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avastrasposts · 1 year

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The Pilot and his Girl - ch. 22

I never know what to say when introducing a new chapter because I don't want to spoil anything! So just read and I hope you like it 😊😊

Series master list

Chapter 23

Word count: 6.4k

Warnings have their own post (and contain spoilers)

For once you wake up before the shrill of the alarm, the old wind-up clock still ticking away on Frankie’s bedside table. Twelve minutes until it goes off with a ring that reaches your neighbors. Since your neighbor is Pope you’re well aware of this, his loud banging on the wall almost drowning out the alarm when he’s in that mood.

You roll over and stretch out, your movements disturbing the bed enough to pull a low growl from Frankie. His arm is warm across your waist and when you roll over to face him he tugs you closer, tucking your head under his chin.

“Don’t wake up yet, cariño,” he mutters, his voice rough from sleep.

“The sun woke me up,” you mumble against his neck, “it’s almost time anyway.” Frankie’s hand smooths over your body, his fingers dragging softly over your back, as always they pause over the scars on your waist, just below your ribs. The gunshot wound healed over now, only rough patches of skin on either side of your body betraying what a close call it had been that day five years ago.

“Five years to the day, Frankie,” you say, as his fingers circle the top scar.

“Don’t remind me,” he grumbles, his fingers leaving the scar and slipping down to cup your ass instead, “five fucking years in a QZ, almost six years of this infection bullshit, and no end in sight.” He pulls you tighter, tugging the blanket over your heads, cocooning you under his warm skin and dim light.

Almost six years had passed, none of them easier than the next but at least you were both still alive, still together. Still in Arlington and still living in the same building as Pope, Benny and Hannah. But the effects of society coming to a grinding halt became more and more pronounced with every year that passed. Electricity came and went, blackouts were common. Hot water was rare now and often ran out before everyone had a chance to take a shower. But those were the things you got used to eventually, like patching every item of clothing until it fell apart, duct taping shoes until the holes were too big to fix. Greasy hair, broken fingernails, always wearing clothes slightly too big because you couldn't be picky about sizes when you needed a new pair of jeans after your old ones were so threadbare you couldn’t even use them for rags. But you did anyway because the end of the world unfortunately didn’t mean the end of your period.

Rations getting smaller and smaller was harder to deal with, going hungry most days was rough. There was some food production up and running in some parts of the country, and there were less people to feed, a lot less people. But transporting food, or anything, between QZ:s was still a very dangerous business. In the no man’s land between QZ:s, raiders and infected roamed, each lethal in their own way. Only the most hard core smugglers had the skills and the guts to leave the QZ and scavenge for supplies or trade with other smugglers.

Unfortunately for you, that was exactly what Frankie and Pope were now doing to make the ration cards last longer. Pope had lasted less than six months with FEDRA before he got fed up with the C.O. Feigning PTSD, he got himself discharged, telling you he preferred that to risking FEDRA lock up for punching the commanding officer. Together he and Frankie signed up for menial labor jobs inside the QZ, but it didn’t take Pope long to find new smuggling partners and new routes, going back to the job he’d done in Franklin.

At first he didn't involve Frankie, his friend working through withdrawals and treatment for his very real PTSD. Benny had tracked down a FEDRA officer who used to serve in the marines and had worked with veterans after his retirement. The elderly man, Herb, seemed to be exactly what Frankie needed. His cut the bullshit, Morales, attitude had Frankie mentally sitting up straighter after their first meeting. It took time, but little by little, he was able to use the tools Herb taught him to stop his mind from spiraling out of control. The nightmares were still there, but less frequent and less frightening, and waking up from them got easier. As they lost their power over his mind, sleep without drugs became less intimidating. Quitting them cold turkey turned out to be too difficult, but with Herb’s advice, you took control over them, giving Frankie one tablet at night to help him sleep. Gradually you gave him smaller pieces, until eventually Frankie decided he’d sleep without them. He’d still wake up in a cold sweat most nights, but now he could bring his mind under control and go back to sleep. It didn’t always work, but you made Frankie promise he’d wake you up if he couldn’t fall back to sleep after a nightmare. It made the nights less frightening when he knew he could bury his face in the crook of your neck, breathe in your sleep warm skin as you wrapped your arms around him. Sometimes that was all he needed, to pull you tight against him, feel your hands stroke his hair, down his back. Other nights he needed to talk about the nightmare, or something else, distract his mind enough so that he’d feel sleepy again. Whatever he needed, you made sure he had it, challenging him whenever his old habit of doubting his worth crept to the surface.

You needed him as much as he needed you, he gave your life meaning in the grim reality you now lived in. If Frankie was by your side, with all the love he gave you, there was still a reason to get up every morning and face the QZ. And you made sure he knew that, that his very presence made you feel calm and safe, and above all, loved. And you made sure he always knew how much you loved him, how if you had to choose between life before the outbreak without him, and life after the outbreak with him, you’d always choose life with him, despite the cordyceps virus and the heartbreak it had brought. Frankie was the center of your universe and you didn’t let him forget that for a single moment.

After about a year of Frankie doing menial work and meeting Herb at a makeshift office in his apartment twice a week, Pope asked Frankie if he wanted in on the smuggling. FEDRA had once again cut the number of rations they would pay and smuggling would help with that. You had to give Frankie credit, he didn’t say yes to Pope straight away, he came back that night and sat down, telling you what Pope had suggested. It scared you, the idea of Frankie, and Pope, going outside the QZ. If something happened, chances were you’d never know, they’d just never come back and you’d be left worrying and wondering. But their smuggling made sure there was enough food on the table for the three of you, and supplies that sometimes made the difference between life and death; medicines, especially antibiotics, were hard to come by and there were several people in the QZ who owed their life to Frankie and Pope being able to get their hands on certain medication. So, reluctantly, you told Frankie to work with Pope. And honestly, you’d rather they work together than with someone else. Years of serving together had made the two of them in sync, perfectly suited to handling the dangers of smuggling in and our of the QZ.

One of the dangers was being caught by FEDRA. They’d banned smuggling as soon as the QZ’s were up. Or not so much the smuggling as leaving the QZ, strict quarantine rules were in effect and anyone caught breaking them was punished. At first it had been only quarantine, fines and maybe time in a lock up. But by the time Pope asked Frankie to join him, the official punishment was public execution, although that had never been enforced yet.

Other QZ:s had fallen when people, both smugglers and others, had snuck in after being exposed to infected. Franklin was one of them, a small group of survivors had turned up a few days after the Franklin radio tower had gone silent. They said the breakout had occurred at the main market for trading, two people had suddenly turned and those bit as the market erupted into panic had been too afraid to face FEDRA, preferring to pretend nothing had happened. In those early days, many people still chose to live in denial of the infection.

The survivors from Franklin had been put in quarantine, half of them had turned within the day, and Arlington FEDRA had deemed it too risky to let the rest in. They’d all been executed. Pope had left FEDRA shortly afterwards, he’d been assigned to the firing squad, his eyes black when he told you the story.

By now Frankie and Pope had been smuggling for four years, establishing routes and connections both inside and outside the QZ. Today the plan was to go on a short run outside the QZ to meet up with smugglers from a nearby, smaller QZ. They were going to a location they’d been to many times, the route cleared from infected long ago and usually very safe, at least as safe as it could be outside the QZ. But they’re meeting with a new group to set up a new trade. The group had been recommended by smugglers Pope had been working with since the beginning, so he trusted them. But meeting new people and establishing a new trade was always risky. Pope had a long scar on his right forearm as a reminder from a new trade gone wrong, only Frankie’s quick trigger finger had saved him that time.

“I need to get up, Frankie,” you mumbled into his chest, he still had his arm around you and judging by his breathing, he’d almost fallen back to sleep.

“No,” came the drowsy reply, his arm tightening around you. “You stay here with me today, fuck everything.”

“Lovely as that sounds, if I’m late you know they’ll dock my pay, they’ve been worse than ever lately.” You wriggle out from under his heavy arm as Frankie grumbles in protest, but he lets you go. He has to push himself out of bed too and as you head to the shower to see if there’s any hot water this morning, he sits on the bed rubbing his eyes. He’d only woken up once in the night but it had been one of his worst nightmares. It was a recurring one replaying Lucía’s last moments, the loud gunshot echoing in his mind always woke him up, and when he opened his eyes he’d see her face floating in the darkness above him. Shoving the image away, he pushes himself off the bed with a groan and heads to the bathroom.

Frankie follows you to the shopping mall that still houses the kitchen, although the FEDRA HQ has left and moved into a warehouse area that had been unharmed in the bombing. The warehouses had been converted into barracks, storage units, and holding cells. The latter more frequently in use than ever as FEDRA cracked down with increasing force on any civil unrest in the wake of ration cuts and stifling control over the population of the QZ.

Outside the entrance to the mall you wrap your arms around Frankie’s neck and pull him close, leaning your forehead against his.

“Be careful and come home to me,” you whisper, the same thing you always say to him before he leaves. He nods and kisses you before pulling away.

“I love you, stay safe, hermosa.”

“I love you too, stay safe, Frankie.”

When you step into the mall there’s more people than usual around, and most of them seem to be gathered at the FEDRA notice board on one side of the large area.

“What’s going on?” you ask Kim, one of your co-workers who’s standing on the edge of the crowd.

“They’ve cut the number of ration cards they’re paying again, and coffee is no longer available with cards, neither is powdered milk. And they’ve cut the cooking oil ration in half,” she shakes her head and adds in a low voice. “People are gonna get pissed, especially about the coffee, everyone knows coffee is still served at FEDRA HQ every day.”

