you if I get myself killed?” You could have told him to be the man you deserve. To do better or be better. But that wasn’t the Hanma you fell in love with, nor was it the one you wanted.

You took his face in your hands, looking into his honey-gold eyes. “Good men die too, I’d rather be with you.” Hanma’s eyes lit up at that, flicker’s of his normal self coming back. 

“I love you y/n,” Hanma replied, “You mean everything to me.”

Show me how much I mean to you while I’m lying in these sheets undressed

You stepped back from him, unzipping your dress and letting it slide down your body, leaving you naked. “Show me how much I mean to you.” You grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulled him down on the bed with you. Hanma’s pupils were blown out as he looked over your body. He pulled his clothes off quickly, eager to be with you.

He kissed you slow and deep. Some blood from the cut on his lip got into your mouth and you savored the sweet-metallic taste. He hand slipped between your legs to play with your slick pussy while you kissed. His long fingers pumped in and out of you in languid strokes. You could feel Hanma’s cock getting hard against your thigh.

“Want you so bad Shu,” you murmured as he licked at your nipples. He sucked at your tits, pulling soft whimpers from your lips.

“Gonna give my baby what she wants,” Hanma replied, lining himself up to your aching entrance. He pressed inside you and you relished the sweet stretch of him. Hanma rolled his hips, groaning. “So fucking tight for me.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into you. You kissed desperately, all tongue and teeth. Hanma picked up speed, but was nowhere near as rough as he normally was. His thrusts were deep and purposeful, letting you feel every inch of each other. Sin slipped between the two of you, rolling circles over your throbbing clit.

“Shu- fuck,” you gasped.

“Love you so much,” Hanma replied, leaving hickeys on your neck, “You're mine forever, you know that?”

“All - nngh all yours,” you stumbled, pleasure tying up your tongue, “Forever.” 

“Gonna put a baby in you,” Hanma babbled, drunk on the feeling of you wet pussy sucking him in, “Never gonna let you get away.” Your pussy throbbed at his words, which made Hanma smug with love. You wanted to reply, but your mind was fuzzy. It wasn’t long before your orgasm lit up your body with a blissful warmth. You moaned Hanma’s name, your back arching off the bed with gasping breaths. Feeling you squeezing around him sent Hanma over the edge, his dick twitching inside you as he filled you. 

Hanma let himself go soft inside you, before pulling out and sprawling out next to you. He reached into the bedside table, pulled out a cigarette and lit up. “I mean it, y/n. It’s you and me against the world.” Smoked fanned over your face as he spoke.

You stole the cigarette from him, taking a drag before replying, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[artistesoiree]

Nightfall in Sunridge Ranch

Chapter 1

{'70s Jack Daniels x Fem!OC)

Chapter 2

Rating: Mature Warnings: Mentions of blood and draining blood (she's a vampire, I feel it's a given), drug mention, mc is a bit eerie and her thoughts can be a bit troubling, Likely incorrect things about the 70s and Paris, France, as I was born in '02 and haven't been outside the PNW since I was born, Jack's too suave for his own good and probably shouldn't flirt with vampires, I hope he isn't OOC? Veronica's maker is interesting…(and is named after my favorite IWTV character) but I'll get into that in later chapters, takes place in the late 70s in a made-up Texan town WC: 3.8k

A/N:

Howdy, y'all! I wanted to write this because I've been recently inspired to begin writing again. I was inspired by Interview with the Vampire, 70s Texas, little bit of Ethel Cains Album Preachers Daughter, and my own OCs. The writing might be rough, but I'm proud of it. It's told in the first-person POV, and I hope you guys like Veronica as much as I do. She's a wreck and a weirdo .Oh, and the introduction was inspired by the beginning of The Vampire Lestat by Anne Rice.

headers by @/saradika

I am Veronica Sharpe. I am a vampire who stands six feet tall. I have been blessed with my mother's black curls and my father's family's white streak in it. I have my mother's pale complexion, cheekbones, plush lips, and aquiline nose. I have my father's slender green eyes. My father gave me his height, while my mother gave me the gift of a body with feminine curves. Over the years, while I have maintained my feminine body, I have gained muscle, which has dramatically complimented my figure. I am a strong woman. I am proud of that.