Another one of your co-workers, a young man called Peter, pushes through the crowd and joins you. “C’mon, let's get to the kitchen,” he says and grabs Kim by the arm, pulling her along and jerking his head for you to follow. “What’s going on, Pete?” you ask but he doesn’t reply, until the door into the kitchen’s changing room has closed behind you.

“They’re banning congregating, no groups larger than two people are to meet anywhere except if you’re in a family, starting tomorrow,” he says, shrugging off his coat.

“How are they even going to enforce that? There’s six of us in the kitchen alone, everyone works in groups larger than two. Are they going to have guards everywhere?” you ask incredulously.

“I don’t know, but the notice said anyone reporting on illegal congregation or ‘disruptive conversations’ will be rewarded with extra ration cards.”

“So they’re trying to make people tell on each other,” Kim says, her voice grim, “they really are fucking facists.”

“That’s not the worst of it,” Peter adds, “from tomorrow, the curfew five pm unless you have a special pass from FEDRA, if you’re on a late shift. And being caught outside after curfew puts you in lock up for a month, and then you’re assigned to the FEDRA work detail.”

The FEDRA work detail was made to do all the jobs no one else wanted, disposing of bodies, sewage sweeps and cleaning, or assigned to the most dangerous jobs, like clearing the area around the QZ of infected on a regular basis. If you volunteered for them it paid well, if you were assigned to it as a convict, it paid nothing. Those people lived at the FEDRA lock-up and lived off basic rations for the term of their incarceration. There was no court system so the length of the stay was arbitrary, most didn’t survive long enough to see the end of their term.

“They’re going to have riots on their hands soon,” you said, putting away your jacket and bag in a locker. “Between ration cuts and the ban on trading clothes and shoes, not even being able to meet with friends is going to push things over the edge.”

Peter and Kim nod as the three of you make your way into the kitchen for your shift.

You run into Benny as you get back to the apartment block that evening. He’s still with FEDRA, sharing an apartment with Hannah two floors above Frankie and you. Today’s the first time you’ve seen him in a few days, he’s been away on assignment and it’s good to see him back and safe. It looks as if he’s had time to shower and he’s just returning with a bag of groceries, holding up the door for you after you give him a hug. It’s almost funny, before the outbreak, you wouldn’t necessarily have hugged Benny or Pope every time you saw them. But now, with the ever present risk of each goodbye being the very last, you always hug them when you see them again. It’s also why you always tell Frankie you love him and to come home to you, when he leaves. You’re well aware that he might not come home, you push that thought to the back of your mind as often as you can, but you don’t want your last words to him be something mundane like ‘see you later, babe.”

“Do you and Frankie wanna come up for dinner tonight,” Benny asks as you make your way up the stairs with him. “Hannah won’t be back until late but I need to talk to Pope and Frankie.”

“They’re working on the far side of the QZ today, I’m not sure when they’ll be back,” you tell him, “but if they’re back in time for dinner we’d love to come up.” You’re pretty sure Benny knows exactly what Pope and Frankie does, how they supplement the ration cards they make doing odd jobs for FEDRA, but it’s never been acknowledged so you keep it vague.

Benny nods and pauses on your landing, “Come up when you can, they can join us when they’re back,” he says, “I was given a nice bottle of whiskey by a guy today, I saved his ass a couple of days ago, guess he was feeling grateful.”

“Sure, let me just shower and change and I’ll be right up,” you reply, giving Benny a wave.

A short, and cold, shower later you’ve changed and left a note for Frankie that you’re at Benny’s place. He lets you in when you knock on the door two floors up. You’ve brought some leftover arepas from last night, corn flour is one of the crops not affected by the cordyceps fungus and is now a staple in the QZ. .

“I miss bread so much,” you grumble as you hand the arepas to Benny, and he nods.

“I’d kill for a grilled cheese,” he nods and your mouth waters at the thought of it.

“And pizza,” you drool and Benny groans.

“Don’t, don't make me think of pizza. That I really would kill for!”

There were attempts at growing wheat crops that weren’t susceptible to the cordyceps fungus, but so far the batches produced were too small. And tending the fields was dangerous work when they weren’t fenced off. And you needed a lot of fence to fence off whole fields. But FEDRA often informed the public of encouraging news like these to keep morale up, and it was needed. Almost six years into the outbreak, morale was at an all time low and falling. There were still reports of vaccine research but so far there wasn’t even a way to slow down the infection once someone was bit and you remained skeptical to all reports of a vaccine.

Benny pours you a generous measure of the whiskey and you laugh as you see the four fingers in your glass.

“Trying to get me drunk, Benny?”

“Na, if I remember correctly, tequila is your poison,” Benny chuckles and pours himself an equally large glass.

“I’m never drinking tequila again, even if you do find a bottle,” you grin. “Did Frankie tell you that’s how I blurted out that I love him the first time? Way too drunk for that kind of honesty.”

“No, he never told me about that,” Benny turns down the heat on the stew simmering on the stove and sinks down onto the couch, you curl up in the opposite corner with your drink.

“It was that time I accidentally asked you if you were any good in bed,” you laugh and Benny grins.

“I vaguely remember, I was pretty drunk myself that night,” he chuckles and sips the whiskey.

“Did you ever manage to hook up with that blonde you were trying to make me help you with?”

“No, but I went home with her friend instead,” Benny gives you a wicked grin and raises his glass to you in a toast across the sofa.

“Of course you did,” you snort, toasting him back.

“So you told Fish you love him while drunk on tequila?” Benny asks when he puts his glass down. “I always thought he was the first to crack and declared his undying devotion to you on your second date.” He’s grinning and you lean across and slap his arm.

“Be nice, Benjamin,” you chuckle before leaning back, “I think we were both pretty nervous about saying it, Frankie has so much baggage and I had a pretty shitty relationship behind me too. So while drunk on tequila I told him, while we were still at that bar, he took it well though, thank god.”

“He was crazy about you from the first night,” Benny smiles at you, “I’ve never seen him so relaxed around someone he was dating as he did that time you guys ran into me and Will at breakfast, remember?”

“Vividly,” you laugh, “Frankie might’ve been relaxed around me, but he was not happy you guys were there.”

“Was that a breakfast date or had you just…?” Benny shoots you another wicked grin and you have to lean over and slap his arm again. “I’m just asking,” he laughs, swatting your hand away, “Frankie did look very pleased, if you know what I mean.”

You roll your eyes at him but can’t help but laugh, Benny was right on the money of course, that was the morning Frankie had proved he could make you come four times in short succession, turning your legs to jelly in the process.

“What do you think, Benjamin?” you snigger and he tilts his head back and laughs out loud.

“I fucking knew it!”

“It was almost seven years ago, Ben, why do you even care?” you giggle, Benny has an infectious laugh and it’s impossible to be offended by his question.

“Because I like being right, even if I had to wait seven years to confirm it,” he raises his almost empty glass to you in another toast. “To Catfish, and his enormous dick.”

You’ve raised your glass but almost drop it as you gasp with laughter, doubling over on the couch. “You are the fucking worst, Ben!”

“Hey, I’ve been in enough changing rooms with Fish to know he’s packing some serious business, I’m just happy you get to enjoy it.” Benny’s laughing almost as hard as you are and neither of you hear the knock on the door.

“Look at you two, getting drunk on a Tuesday evening,” Pope snorts as he looks in on the two of you on the couch from Benny’s front door. Frankie’s standing behind him, smiling at you.

“Hey guys!” Benny calls, “We’re just reminiscing about some serious business,” he waves his drink in your direction with a grin, “C’mon in and join us, we’re sharing aaaaaall the stories.” You start giggling again, the whiskey has gone straight to your head and you feel all fuzzy around the edges, and even more relaxed now that Frankie is home safe. He pulls off his boots and sinks down behind you on the couch, kissing your cheek from behind as he pulls you into his chest.

“Hermosa, did you let Benny get you drunk?” he smiles, the cool tip of his nose skating across your skin as you lean back into him.

“Only a little, just a little bit tipsy,” you say, “I have no tolerance for alcohol these days.” Frankie feels warm and solid behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist and you drop your head back onto his shoulder, turning your head so that you can breathe him in as you press your lips to his warm skin.

“Oh, she’s so drunk,” you hear Pope chuckle from across the room.

“She’s not drunk, she only had a glass of whiskey,” Benny says, getting up to heat up the stew for dinner.

“Did you pour the drink, cariño? Or did you let Benny serve you? Because I’ve seen the size of his servings.”

“It was a pretty big drink,” you admit, “but I didn’t finish it,” you wave your hand at the table where your glass still sits.

“That glass is empty,” Pope says and you pull yourself up from Frankie and look down at the very empty glass.

“Oh, I guess I did drink it all,” you say, and drop your head back on Frankie’s shoulder while he chuckles, you can feel his chest vibrating under you. “Benny distracted me, we were talking about you and that time we had breakfast with him and Will.”

“You guys had totally just done it,” you hear Benny giggle from the kitchen and Pope snorts, he’s heating up the arepas, the smell of toasted corn starting to spread through the apartment.

“Benjamin,” Frankie sighs from behind you, “don’t make me smack you.”

“I’d like to see you try, Morales,” Benny challenges with a grin, raising his fists like a boxing champ, “Actually, I’d use your girl as a stand in, she’s lethal these days.” Benny adds and you smile at him. Praise from Benny on your fighting skills was rare and didn’t come easy. He was a tough teacher but he’d been drilling you every week since your gunshot wound had healed, taking his assignment from Frankie seriously. These days you felt fairly certain there were few people in the QZ who’d be able to take you in a fight, with the exception of Benny, and maybe Frankie and Pope. Benny didn’t even pull his punches with you any more, and he was finding it harder and harder to actually get a hit in without going into full combat mode.