I was only twenty-one when I was turned in the year 1904. I lived in Paris, France, and several lovers sought my hand. One of them was my maker, Armand Sharpe. He was a tall man with a fine figure, and he loved his beautiful clothes and long silk like red hair. He collected art pieces and hung them in his home. He had found me painting in the Jardin des Plantes and asked kindly if he could buy one of my paintings. Armand loved his beautiful women; I was flattered to be one of them. 

He always talked about how I should be grateful that I remain eternally beautiful, that I will never age like most women, and that my youthful beauty will never leave. He always seemed too proud of it. And I am grateful, his beauty is like mine, eternal.

Although I am thankful that I remember my mother, father, and sister, Armand, when we first met, had made it possible for me to have photographs of my family. While I don’t remember my family name, I remember their names. My mother was named Estelle, and my father was Laurent, and my sister was Lucille. But sadly, I don’t know the name my mother gave me when I was born. I expressed my discomfort with not remembering my name to Armand, and he thought of a name for a moment until he told me that my name must be Véronique. It is a beautiful name, a one I deserve.

As time passed, my name changed from Véronique to Veronica. This transition came in ‘64 when a waitress misheard my name and called me Veronica in a thick southern California accent. She was a lovely gal. She was a Barbie blonde wearing a baby blue uniform, which suited her tanned skin tone. Her hair was styled like Farrah Fawcett's and smelled like Adorn Self-Styling Hair Spray. Veronica stuck. The transition was freeing from the name my maker and husband had given me. The name Armand would use to beckon me to his room was the name he would call with desire. 

I am very thankful to the waitress at that Los Angeles diner a couple of years ago; she gave me a new name, and may never know what it meant to me. I am sure Armand felt the same way, it is a gift to give a name to someone.

As I make my way along the winding Interstate 10 in Texas, the sky is painted with the last hues of the sunset, giving way to the emergence of countless stars. The radio fills the car interior with the nostalgic melody of John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads." This song has been the background to my travels for the past couple years. With my hand resting on the smooth, black leather steering wheel of my 1964 Ford Mustang, I tap my fingers in time to the music. The car, painted a deep raven black, seems to blend seamlessly with the night. Despite the darkness, I wear my circular black sunglasses with their delicate silver frame. It might strike some as odd to wear sunglasses at night, but I do so to conceal my naturally eerie and unnerving green eyes, a feature that has often drawn unnerving attention. 

I’ve never understood why they were unnerving. They’re my eyes; they’ve been green since childhood. Is there something I’m missing? Green is the color of the earth, why must I have to cover my beauty.

The fuel gauge on my dashboard is hovering dangerously close to empty, and as I glance out the window, a highway sign catches my eye. It reads, ‘Visit Sunridge Ranch, Texas! The Cowboy Capital of the USA!’ I find myself humming in response, realizing that not only do I need to refuel, but it might also be a good idea to find a place to stay for the night. The sun will rise soon, and although I won't burst into flames like in fiction, its rays will still leave me with a nasty sunburn, turning my pale skin red. It’s embarrassing. Armand would scold me like a child when I would come home red. As my husband, he often acted like a father, not my own. Oh no, he decided my father wasn't useful and took him away from me.

As I made my way into town, I was struck by its quaint charm and the subtle nods to its cowboy past. Before heading to the nearby motel, I decided to fill up my car with gas. As I approach the motel, I couldn't help but notice the small sign featuring a cowgirl riding a horse and the name "Desert Ranch Motel." It seems like a beautiful place to spend a day. The sign advertised a pool I plan to enjoy once the sun had set.

I hear the soft jingle of a bell as I push open the heavy wooden door to the front desk. Standing behind the counter is a woman who seems out of place in this ordinary setting. Her immaculate appearance and bored expression tell me she'd rather be anywhere else. I glimpse her name tag and see "Barbara" etched onto it. 

"Welcome to the Desert Ranch Motel, where the Old West meets comfort," she recites in a dry, monotone voice. "What kind of room are you looking for?"

The weirdest thing is that Barbara jumps when she looks up at me and tries to act as if she hadn't jumped. Am I creepy? Surely it cannot be my eyes, they cannot be creepy in this light. Was it my staring? My eyes burning into her.

As she asked if I was interested in the suite, I responded, "I will take the suite." I respond, there is nothing fancy about the way I said it. It was monotone. Following my response, she picked up the check-in book to check for its availability, or at least that's what I assumed she was doing.