“Alright, dinner’s ready, c’mon on over,” Ben says, turning off the stove, and Frankie pulls you to your feet.

“Let’s get some dinner into you, ‘not drunk girl’,” he smiles as you wrap your arms around his neck, standing on your tiptoes and bumping your nose to his.

“I didn’t tell him how you made me come four times that morning,” you whisper and to your delight, Frankie’s ears turn pink as a blush creeps up his throat. He quickly checks behind him to make sure Pope and Ben didn’t hear but they’re busy, before he turns back to you.

“And I’ve beaten that record several times since,” he smirks, an unusually smug look on his face, as he drops a peck on your nose.

Benny’s stew is mostly beans and root vegetables, a few bits of rabbit to add some flavor. There’s a small rabbit farm in the QZ, set up in one of the parks, and despite the rabbit population being small, there was sometimes rabbit meat available with ration cards, especially if you were high up in FEDRA as Benny was.

Almost six years in FEDRA had seen Benny climb almost to the top, but still one rung under the final top layer. The man in charge of FEDRA was still the C.O. who had taken over shortly after you’d arrived in Arlington, an obnoxious scumbag named Cox. And for whatever reason, he detested Benny. Personally you thought it was because Benny was respected and liked by those who served under him, something Cox was not. And Benny wasn’t one to suck up to the higher ups just to get a promotion, you had to earn his respect. Cox was a weak leader, surrounding himself with ‘yes men’ by giving them special privileges and collecting favors. Benny refused to play his game so he was stuck as patrol leader with few advantages despite being one of the longest serving soldiers in FEDRA.

As it turned out, this was the reason Benny wanted to talk to Pope and Frankie tonight. You felt yourself sobering up, helped by the food and the water Frankie had poured for you and at the end of the meal, you all returned to Benny’s couch, the men with whiskies in their hands, you with a coffee.

“How did the smuggling run go today?” Ben asks, looking at Pope, who all but sputters into his drink. He throws a quick glance at Frankie who looks equally flustered before he looks back at Ben.

“Ben, dude, I don’t know….”

“Cut the bullshit, Pope, I’m not blind.” Ben leans back on the couch and puts his feet up on the low table. “I know you and Frankie have been smuggling for years. And I want in.”

You could’ve knocked Frankie and Pope over with a couple of feathers, they exchange another glance and Pope slowly puts his glass down on the table, “What do you want in on, Ben?”

“Listen, Cox is being worse than ever. The lack of supplies means he’s got less to pay his inner circle of cronies, who keep him in charge. So to compensate, he’s cutting the rations for everyone, FEDRA soldiers too.”

“Why is Arlington so low on supplies?” you ask. “From what we hear, other QZ’s are doing alright, no ration cuts and none of this bullshit about stopping people from meeting and hanging out.”

“Because Cox knows he needs his supporters happy if he’s to stay in power,” Benny says, “and he’s having to give them more and more supplies.”

The inner circle around Cox, the ‘yes men’, are all intimidating, grim looking men, quick to anger and quick to use violence to get their way. The inhabitants of the QZ fear them and the arbitrary punishment they deal out. That fear keeps Cox in power, no one challenges him, not even the soldiers. You’d asked Benny about it a couple of times and he was certain Cox would order him on a suicide mission the second he sensed that Benny was challenging his power. And with Hannah to look after, he wasn’t prepared to risk it, so he kept his head down and was passed over for promotion. But now he was prepared to risk getting involved in smuggling, things must be bad, you thought.

“I can supply you guys with information,” Ben says, looking at Pope and then Frankie when neither of them say anything. “I know the patrol routes, the times, and I see all the reports of supplies that are found. With my intel you could even hit some of the supply caches outside the QZ.”

Frankie, always the quiet one, who thinks before he speaks, looks over at Pope with raised eyebrows, questioning him. He shrugs his shoulders and looks over at Ben, “I’m not gonna pretend your help wouldn’t be very useful, man.” Pope leans forward, elbows on his knees, looking up at Ben under his eyebrows, “But if you get caught, or Cox catches wind of you helping smugglers, you’ll be out of FEDRA and he’ll probably put you on FEDRA work detail if he can, proof or no proof.”

“I’d like to see him try,” Benny growls, leaning forward to match Pope’s position. “This situation with Cox is going to blow up, sooner or later. And I don’t mean that I’ll lose my temper and punch him. The QZ is going to blow up, people were already unhappy, and with these new regulations…” Benny’s voice trails off as he mimics a bomb going off.

“People at the kitchen were not happy about the new rules,” you say, “with FEDRA trying to get people to snitch on each other, it really feels like it’s turning into a police state.”

Benny nods, “Things are brewing, and Cox is petrified, hence the new rules, but he just made things worse. And if things do blow up, I wanna be on the right side, and that side won’t be FEDRA.”

“Ok,” Pope says, “if you want in, Benny, I’m fine with that, of course,” Frankie nods in agreement as Pope continues. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re risking.”

“I know, don’t worry about it.” Benny replies, “And I’ll get you as much info as possible but eventually I have to leave FEDRA, and then I wanna join you outside the wall too.”

You’ve been listening to the exchange with growing unease, it had always felt like Benny being in FEDRA gave both you and the guys an extra layer of protection, if something went wrong. But with Benny talking about how the QZ might erupt into violence and him leaving FEDRA made you nervous. Life was hard enough without having to worry about FEDRA’s unjust rules and on top of it all, with Pope, Frankie and now Benny, involved in smuggling, you feel like you were the only one not helping out. Just continuing to work for FEDRA in feeding the soldiers and bringing in less and less ration cards.

“Maybe there’s something I can help with too,” you say, “like be a look out for when you guys come and go.” Frankie is sitting next to you and even before you’ve finished the sentence you can see him shaking his head but you ignore him and look at Pope, “Santi, you’ve said a couple of times you’ve had close calls because you had no early warning of patrols, maybe I could help with that?” Pope opens his mouth to answer but Frankie cuts him off, “No, I’m not letting you get involved with smuggling, cariño,” his hand is around your wrist and he’s squeezing it gently to get your attention, his eyes suddenly anxious. “I wouldn’t be able to focus on what we’re doing if I know you’re out there too, I need to know you’re safe so that I can concentrate.”

“She’d be safe, Fish,” Pope interjects, “She’d be in one of our look outs inside the wall, just keeping an eye out fo-.” Frankie gives Pope such a dark look, it cuts him off and Frankie turns back to you.

“I know you want to help, but I can’t let you, please, cariño, you’ve got to understand that.”

You put your hand over Frankie’s and nod, “Ok, I understand Frankie, I won’t push it.” You see his eyes soften as he puts his hand on your cheek.

“Thank you, hermosa.”

The front door opens and Hannah walks in, looking tired and annoyed, just returning from her evening shift at the kitchen. You often worked the same shifts but recently they hadn’t been overlapping.

You all greet her as she slumps down into the couch next to Santi and he gives her a hug, her head dropping onto his shoulder with a big yawn.

“Let me get you some dinner,” Benny says and gets up, “Do you want a whiskey too? I got some good stuff today.”

“A tiny, tiny one, thanks Ben,” she says, and twists her back around, stretching out her sore muscles.

“Come here, hermana, let me help,” Santi says and makes her shift so that he’s behind her and can dig his thumbs into her shoulders, rubbing over the knots. Hannah sighs and drops her head forward as his thumbs work their way across her back.

“Thanks, that feels amazing.”

“Tough shift, you’re back kinda late?” you ask, used to how exhausting the evening shifts can be in the kitchen.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t late because of the shift,” she replies. “You guys heard about the new curfew?”

“Yeah, but that’s not in effect until tomorrow,” Ben says, coming back in and putting a bowl of stew on the table alongside a fairly large whiskey.

“Tell that to Cox’s guys,” she scoffs. “They stopped a bunch of us coming back from the kitchen and demanded to see our permits and then threatened to throw us in lock up when none of us had any. I told them that’s only from tomorrow!” You see her eyes flash with anger and Santi taps her shoulders to make her relax again. “One guy, Peter, you know him,” Hannah looks over at you and you nod, you’d talked to him only this morning, “he told them they had no right stopping us now, that they were out of line and they grabbed him and started beating him up!”

“What?” Benny spits out, “I’m gonna fucking throw them in lock up!”

“Is he ok, Hannah?” you ask and she shakes her head. “I don’t know, they took him in for ‘disturbing the peace’, he was bleeding but not too badly. But the fucking nerve on them!”

“I’ll check on him tomorrow,” Ben growls, “make sure he’s ok and get him out of there.”

“And they let the rest of you go?” Santi asks, his hand still rubbing her shoulders.

“Yeah, I guess they got the action they wanted, beating some poor guy up,” Hannah sighs, rubbing her hand over her face before picking up the bowl of stew.

Later that night, as Frankie crawls into bed next to you, he has a worried look on his face again.

“I don’t like the sound of what’s happening in the QZ, with Cox and his guys,” he says, pulling the covers up over you both and propping himself up on his elbow so that he can look at you. “Please be careful, and maybe come straight back home after your shifts, unless you absolutely have to go somewhere else.”

“I’ll be fine, Frankie, you know me. I always keep my head down and stay out of their way,” you cup his cheek, running your fingers over his scruffy beard and he gives you a crooked smile.

“I know, but you know me too, I always worry about you.”

He lets you pull him closer and you easily find his lips with yours, making him part them for your tongue as he sinks down next to you. You give him a soft peck before you tuck yourself into the crook of his neck, his arms finding their places around your waist and under your head.

“Love you, Frankie,” you mumble, sleep pulling you under.

“Love you to, hermosa,” he whispers close to your ear, pulling you a little bit tighter against himself.

Of course it was Hannah that became the spark. Hannah, the high school teacher, who Will had fallen in love with and married because her heart was so firmly in the right place, who kept his head steady with her unwavering instinct to protect the weak and always sided with the troubled teens at her school. For as long as Will and the guys had known her, she’d taken in every stray she came across, cats, dogs, hedgehogs, birds, kids. If there was a small creature, lost or injured, Hannah would take it in and nurse it back to health. The running joke was of course that Will was one of her strays, lost after years in the military, finding a woman who saw past his hard core military persona and let him find peace with her.

While you kept your head down and avoided the FEDRA soldiers, especially the ones you knew were close to Cox, Hannah couldn’t keep silent when she saw someone being treated badly.

And that got her into trouble and ignited the QZ.

Chapter 23

Taglist: @pimosworld @i-own-loki @casa-boiardi @littlenosoul @stormseyer @mxtokko @javicstories @nunya7394 @welcometothepedroverse @harriedandharassed @meveispunk @hiroikegawa

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #frankie morales fluff #frankie morales fanfic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fandom #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou #francisco catfish morales fanfiction #frankie catfish morales #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x fem!reader

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jemmaxlawson · 4 months

Text

𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒

𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄: Jemma Lawson

𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄(𝐒): JayJay, Jemster (she hates it)

𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄: april 11, 1995

𝐀𝐆𝐄: twenty-nine years old

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇: wilmington, nc

𝐍𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃: masonboro

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑/𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒: female, she/her

𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: owner of "ordinary" (a tea shop in midtown) / volunteer at men's best friend vet clinic

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐒: sofia carson

𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘: simon & (adoptive parents), kian lawson ( adoptive older brother), rosemary breslin (maternal grandmother, deceased)

𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍: n/a

𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: heretosexual (demisexual)

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: single

𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒: taylor swift blasting through headphones/speakers, pressed flowers & leaves, dirt underneath fingernails, talking to plants to help them grow, the scent of pine trees after rain, the smell of scented candles, windows filled with plants, sunlight coming in, getting lost in the woods, being the sunshine in everyone else’s life

𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘

cult mention tw, child abandonment tw

Born to a teenage runaway, Jemma is a product of unplanned teenage pregnancy that forced her mother to leave home at the age of seventeen; her father remaining unknown. She was born and raised in an all-female commune led by a man named Lucas. Jemma had barely turned three years old when her mother (intentionally or not) left her in one of the alleys at a hardware store in Midtown. Upon close investigation into the matter, some people said she had left in a hurry, while others are convinced she never even looked back while walking out of the store. Luckily, that's the moment Jemma's fate turned around for the better. Despite all the efforts the police and the child care workers put into finding her mother or anyone else who may regain custody of the young girl, she was soon declared an orphan and placed under foster care. Of course, since she was found on their property, the Lawsons offered to become her foster parents while the authorities kept searching for her relatives. Unfortunately, without any leads, the search was soon ended and a couple years later Jemma officially became part of the Lawsons. Due to her young age when all of it happened and the support and love she got from her foster family, she adjusted quite easily into her new life. She had always dreamt of a loving family, despite how close the commune community was, and having an older brother was the missing piece she never knew she needed in her life until she got one. Even if in the years to come they would get into some small quarrels as any siblings do and at times his protectiveness felt more like a curse than a blessing (especially during her teenage years) but she always knew he did it all out of good intentions and there was no doubt she'd do the same for him or their other two sisters, too.

At the age of sixteen Jemma got her first real job outside of helping out in the family’s business. It was at a local tea shop owned by a lovely woman named Rosemary Breslin. She taught her all about growing plants and herbs on her own, then collecting the leaves and flowers, drying them and brewing various blends and mixtures. Aside from that, she also taught her the healing powers of different plants and herbs and the way she could successfully create all-natural remedies. It was something Jemma didn’t know she had affinity towards but the thing she loved the most was the calming atmosphere in the shop. It felt like a second home to Jemma. She was eighteen years old when Rosemary finally broke her silence and confessed she was her maternal grandmother.

Deep down Jemma always knew the Lawsons were not her true family; there was barely any similarity between her and her parents or her brother, who both looked alike, yet that didn’t change how she felt about them or the fact that they were her family more than the people who had given her life and then abandoned her. Still, hearing the truth being said out loud was met with mixed feelings on her behalf. On one side, she was tempted to learn more about her mother and the reasons behind her decision to give her up; on the other, the closer she got to Rosemary and the fact that she didn’t know how to bring the news to the Lawsons (especially after Simon’s decline in health) made her feel like a complete traitor. In the end, the pressure became too much for her to handle and Jemma decided to leave Wilmington for a little while, spending the time traveling.

She returned just in time for Rosemary’s passing six years ago. It came as no surprise to many that the woman decided to leave her tea shop to Jemma, considering how close they were and how Rosemary practically taught her in the manner of becoming her successor. Yet only Jemma knew the real reasons Rosemary probably had while writing down her last will.

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

Her name, Jemma, means 'dove' in Hebrew, so she got a tattoo (probably while traveling or as a teen) of a small dove behind her right ear.

She's known for fostering animals in need whether it's one she found on the streets or are currently looking for their forever homes but the vet clinic can't afford to keep them any longer. That's actually how she got her kitten, Piper.

She's also proud owner of a one-years-old samoyed named Olaf.

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒/𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐒 - HERE.

#wnc.intro

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mercymaker · 1 year

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hi hi i am asking about mal :3 can i have a headcanon on hygiene please? does mal make sure her nails are always clean? does she wash her hair daily? does she wear perfumes? does she avoid people who smell bad? would she be up for bathing with someone? etc etc!!!

Aaaa, this is such a wonderful ask, thank you! ♥

So! Mal grew up out in the woods, so naturally she knew nothing of the perfumed and powdered ways of the city-dwelling folk, especially the nobility. However, while her mother did defect and abandon the ways of the Lolth-sworn society, she did carry over a lot of their beliefs and cultural norms. That, of course, included being a little obsessed with beauty, so even while living in less than ideal conditions, A'sherra made sure to always look her best, painstakingly washing her hair and putting it in an oiled braid, cleaning her fingernails, etc. etc.

She did instill some of those habits in Mal, however, the girl also learned from her father and the dude would be rolling around in mud and whatnot on his hunts and outdoor trips that he'd take Maleane on as well (about the only way he could endure living with A'sherra at times).

While living alone in the woods, Mal would wash her face every morning, but that's about as far as her daily hygiene rituals go. She would get sweaty and warm while busy on her daily chores, at times long treks out of the woods and she didn't mind having a bit of a sweaty smell to her, dirt between her toes, etc. However, if there's one thing that Mal absolutely loves is swimming. Ponds, rivers, lakes, you name it. One of her top things to do is just get naked and float in the water, eyes closed, listening to the sounds brewing under the surface.

At times, while washing her clothes, she'd grab some of the crude soap made from wood ash and grease, and wash herself and her hair, per her mother's instructions, but that wasn't as common as people nowadays are expected to do. It does help that she's likes collecting herbs so her little hut is full of dried mint, lavender, and other sweet-smelling odors that cling to her clothes making them smell a little better.

After venturing out into the "civilized world" she did start making more of an effort to look a certain way (all about the way you're perceived making it easier to manipulate the situation), her messy hair soon got an upgrade. + fighting groups of people/creatures would inevitably leave them all covered in all sorts of fluids and textures. So yeah, more washing!

I don't think she minds smelly people too much, because her nose had so many encounters with smelly stuffs of the woods AND one thing she does eventually discover about herself is that some people have a, uh, stink to them that's quite enjoyable (ye ye ye after battle they were all sweaty in camp and she found herself blushing at the way some of the sights and smells of her companions made her feel sdfsdgadg)!

Mal would like to bathe with someone! My lil HC is that in Mal's little forest house (poooooooost game), she'd have a big wooden tub out in the back that she'd occasionally fill with warm water and just sit there, taking in all the sounds of the forest. And she'd definitely share it with whoever's visiting! That one time Shadowheart did her hair? Well, they both were washing their stuff in the river and got a little nakey and, uh... the touch?? ? From someone else? So tender and soft? It took Mal's breath away and the girl got flustered but had to keep it cool! So, I think for her it's quite intimate, getting all nakey, close, being careful, gentle... *nod nod*

#asks #the bg3 adventures #userfray #bg3 #oc: maleane #she's dirty and sweaty out in the woods but then you see her buying lemons out in the city #hair clean clothes nice #and you start to wonder if mal has a twin or something #(don't get me started on the brain stuffs on mal's sibling/s)#but yet again thank you so much for this ask #i loved thinking about it and writing it down #hope it's not too long sdgdaf

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foreveranevilregal · 2 years

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Can you please do a where Julieta sees that loads of the birth control was taken but Pepa didn't take that much, so they get suspicious of their girls and it turns out to be Dolores or Isabela.

Sure! I love this idea, and I hope I did it justice. It's a bit long; I seem to be incapable of writing shorter things anymore. Enjoy!

Julieta came home after a surprisingly light day of healing. Either people hadn’t gotten hurt as much, or they’d learned to get by without her gift during the months when their Casita was being rebuilt. Finding herself with unexpected free time, she decided to take stock of her inventory of healing supplies and see if she needed more of anything.

She sorted through her various herbs, hung in bunches around the kitchen or stored in jars in her little cupboard. Methodically, she went through each herb, writing down how much she had left in her notebook. Soon, cramped but neat handwriting littered the pages. The amounts of each herb were about what she expected for the time of year. She’d been keeping track of her supplies since she was a teenager, and she had discovered there were trends to when certain herbs would be used more frequently. Winter colds required different remedies from spring allergies. But many stayed relatively constant.