"Sure... that'll be no problem," she says, keeping her pretty blue eyes on my figure as she checks the lodging book. That will be 15 dollars for the day," Barbara says uncertainly as I hand her the cash. She carefully notes my name in the lodging book and gracefully passes me the key. "The room is 28B. I hope you have a pleasant stay, ma'am," she says.

The prominent feature of the chain is a weathered cowboy pendant suspended from it, effortlessly enhancing the town's rustic charm and Western essence. I wonder who made it; it looks like an artist had a hand in making it. 

As I make my way down the hallway to 28B, the weight of my luggage is a reassuring reminder of the countless times I've journeyed down this similar hallway. I navigate the stairs quickly. Arriving at the end of the hallway, I reach for the doorknob and swing the door open. A smile spreads as I take in the view before me.

The wooden door creaks open as I enter the room, unveiling a spacious living area. The room features a sunken seating area adorned with vibrant patterned cushions encircling a central sunken pit that could double as a fire pit. The brick fireplace is the main focus, making everything warm and comfortable. 

Large windows flood the space with natural light, offering picturesque views of the pool outside. The high ceiling is adorned with several elegant hanging lights that glow warmly throughout the room. The inviting atmosphere makes it a pretty space to spend time and relax.

Behind the conversation pit, the bed steals the attention, decorated with a striking orange comforter and decorative pillows. The bedframe and nightstands complement each other, showcasing a matching wood. The clock on the nightstand displayed 3:02 am, signaling the impending arrival of dawn. Hungry from my long drive from San Antonio, I couldn't ignore the persistent itch of blood thirst at the back of my throat. As the first light of dawn began to break over the horizon, I felt the familiar hunger gnawing at my insides. It is different from a human's regular hunger pains; my stomach feels as if it’s going to turn inside out, and I might die. 

The craving for blood pounded through me, and I know I couldn't ignore it much longer. But living in this arid, desolate town presented a challenge—no nearby life sources could quench my thirst. Then it hit me: In such a deserted town, there is an option: to search for the presence of rats. Although I don't like the taste of rat blood, it satisfies my thirst for blood. Or perhaps the local diner could provide a solution. I could order a rare steak and let its rich blood juices satiate my hunger for the night. I always thrived while killing; there is something so satisfying about that iron-rich liquid spilling down my throat.

As I leave the dimly lit motel room, I check that my purse is securely slung over my shoulder. I mentally record the contents within—my wallet holding a substantial amount of cash, my ID, and the all-important hotel room key. Opening it, I make sure that my favorite perfume is safely nestled among the other items. Knowing I'll smell good despite the bloodbath I’m going to put myself through does put a smile on my face. 

I stroll across the road from the motel to The Kingsman Diner, relieved to see that it is open 24 hours a day. Knowing that no matter what time, I can always find a warm meal here is a comfort. Approaching the front door, I couldn't help but notice a small cluster of mice scurrying around towards the back of the diner.

Sneaking towards the back of the restaurant, I quickly grab a mouse and sink my fangs into its body. Draining the blood from it and tossing it into the garbage. I continue doing this to a few more mice, draining and tossing.  It is not human, but it will do for the night. I need to drink multiple in order to feel fine.

Lost in my bloodthirst, I fail to notice the creak of the back door swinging open. Suddenly, a gruff and low voice startles me from behind.

"Darlin, what are you doin’ near my garbage?" The man asks, and I freeze, realizing someone had caught me. I feel my heart racing as I quickly toss the mouse into the garbage and turned to face him. There was a little blood on my chin, and my hands are stained from the unsuccessful attempt to clean up the mess.

What am I doing? Did Armand’s lessons in cleanliness and manners exit my brain the first moment I stepped foot on American soil? I should vanish now. Wipe his memory, he never saw me.

But as I answered, "Nothing," he gave me a questioning look, and I’m grateful for the overhead light illuminating his face. He was very handsome, with a man in his forties with a strong, tall frame, warm brown eyes, and a mop of dark brown, short hair. A well-groomed mustache adorned his upper lip, adding to his cowboy appeal. He stood before me in well-worn jeans cinched with a leather belt, an apron over his chest, and a vibrant blue flannel shirt. He held a black Stetson cowboy hat in his hand, completing the look of a true cowboy. God, he has kind eyes, clean-shaven eyes, and a beautiful smile. And a confident swagger to him, Armand never really had that sort of confidence or swagger. He was quiet and foreboding. 

"Why do you have blood on your hands and chin there, Darlin?" The man asks, squinting his eyes and furrowing his brow as if trying to assess my appearance. My mind races as I desperately tried to come up with some sort of plausible excuse. "Were you drainin’ those rats?"

I stammer nervously in response, causing his brows to furrow even deeper. "I, uh, yes...?" I admit, my voice trembling slightly. "I may have taken ecstasy in my motel room. It seemed like a good idea at the time. In the past I loved to drink the blood on ecstasy, it feels lovely."

"Why in the world would drinkin’ rat blood even cross your mind as a good idea?" the handsome man asks, leaving me speechless. Incompetent to conjure a coherent response, I found myself unable to answer him. How about we forget this ever happened, and I whip up something to satisfy that hunger of yours?"

I nod eagerly, awaiting his following words. "What are ya in the mood for?"

"Can you make mashed potatoes and a rare steak? It's been far too long since I've had a meal like that, not since I left San Antonio," I tell him, wiping the extra blood on the sleeve of my black blouse. It won’t be seen anyway. His face cringes for a moment as I do that. God, he needs to stop staring at me.

As the man mulls over my request briefly, he gently scratches his chin and nodded in agreement. "Come on in. Why don't ya take a seat at the counter," he offered as we entered the cozy diner. "Maybe after you freshen up a bit..."

Pausing, I glance down at my hands and suddenly became conscious of my messy appearance. The fancy clothes I bought for myself have blood splatters on me, and my hair is nowhere near presentable. I should’ve washed up in my motel room. 

"Oh, excuse me, where can I find the restroom?" I ask, and he gestures towards the doors at the back of the diner, clearly marked 'Men' and 'Women.' 

"I'll be back. I'm sorry you had to see that, handsome stranger," I say to him with a wry smile, trying to lighten the mood. His chuckle is a welcome sound as my eyes wander up and down, finally landing on the name tag labeled ‘Jack’' "Jack, a handsome name for a handsome man," I remark, a twinkle in my eye, nervously laughing. Has it been this long since I’ve been around a man? He must think I'm an idiot. 

Jack’s chuckle resonates through the room, carrying a warmth that seems to surround the entire room. "Not a problem, darlin'," he says in a soothing, reassuring tone, his words comforting to my ears. He flashed a kind and friendly grin, and as he did, the well-earned wrinkles around his eyes deepened, adding character to his face. A rush of heat floods my cheeks, betraying the blush that crept up in response to his gaze. Sensing my reaction, he arched an eyebrow ever so slightly, his eyes shining with a knowing glint. 

Dieu qu'il est beau. (god he is handsome)

“I will be right back, Mr. Jack,” I chuckle nervously before heading toward the restroom. Mr. Jack?! Why would I call him that? Also, I says I would be back not even a minute before. Must I repeat myself like a babbling imbecile?!

I quickly went to the restroom, but the encounter was still fresh in my mind. As I stand in front of the mirror, I meticulously wash away the stains from my face and hands, taking care to remove every trace of the blood. It's hard to believe that my first impression of this rugged man was being covered in blood. I can't help but wonder what  Armand must think of me. I did always turn to him for advice. He was always a posed man; he would get angry when I wasn’t. 

But I do not remember even doing anything that vastly embarrassing with him. Did I do something wrong when I was with him? Have I always been this way, and he was helping me? Should I have not left him? I cannot act like a lady around a handsome man who saw me draining mice near his garbage. Well, not that it is a ladylike thing to do, but there are nicer ways of satisfying my thirst. But fuck being ladylike, Armand would use that word so often I never liked it.

Wait, that businessman wanted to get with me at that party in ‘71. Why am I realizing this now?  Have I always been this aloof? I need to do better.

“Bloody lady, ya doin’ alright?” I hear Mr. Jack from just outside the door, “You’ve been in there for twenty minutes or so,” 

“Sorry, I got lost in thought. I’ll be out in a minute!” I reply, and my cheeks redden due to my embarrassment. Splashing water on my face, I walk out of the restroom with a slightly embarrassed smile, rocking on my heels momentarily. “Sorry about that, it’s been a long day.” 