When she reached the herbs used for feminine ailments, she found a surprise. Her stock of contraceptive herbs had been nearly depleted. Sure, the tea needed to be drunk every day, and Julieta had, of course, kept track of which women she’d given some, but it didn’t explain the unexpected shortage she faced. Someone must have been helping herself to her supplies, but who?

She racked her brain for the people she knew used her remedies. Most of them were outside her family (except Pepa) and stopped by regularly to pick up some more herbs as needed. Julieta never gave out too much at once, wanting to minimize the risk of someone accidentally drinking too much and getting hurt. But here she was, with about three months’ worth less herbs than she expected to have.

Julieta frowned. She’d have enough to get through the month but would need to grow some more to keep up with demand. Normally, she preferred to grow her plants herself. Something about tending her plants from a seed to a full-grown plant made the experience extra gratifying. Plus, she enjoyed getting her hands dirty; scooping out dirt to nestle in the seedlings, breathing in the earthy scent, even getting dirt under her fingernails didn’t bother her. It was all proof of her hard work that would go on to help people.

However, she didn’t have that luxury now. As much as she hated to do this, she’d have to ask Isabela for help. It didn’t seem fair to use her daughter’s gifts in this way, but…this was to help other people, right? So that made it okay.

Wait. Isabela… Isabela was the right age to use contraception. And she’d have easy access to it too, living here and knowing where it was stored. Surely she wouldn’t need it though… she wasn’t even seeing anyone, as far as Julieta knew.

As far as she knew. Julieta sank into a chair, feeling faint. It wasn’t so much the idea of Isabela using the herbs that upset her as much as her taking them on her own. Isabela was an adult, and she was allowed to partake in adult activities. In fact, Julieta should be glad that Isa was being responsible and taking precautions, even if it meant bypassing her in the process.

Logically, she knew all of this. But part of her still hurt. She tried to let her girls know she was here for them when they needed her, but if Isabela had decided to circumvent her mother to get her hands on the birth control, had she succeeded? Had she managed to build up that trust with her children, if they were hiding such important life decisions from her?

Julieta sighed, rubbing her temples. She had done everything she could think of. She’d given the girls the talk after they entered puberty. Made sure they got an accurate, objective version of the facts from her instead of hearing exaggerations from others. She had never shied away from any awkward conversations, letting her girls know she was a safe person for them to go to. Yet Isa still didn’t trust her.

If it was even Isa taking the herbs, she reminded herself. You don’t know it was her. Indulging herself in one last sigh, she got up. Wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to fix anything. Time to actually do something about the problem.

She knocked on Isabela’s door tentatively, clutching her little notebook in her hand. The door creaked open to reveal Isabela pruning some of her plants.

Julieta smiled at the sight. Before, Isabela had relied fully on her gift to care for her plants, but after losing it temporarily, she’d really taken to the more hands-on approach. Julieta stepped inside the room, announcing her presence. “Isa, it’s me, can I come in?”

Isabela looked up from the plant she had been working on. “Of course, mamá.” She set down her shears, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “Is everything okay? You look stressed.”

“Oh, uh, yes…everything is fine.” Julieta swallowed.

“You don’t look fine.” Isabela scrutinized her. “Seriously, what’s wrong?”

Julieta sighed. “I need your help. Someone’s been taking some of my herbs and I’m running out. I need you to help me grow some more, quickly, so I have enough to give everyone.”

“Okay…which herbs do you need?” Isabela walked over to Julieta.

“These ones here.” Julieta handed her the notebook, opened to the page listing what she used for contraception.

Isabela peered down at the page and nodded. “I can do that. I can have these ready by the end of the day.”

Julieta let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, mija. I really appreciate your help.” She leaned in to hug her daughter.

“Of course, mamá. Glad I can help.” Her voice was cheerful, but she tensed up in the hug, tipping Julieta off.

This was it. Gathering her nerve, Julieta spoke up. “Isa…” Julieta placed a hand on her shoulder. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

“Yes…” Isabela’s voice lilted up towards the end.

“About anything,” Julieta emphasized.

“Yes, mamá, I know,” Isabela replied impatiently, rolling her eyes.

The gesture reminded Julieta so much of Pepa. It was remarkable how much of her sister she saw in her daughter. “So if you ever need anything, you can ask,” she continued.

“Thanks, mamá.” Isabela sounded confused. “But I already know all that. Why are you telling me again?”

Julieta closed her eyes. She had to drop the pretense. “Isa, the herbs I need you to grow… they’re all used for contraception. You know, birth control,” she clarified. “Someone’s been taking my herbs and that’s why I’m out.” She paused, waiting for Isabela to catch the insinuation.

“Oh…” Isabela gnawed her lip nervously. “And, uh, you think it was me?”

“Listen, it’s absolutely fine if you do need it. In fact, I’m proud of you for taking precautions and being responsible.” Julieta took Isabela’s hands in her own, beaming at her.

“Um, mamá…it wasn’t me.” Isabela admitted, averting her eyes.

“It wasn’t?” Julieta was perplexed. “Who else could it possibly be? You’re the only person I can think of who might need it.”

Isabela hesitated, an unsure expression flitting across her face, then recovered. “Well, I don’t need it, but if I ever do, I’ll be sure to let you know.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Hope you figure who’s been taking your herbs though.”

Julieta wasn’t fooled. “Isabela…do you know who’s been taking my herbs?” The question was gentle but firm.

Isabela gnawed on her lower lip, staying silent.

“You know, but you won’t tell me,” Julieta deduced.

Isabela gave a small nod and did not elaborate.

Julieta pursed her lips. “I see I’m not going to get any information out of you.”

She shook her head. “I’ll start growing those plants, mamá. They should be ready by tonight.”

Julieta watched as her daughter returned to her gardening. Knowing she was being dismissed, she left her room and went back down to the kitchen.

Pepa was leaning against the counter, sipping something out of a mug.

“Hola, hermana,” Julieta greeted her hurriedly, bustling around the kitchen.

“Hola…” Pepa said serenely, her eyes following Julieta as she zigzagged across the kitchen. “You look busy,” she noted.

Julieta stopped in her tracks. Truthfully, she wasn’t even doing anything, but she was so full of nervous energy that she had to get it out somehow. She forced herself to take a deep breath and face Pepa. “And you look like you’re enjoying your tea.”

A soft smile lit up Pepa’s face. “I am.” She brought the mug up to her face to take another sip.

Julieta couldn’t help but return her smile. “It’s not the special tea, is it?” She dared to ask.

Pepa shook her head. “No, just regular tea.”

“Oh. Okay.” Julieta exhaled hard.

Pepa eyed her warily. “Why do you ask?”

“Are you still drinking the special tea?”

Pepa laughed. “Of course. Three children is definitely enough at my age.”

Julieta nodded, wringing her hands. “And you’re still drinking it the way you’re supposed to?” Maybe if Pepa had started going through the change, she would think she’d need extra.

Pepa gave her a bewildered look. “Yes, Julieta. Same way I’ve been drinking it for years.”

There went her last hope. “Okay, make sure you don’t drink any extra.”

“Why on earth would I drink extra?”

Julieta shrugged weakly. “Well, I went through the change last year and I know I was tempted to do anything to make it stop.” She forced a laugh.

Pepa shot her a withering look. “I’m not stupid, Julieta. I know not to mess around with your herbs.”

Julieta’s lips pulled into a tight smile. “Good. I just wanted to check.”

Pepa frowned, setting down her mug. “You’re being weird, Juli. Why are you being weird?”

She started wringing her hands again, feeling her short nails dig into her palms. “Someone’s been taking my herbs.”

Pepa’s eyes widened at the revelation. “And you thought it was me?”

“I hoped it was you,” Julieta corrected her. “Because the alternative…”

“Alternative?” Pepa’s features screwed up in thought.

“Think about it, Pepa. It has to be someone who’s had easy access. Not like people in town would break and enter just for that.”

“I might have, as a teenager,” Pepa pointed out chuckling. “If I knew someone in town had a remedy that would allow me to sleep with my boyfriend without any risk of getting pregnant, I’d definitely consider it. Lucky you’re my sister and I could go to you without feeling embarrassed.”

“Mhm” Julieta crossed her arms, unconvinced. “Need I remind you, Pepa, you also started off taking them without telling me?”

Pepa had the decency to look guilty. “Okay, okay, but that’s only because I knew I could get to your supplies easily. It all worked out in the end.”

“Which brings us back to people who have easy access… There are five women living in the house. It’s not you, me, or mamá.”

Pepa snorted. “Can you imagine mamá drinking that disgusting tea?”

“No, because she’s too old to need it,” Julieta replied patiently. “Focus, Pepa.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Pepa held up her hands in defeat. “So that just leaves us with…Isabela and Dolores?”

“Yes,” Julieta confirmed. “And it’s not Isa.” At Pepa’s surprised look, she elaborated, “I already asked her.”

“Right, because daughters never lie to their mothers.” Pepa rolled her eyes.

Julieta considered the point. “She was being honest. A mother can tell. But she was acting cagey. I think she knows who it is. And logically, that only leaves us with one option…”

“Dolores?” It was Pepa’s turn to cross her arms. “No, no, no, she would have told me.”

“Right, because daughters always tell their mothers everything,” Julieta echoed teasingly. “Just like you told mamá.”

Pepa deflated at the reminder. “I know mamá and I didn’t have the best relationship when I was younger, but that’s only because I didn’t feel like I could go to her with things like this. She was so rigid; she wouldn’t have understood. I always let my children know they can come to me, even in awkward situations. Especially in awkward situations,” she emphasized.

Julieta smiled sympathetically. Her spiel sounded very familiar.

Pepa kept going. “I never hid anything from them. I mean, they grew up with their papá and me, how could I? We’ve always been…affectionate.” She ran her fingers over her braid nervously. “They grew up knowing that was normal. When we gave Dolores and Camilo the talk, we were very thorough.”

“I’m sure you were,” Julieta reassured her, though inwardly she shuddered. She and Pepa had two very different ideas of “thorough”.

“Why wouldn’t she trust me?” Pepa asked quietly, shrinking into herself.

They’d reached the crux of the matter.

“Pepa,” Julieta took her hands in her own, “it’s not about trust. Of course Dolores trusts you. Maybe she needs some time. The herbs just went missing, so she can’t have taken them that long ago. It’s probably all very new for her. She just needs to process. Then I’m sure you’ll be the first person she tells.”

Her reassurances didn’t quell the storm clouds brewing above Pepa’s head. “Well I’m still hoping it was someone else.”

Julieta made a disbelieving noise. “You’d rather someone break into our house than your daughter keep a secret from you?”

“Yes,” Pepa sulked.

She clearly wasn’t thinking straight. “How about I make you some more tea and then you go read your book for a little while?” Julieta suggested.

Pepa offered her a wan smile. “I’d like that. I was just getting to the good part too.”

Julieta put the kettle on again and added some calming herbs to a new mug. Pepa didn’t need her help calming down quite as often anymore, but she needed it today. Understandably so; this was a big development. She’d have to check on Dolores later…

However, her plan was derailed by the chaos of the evening. From having to help prepare dinner, to finally getting to spend some time with her wonderful husband and daughters, she didn’t get a minute alone to go talk to Dolores. Fortunately, Isabela was able to grow the herbs, so after her girls went to bed, Julieta went downstairs to hang them up in the kitchen to dry.

Upon entering the kitchen, she found Dolores muttering to herself by the sink and shaking something that rustled into a mug. Before she could pour the water in, Julieta went over.

“Hola, sobrina.” She gestured towards the mug. “Do you need some help with that?”

Dolores squeaked, startling. She scattered the handful of herbs she was holding on the counter in shock. “Tía. I wasn’t expecting you here.”

“You didn’t hear me coming? Must have been very focused on that tea.” Julieta picked up a dried clump to examine it.

“I…uh…” Dolores replied eloquently. She looked like a deer caught in headlights. Squeaking once more, she turned her attention to picking up the scattered herbs and gathering them into a pile. She furrowed her brow in thought, then added another small handful to the mug. “Yeah, just making some tea.”

“Easy.” Julieta put her hand on Dolores’ wrist, stopping her. “You don’t want to add too much.”

Dolores looked at her resignedly. “You already know, don’t you?”

Julieta cracked a knowing smile. “What kind of tea you’re making? Sí, querida.”

Dolores sighed. “I should have known you’d figure it out.”

Julieta couldn’t stifle the laugh that bubbled up. “You took several months’ worth of herbs- depleting my stock, I might add.” She fixed her with a look. “You don’t need nearly as much as you think. You just need to let them steep for long enough.”

Dolores looked away guiltily. “Sorry, tía. I just wanted to make sure I’d have enough. I can’t risk anything bad happening.”

“I understand, Lola. But you don’t need to go about this by yourself. I’m here to help you. So is your mamá. We care about you and want to know what’s going on in your life.”

“You’re right,” she conceded. “I had a talk with mamá. It was…awkward, but I think it helped, overall.” She smiled faintly.

“Good. Your mamá only wants what’s best for you.”

“I know, tía, but…it felt strange talking about that part of my life with her. I’m an adult now. I don’t really want my mamá to know about it.”

“I understand where you’re coming from. And you don’t have to tell her everything.” Pepa probably wouldn’t want to hear all of it, Julieta thought to herself. “But this is an important decision, and it means a lot to her to be involved in your life.”

“I guess…” Dolores shrugged noncommittally.

“But I just want to say, even though I’m not thrilled about you doing this behind my back, I am proud of you for being responsible and taking care of yourself.” Julieta gave her a smile to soften her stern words. “It shows a lot of maturity and strength.”

“Thanks, tía.” Dolores cleared her throat and waved towards the mug. “Okay, how do I make this?”

“Your mamá didn’t explain it to you?” Julieta was surprised.

“She did, but…” Dolores hesitated. “You’re the healer. I want to make sure I’m doing it right.”

Julieta’s eyes glimmered. “I don’t think you give her enough credit sometimes. You can trust her, you know. She knows how this works.”

Dolores assumed a doubtful expression. “Does she?”

Julieta surmised that Pepa hadn’t shared her own experiences with Dolores then. She wasn’t about to break that trust. “She, ah, grew up watching me use my gift,” Julieta improvised. “She picked up some knowledge over those years. Believe me, you can trust her.”

Dolores kept her eyes on the mug, not responding to her words. “Is this too much, then?” She chased the dried herbs around her mug with a spoon.

“Just a bit.” Julieta scooped some out. “There.” Then Julieta showed her how to brew the tea. “You want to let the water cool down a bit. If you scald the herbs, it lowers their potency.”

Dolores listened attentively. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“I think your mamá probably covered all of it. Pay attention to your cycle, drink your tea every day, and know that it can take up to a couple weeks to be fully effective, so be careful till then.” Her eyes locked on Dolores’ meaningfully. “Here.” She poured some water into the mug and stirred the herbs around. “Let that steep about ten minutes, then you can drink it.”

“Thank you, tía.” Dolores accepted the mug gratefully.

Julieta hugged her. “Remember, we’re here for you.”

“I know. Thank you.” Dolores peeled herself away, still looked slightly embarrassed.

“Hey, you don’t need to feel embarrassed, okay?” Julieta placed her hands on Dolores’ shoulders. “I’m sure your mamá already told you that.”

Dolores gave a small nod, holding her mug tightly to her chest. “Buenas noches, tía.” She scurried out of the room.

Julieta made herself some regular tea, watching her sobrina run up the stairs. They grew up so fast. “Buenas noches, Dolores.”

#julieta madrigal #isabela madrigal #pepa madrigal #dolores madrigal #julieta and isabela #julieta and dolores #pepa and julieta #we're gonna pretend julieta and pepa had a more modern perspective on contraception #debating whether to write out pepa's conversation with dolores too #poor dolores #asks #Anonymous #writing answered prompts #writing encanto #foreveranevilregal writes

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mimsyaf · 3 years

Text

Ten Card Draw

Card 1 - Nine Of Pentacles

“Shit,” says Mrs. LaRusso and the bag tears open, the paper handle ripping off and onions bouncing across the floor.

Tory’s not sure if it’s thanks to Cobra Kai or two years of waitressing but she manages to grab the bag as it falls, saving soft plums and some kind of weird leafy herb from plunging after the onions. She puts the bag on the counter and turns to stare at Mrs. LaRusso, who despite her silk sheath dress and four inch Laboutins is crawling under the big farmhouse table to retrieve scattered produce, her elegant ass in the air.

“You shop like this all the time?” Damn girl, why you got to be so harsh, you owe her. Again. Some more.

“How should I be shopping?” Mrs. LaRusso asks, raising a perfect eyebrow. She plunks an onion into Tory’s hand and pulls herself to standing. Not quite a kip up, but not bad for a middle aged lady.

“When you left that bag of stuff for us that time. I thought — that you were making fun.”

Mrs. LaRusso blinks, taken aback. Her face sags and she looks suddenly older. Less pretty. More like a person.

“I wasn’t making fun,” she says softly. “I’m really sorry I made you feel that way. It was a dumb thing to do.” She goes to touch Tory’s arm but stops herself, pulls back. Puts on her big toothpaste commercial smile.

“Want to learn how to cook all this stuff?”

Later, after Tory chops the celery and onions and carrots, she learns how to sauté them in white wine. When the tomato paste stains the vegetables a rich red and the ground beef turns brown, Sensei LaRusso comes home and makes a big fucking deal about making the pasta, how you need to save a little of the cloudy cooking water. He tastes the sauce and kisses Mrs. LaRusso, hands on her hips. It’s weird when old people remind you they still have sex with each other. Anthony and Brandon stop playing Dishonored (well, Anthony’s playing, Brandon’s just watching and offering helpful suggestions) and come down for dinner. Her brother eats three helpings.

After Tory takes a bowl upstairs to her mom who’s too tired to get out of bed, she comes downstairs and catches the end of a whispered fight between the LaRussos. She hears her own name, and Sam’s.

Tory’s hands are shaking as she gathers the dinner dishes. She imagines launching them at the wall, the flying soap suds and shards.

Deep breathes, her therapist told her. Five things you can see, four things you can hear, three things you can feel -

Mrs. LaRusso touches her shoulder.

“What?” Dammit Nichols, be nice.

“Cook doesn’t clean. It’s a house rule. Let Anthony earn his keep.”

Tory looks at the clock. Seven thirty. She could go back to the pool house and train but she’s sleeping there and the thought of doing kata next to her unmade air mattress makes her itch.

“Come for a drive with me,” says Mrs. LaRusso, dangling the keys to her SUV and smiling at Tory like she’s flirting.

She’s a good driver but faster than Tory would have thought. Up and up they go, into the hills, the windows open, letting in the balmy breeze. No music.

“Look, if you want -“ Tory doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. We can leave? They can’t though. Tory could hide, but what about Brandon and her mom?

Mrs. LaRusso pulls over, turns off the engine. Tory looks down at the glittering lights.

“I’ve never been up here before,” she says.

“When I have a bad day at work, I come here,” says Mrs. LaRusso. “It’s a good place when you need to clear your head.” She doesn’t say anything else, just takes out her phone and starts checking work emails.