Mr. Jack chuckles again, “‘s alright, darlin’ you not from ‘round here, aintcha?” He asks as I sit down at the counter where he’s prepared my food. God, it looks delicious. Staring at him, a little confused, he smiles again. “You ain’t got an accent like us, ya almost sound European.”

“No, I’m not from around here. I was born in Paris, but I’ve been traveling alone for a while,” I reply, grabbing the fork he’s set out for me. He tilts his head, confused.

“Ya look lil young to be travelin’ for a while,”

“M-My…uhh-” I begin trying to find a good excuse: “My family ages well. I am in my thirties,” Okay, that’s not a bad excuse, and it’s true I do not age. Thanks, Armand; one of the only good things about this gift he gave me. He still deserves to die, though. 

"Well, I’ll be damned ya do look good, sugar,” Jack tells me with a suave smile on his face, “that white streak in ya hair is real pretty too, them eyes of yours are real pretty too. I always liked green eyes on ladies,” 

“Why thank you, Jack. You sure know how to make a lady blush,” I giggle momentarily, hiding my face behind my hand, and while taking a bite of the steak he made me, and god if it isn’t delicious. That cowboy sure knows how to make a meal. 

He and I both chat for a while and continue eating the meal he had prepared. He pauses for a moment before asking, “You says you were born in Paris, that meanin you french?” 

“I suppose?” I reply, thinking for a moment. “I grew up there, my parents were born there too. But I have not been there for good while, I am losing my accent.” 

“Clearly, you barely sound French anymore, sugar. Are you still speakin’ the language?” he asks, and I nod with a bright smile.

“Oui, j'aime toujours cette langue,” I say, and his eyebrows raise. Is he impressed? “I say, yes, I still love the language.” 

Jack chuckles as he takes my empty plate and cleans it quickly while I wait at the counter. Should I wait for him to come back? Or should I leave? This feels weird. My legs begin to sway underneath the counter, waiting for him to come back, my chin resting on the backs of my hands. 

He comes back a couple of minutes later, and I've been looking around the diner, taking in the details of it all. It’s a very cozy diner. The warm lighting adds to that. If I lived here, I would be a regular, I know it. 

“How long you in town sugar?” He asks, snapping me out of my daydream. 

“As long as I want, I tend to keep myself in different towns for a few days before leaving. But I can stay in a spot for months if I’d like. Why do you ask?”

“I wanna offer you a job, if you’d like it. It would be watiressin’ but it pays good with tips.”

My eyes widen for a moment. Is he serious? His expression says he isn’t; extra cash would be nice. I have been running out of it since I left France and stole an excellent sum of Armand’s fortune. It would be nice to stay in one spot long and not be on the run. He also did find me with blood all over me. Why is he offering me a job? Did he not find me in the back with blood all over me..he does not have good awareness.

“I like that a lot. It would be nice to have extra money and save up a good sum.” I say to him, and his lips curl into an almost sly smile. He looks too mischievous with that mustache of his, but that is a reason he’s a joy to be around. He is much better than Armand, so much better.

“Sounds like a plan darlin’ let me get ya the uniform,” He tells me, walking to a closet in the back and coming back with two things, a red dress, it has short sleeves and seems that it would end at my knees. What’s in his other hand is an apron, simple enough. “Here’s the uniform, keep your hair in a bun and simple earrings. You got shoes that could go with it?”

Pausing, I think back to the clothes in my luggage, more specifically, the shoes I’ve been carrying with me. There are a couple of options, and others that would never work for that uniform.

“Would a pair of red-heeled sandals work?” I ask, unsure if that’s what he is asking for. 

“I believe they would darlin’. You can wear those with the uniform. Have you ever waitressed before?”

“When I was in Paris, I worked briefly for a cafe. Is this similar to that?”

“You’ll do great sugar. Now go get some rest and I’ll see you here at 2pm okay?” He asks, and I nod quickly, my arms gathering the uniform he handed me in my arms. 

When I leave the diner, the sky is empty; spare it for the stars sprinkling in the sky. This town is eerily quiet. Paris was loud, and so was Los Angeles. I like quiet; I've always liked quiet. Maybe I should stay here. Until Armand uses his fledglings to find me again, then I will run. I do miss him, the chase is more fun knowing he misses me. But for now, I will stay. 

I hope y'all enjoyed it! I do plan to have more chapters, as this is just the beginning; I've got a bunch planned!

Taglist: @morallyinept @604to647