I wish you were my mom thinks Tory, and then feels like she should bite out her own tongue.

Five things you can see. The topaz web of the city lights below. The wrinkle at the corner of Mrs. LaRusso’s mouth as she frowns at her phone. The scraggly weeds at the edge of the road. The ugly pink scars on Tory’s knuckles. The moon overhead like a little clipped fingernail.

#cobra kai #my fic #samtory #eventually #Ten Card Draw #nine of pentacles #various LaRussos #tory nichols #sam larusso

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august-bleeds-red · 4 years

Text

Texas Heat (Part Two)

Alpha!Tommy x omega!Reader (AFAB). When you find yourself trapped within the Hewitt family’s web of murder, violence and pain, the last thing you expect to do is fall in love.

Warnings: implied non-con, gore. NSFW in later chapters.

Part One / Part Two / Part Three

Dinner that night is stew.

You help Luda cut the vegetables, but the meat is already simmering in the pot by the time you come down. Thomas is nowhere to be seen, and when you ask where he is, as casually as possible, Luda answers with a sly grin.

“Oh, he’s probably workin’ down in the basement. Often doesn’t eat ‘til later, ‘specially when we have guests. He’s awful shy, you see.”

You don’t mention the way he’d stared at you upstairs – more domineering and intense than anyone else you’d have described as “shy”.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking—” you begin to say, but she’s already nodding, clearly anticipating your next words.

“His face?”

You nod. Setting down the knife she’s using to slice the carrots, she adjusts her spectacles and glances towards the door you presume leads to the basement.

“He’s awful sensitive about it. We don’t usually talk about it, but I don’t want you to be makin’ any nasty judgements ‘bout him.”

“Of course not, I wouldn’t.”

She pats your arm and continues chopping the carrots. “I found him when he was just born. Some cruel no-goods had left him to die in a trash can. Lord knows what filthy things he was exposed to in there before I took him home. He started gettin’ skin complaints when he was a boy. Real bad. The other kids used to tease him for it, call him ‘diseased’. Got too much for him so he took a knife and . . .” She presses the tips of her fingers to her mouth and shakes her head. “Sorry, still gets to me.”

“I understand,” you say, your heart aching empathetically. “I’m sorry.”

She pats your arm again and sighs, “You’re a good girl, Y/N.”

For some reason, she says this with a note of sadness which makes you uneasy again. You don’t have long to dwell on it, though, before Hoyt enters the room.

“How’s that stew comin’ on, Momma?” he asks jovially.

You help set the table and bow your head respectfully while Hoyt says Grace, accepting your bowl of stew with a grateful smile. The meat is tender, with an unusual flavour you can’t quite place. You figure it must be some kind of game animal you’ve not tasted before, or herbs mixed in with the broth. It’s good, whatever it is. You help yourself to the cornbread Luda offers you and try not to be disconcerted by the way Monty is staring at you.

He’s just a dirty old man, you try and convince yourself. Ignore him.

Though it’s not that late by the time your plate is cleared, you claim tiredness and go upstairs to your tiny room. Closing the door behind you, you wish there was some kind of furniture you could prop against it; the chest of drawers is far too heavy for you to move inconspicuously. You don’t feel quite comfortable enough to change into the camisole you usually wear for sleeping, so decide to remain in your shorts and T-shirt. One night won’t hurt. You brush your teeth in the tiny sink, making a mental note to rinse your toothbrush with clean water before using it again, and curl up on top of the blanket. The air is thick and humid, and you’re soon wishing you could just sleep naked. Your own scent hangs heavy in the air and you curse your time of the month. Even with the precautions prescribed to you, your heat was always strong, but it never has this much of a toll on you. You remember your first – you were ten, an early bloomer, and it had hit you at summer camp. It was the height of August, and the counsellors had found you whimpering in a corner of the dorm, hugging a pillow and grinding frantically against it.

That was the last time you went to camp.

Could it be because of Thomas? Is that why your body is reacting so strongly?

Growling in frustration, you reach for your bag and grope inside for your pills. The doctors only advise taking three pills in a single day under extreme circumstances, but being under the same roof as an alpha as intimidating as Thomas Hewitt strikes you as pretty damn extreme. It takes you almost three whole minutes to realise the awful truth – the pills aren’t there. You know you put them back in the inside pocket earlier, the same place you always do. They’re definitely gone.

Your heart starts pounding and you feel that prickling sense of danger creep over you again. It would have been easy for Hoyt, Monty, or even Thomas to come in here and take the pills while you were downstairs helping Luda. Which means they know. Perhaps you were kidding yourself that you could lie to them.

You decide not to take any chances. Even without your car, there was no way you could stay here. Your parents would understand. Perhaps you could even call the cops when you got to the next town and ask them to fetch it for you. Gathering your belongings as quietly as possible, you open the door just a crack and peer out down the darkened hallway. All is still. You manage to make no sound all the way to the top of the stairs, taking care not to step in the centre of each step as you tiptoe down.

You’re almost at the door when you hear it – a low, keening moan.

You turn glacially slowly to look at the basement door. You could kid yourself that it was a dog, but you know in your bones that’s not the case.

“Please . . .” the voice calls plaintively. A girl. “Help me . . .”

Fear washes over you like a bucket of ice water. You should go – you know you should go. The door is right in front of you.

“Pleeeeease . . .” the voice sobs.

Your parents’ faces swim before your eyes. You think of what they’d suffer were you to never come home. You brother, your sister, your friends . . .

“Oh God, help me . . .”

“God damn it,” you whisper through gritted teeth. With a quick glance upstairs, you tread as light as a spider down the corridor towards the basement. The girl’s voice gets louder – it’s definitely coming from down there. The door is unlocked when you twist the handle, pulling it towards you just enough to slip inside and down the rickety steps beyond. A large pool of water is gathered at the foot of the stairs, too large for you to avoid. You wince as the damp soaks through your sneakers and socks.

Two large hunks of meat are hanging from hooks along the wall. You think they may have once been pigs, though the head and limbs are all hacked away. You find the girl – a petite blonde in a short blue dress – on a filthy mattress, roped to a pipe in one corner of the room. She looks as though she’s been there for days, weeks, even. Her skin is bruised, and you can tell by her frightened scent that she’s a beta. You can also smell Hoyt’s potent musk on her – in her hair, in the smears of congealed fluid between her legs.

She smells you before she sees you, eyes searching disbelievingly in the half-dark. You quickly stifle her mouth with your hand before she cries out.

“Keep quiet, okay?” you hiss. You pick at the tightly-knotted rope, breaking a fingernail in your attempt to untie it. “Fuck.”

“Oh God,” she gasps.

“Shh, it’s okay, I’m gonna—”

“NO!” she screams, her body falling into a fit of panicked flailing. Her eyes are big and brimming with fear, staring over your shoulder.

The scent reaches you just before Thomas’s fingers do.

You duck and back away from the captured girl, who continues screaming like she’s being sliced apart. Every nerve in your body is yelling at you to flee, to fight, to do anything besides what you are doing – which is staring like a deer in headlights up at Thomas approaching you. His scent is almost overpowering, and despite the terror seizing you, you feel a warm stream of slick trickling down the inside of your thigh.

He gives a sharp intake of breath and rumbles deep in his chest. Your knees tremble, and you unconsciously breathe in the heady aroma surrounding the enormous man. Your breath shudders as it leaves you. Your instincts are commanding you to stay, to submit, to give yourself to this alpha; you can already feel your body leaning into him.

The basement door slams open and Hoyt’s angry voice preceeds his heavy footsteps.

“Nuff of this dang caterwauling, some of us’re tryin’ to sleep!”

He stops dead at the wall of scent surrounding you, and a sly grin takes over his rugged features. “Well, lookee here.”

Reaching inside his pocket, he pulls out a small foil strip that you recognise instantly.

“Guess somebody’s not just a plain ole beta after all, huh?”

“You asshole,” you spit, your disdain for Hoyt overriding your lust for just a moment.

“That’s not very polite now, is it?” he says. He moves casually towards the whimpering blonde, who stares in terrified anticipation up at him. He reaches down and strokes her hair, and she cringes away from his touch. “Tommy, why don’t you teach this little bitch a lesson in manners?”

Thomas takes two short strides towards you, but you dart out from under his grasp and sprint towards the stairs. The girl you’re abandoning screams after you, but all you can think of now is to escape, battling the nagging tug at the back of your mind that’s still desperately reaching out for Thomas.

You somehow make it up the steps and through the door, your footsteps crashing on the boards as you fly down the hall. You throw your entire weight against the front door, splintering the wood surrounding the lock as you burst out into the night.

You breathe in lungfuls of air as you sprint across the field, heading for the road. You’ve never been a fast runner, but the adrenaline pumping through your veins has you practically leaping like a gazelle. Your feet catch on stones and loose earth, threatening you with a fall, but you just manage to keep your balance. The sound of pounding footsteps behind you sends a sharp spike of fear into your gut, and if you weren’t running you may have vomited.

You vaguely recognise another sound – a deep, mechanical roar – but you don’t want to risk glancing over your shoulder to see if it is what you think. He’s getting closer, you can smell him, you can hear his laboured breathing, you can feel his fingers grasping at your hair—

He overshoots you by a good ten strides when you fall to the ground, scraping your hands and knees on hard soil. Turning to face your supine form, he brandishes the growling chainsaw clutched in his massive hands.

You’re dead. You must be. How can you possibly expect any other outcome from this situation? Scrambling to your knees, you try to rise, but the metal teeth of the chainsaw brush too close; you can almost taste your own blood. Thomas’s eyes, black with rage, focus on you. His chest is heaving, his muscular arms flexing as he prepares to deal the killing blow—

“Alpha!” you shriek, the word spilling from your tongue before you can recognise its meaning. “Alpha, please!”

He freezes, arms aloft, staring down at you in surprise and disbelief.

You crawl forwards, reaching out a shaking hand to touch his booted foot. “Please . . . p-please don’t kill me.”

He glances up towards the house. You can tell he’s not used to making decisions without approval, but Hoyt isn’t here to spit poison in his ear.

“I’ll . . . I’ll be yours.” You can’t believe the words you’re saying. “Please, alpha . . . you can have me. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t kill me.”

He steps back and shakes his head angrily, but not in refusal – more like he’s trying to rid your honeyed words from his head as a bull might dislodge a persistent fly. Taking your life in your hands, you slowly rise to your feet and proffer your sweating hands towards him; the scent from your wrists glands is strong, unavoidable. The chainsaw powers down, and his arms slowly fall to waist-height. You take careful hold of one wrist and detach his fingers from the chainsaw handle. Keeping your gaze locked with his, you part your dry lips and press the flat of your tongue against his own wrist, licking a long, slow stripe. His skin is salty with sweat, the musk beneath deep and earthy, hitting the back of your throat like spice. You feel a shudder pass through his body and go one step further – baring your teeth just enough to nip the tender, swollen skin. The chainsaw falls heavily to the ground as he grabs you, one hand twisting the skin of your wrist, the other securing the back of your neck, fingers knotted in your hair. You stare up at him, heart dancing, skin tingling, fear and lust seeking dominance in your stomach. His teeth are bared behind the gap in his mask, his brow furrowed in bewildered rage and desire. You lift the hand still free from his grip and, as tenderly as though handling a baby sparrow, touch the gland at the nape of his neck. The skin is raised and warm, and his eyes close almost in reverence at the contact.

“What in Lord’s name’re you doin’, boy?!” Hoyt’s furious voice startles you both. He’s hurrying up behind you, shotgun under one arm, glaring between you and Thomas.

In a swift, one-handed movement, Thomas pulls you flush against his body, your nose filling with the metallic scent of blood imbedded in his apron – which, it occurs to you, is undoubtedly human blood.

Hoyt stops in his tracks, assessing the situation before him. You, pliant and submissive in Thomas’s arms; Thomas, dominant and possessive, ready to protect you from the threat Hoyt poses. The older man sighs, chuckling softly.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Swinging the shotgun to rest on his shoulder, he shakes his grizzled head. “Y’sure, Tommy? She’d taste mighty sweet with Mama’s hot biscuits.”

Thomas’s grip tightens and you whimper – he’s about to break your wrist. His fingers immediately loosen, and you see a flash of what could almost be called concern cross his face. Hoyt rolls his eyes and turns, heading back towards the farmhouse.

“Come on, then.”

Before you can protest, Thomas sweeps you up into a bridal embrace, pressing your body against his broad chest. Tears prick your eyes as you’re brought back to the place you fought so hard to escape from. As you’re carried over the threshold, Hoyt shoots you a nasty grin.

“Welcome to the family, Little Miss Omega.”

Comments are greatly appreciated because I’m a needy little trashbag.

#thomas hewitt #tommy hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #tommy hewitt x reader #slasher x reader #slashers #slasher lover #slasher fandom #slasher community #the texas chainsaw massacre #tcm #tcm the beginning #the texas chainsaw massacre the beginning #slasher fic

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jackrrabbit · 5 years

Note

Oh? Request open? Since you write for Inuyasha, how about some 18+ content for Koga please?

Mating Season /// Koga x f!Reader (18+)

I’ve always had a soft spot for Koga, and he has so much nasty potential as a wolf demon. Repressed village girl vs. horny wolf-boy is peak lewd.

Warnings: dubcon, wolf characteristics, yandere, light a/b/o, very light breeding kink (there’s like 1 mention of it)

As a villager at the foot of the mountains where Koga’s pack lives, you’ve heard stories since you were a child about the vicious wolf demons who live in caves and eat little girls who stray away from their homes. Now that you’re an adult and you only half believe in fairy tales, you still should’ve known better than to take a nap in the woods with sunset coming so soon. But who could blame you? They were just stories. Rumors. Old wives’ tales passed down from mother to daughter for generations, a warning not to stray from what was known. And you’d been exhausted. During the daylight hours you know these woods like the back of your hand—surely you can’t be blamed for putting down your basket and resting your eyes, just for a moment?

Not that he needs more than a moment. Your fate is sealed the second you step into the woods, into his territory, where he’s isolated himself to spend his rut away from the other members of his pack. It’s hard enough to hold back his…more aggressive instincts when he’s alone; but when he finds you sleeping propped up against a tree, looking sweet and innocent and smelling like a bitch in heat, you really just don’t stand a chance.

Koga’s torso pushes down into your back like he’s trying to pin you with the weight of his body. When you manage to suck in a breath (struggling to let your ribs expand against his iron-solid grip on you), you can smell his sweat and yours mixing with the slightly-damp earth under your feet and the sharp, bitter medicinal herbs you were gathering. With your skirts pushed up to your waist the springtime evening mist is frigid against your bare skin, but the heat radiating off his body is making you feel feverish anyway. Your knees are digging into the dirt and for some reason the thought crosses your mind that your nice white stockings are definitely going to stain, and your mother is going to be so angry, and you almost want to laugh at how absurd the thought is. As if a few stains could possibly matter while a demon is fucking you.

Instead of laughing, you whimper as Koga hits a particularly deep spot inside of you. How many times has he finished inside now? Three? Four? His arm is wrapped around your torso, keeping your body locked into his while he drives into you over and over and over. His thick cock nudges up against your cervix every time he pushes his hips toward your ass. It hurt at first. You aren’t sure when it stopped hurting. Maybe it still hurts.

But oh…it feels so good, too. You didn’t even know it was possible to feel like this. It’s like you’ve been hungry—starving—your whole life, and now you’re finally getting something to eat. Every inch of your cunt aches, but at some point you start trying to buck your hips back toward his. It isn’t so much reciprocation as it is just trying to ground yourself, or maybe letting yourself go in the moment… You can barely keep yourself upright, and you drop onto your elbows, your forehead inches away from the mud.

The demon growls—growls, actually growls like a wild animal, as if you needed more convincing—and he presses his bare chest down toward you, the sweat soaking off of his skin and through the fabric of your bodice. His thrusts are slower now, not the rapid jerks that he started out with. Maybe he can tell you like this better? Feeling every inch of his cock opening you up and rubbing against the sensitive walls of your cunt is making you afraid you’re going to lose your mind in the delirious fog of what you would call lust if you knew the word for it.

You certainly sound like you want it, your pleas transforming into sweet moans as your body adapts to the mating. You probably don’t even realize how wanton your voice is. Whatever else you’ve said, all Koga can hear in his rut-induced haze are your cries of pleasure and the squelching of his dick sliding in and out of you.

It’s easier when you don’t have to look at him. You can pretend that this is a dream, the kind of impure fantasy the village girls giggle to each other about, comparing their conquests, making up stories about which of the young men is the most handsome, who probably has the most experience, who might have the biggest—

“Ah!” you cry out, squeezing your eyes shut so you don’t have to look at the creamy smears of the demon’s cum painting your thighs white and collecting on the dirt between your legs. Surely no mortal man would be capable of finishing so many times without even pulling out.

Koga releases your hips and you rock forward, startled, until he grabs you by your upper arm and pulls you upright so you’re sitting in his lap with his cock still impaled inside of you. He rolls his hips experimentally and you hiss in surprise as his thick head drags against a sensitive spot in your pussy.

Before you can get accustomed to the new angle, he’s pulling your head around so you’re forced to look into his face. You imagine that this is how a prey animal feels when it’s stared down by a predator—a rabbit looking at a wolf, haha, your mind supplies involuntarily—there’s something that makes it impossible to look away. The part of your brain that’s still clinging to rationality and trying to compartmentalize notes for a second that oddly enough, he looks just as desperate as you feel.

“Wh-whyyy?” you whine, half-aware that this is the first real word spoken between you. You don’t know why you think he’s going to respond—even though he looks more human than the other demons you’ve encountered, his actions have been just as feral and animalistic as the rest of them, if only less violent and more…depraved.

There’s a bead of sweat rolling down your neck, and Koga can’t take his eyes off of it. He tangles his fingers in your hair and pulls your head back to expose the smooth column of your throat, careful not to yank it hard enough to hurt you. Humans are so fragile. When he tilts forward to lick the salty droplet off your skin, he feels your shiver all the way down. “You—I smelled you…”

In your half-aware state, it takes you a moment to hear him. “…What?”

The demon nuzzles his face into your hair, and his leisurely sigh stirs the fine hairs on the back of your neck. “Smells so good…waiting for me. Begging for me…”

“I—I don’t understand? Begging? Ah—ahhh…” Not for the first time, you try to push away from the demon uselessly. The rhythm of his slow, rocking thrusts doesn’t falter—you wouldn’t be surprised if he can’t even feel it.

It’s not easy for Koga to listen to your words when your moaning is so much more interesting, but he tries. For your sake. His soft little mate, so warm and weak while you grind your ass into his lap. What about this don’t you understand? He smelled you, he wanted you, he fucked you. And you wanted it too, of course you did…why else would you be wandering around by yourself in the peak of your heat, so ripe and ready for breeding that the smell of your lust is rising off your skin in waves? Why else would you have crossed into the territory of an alpha in his rut…?

But humans don’t think like that, do they?

The thought pierces Koga’s mind with a sudden, harsh clarity that would have been impossible had he not already finished inside your needy cunt four times now. Humans are different. Their senses of smell are so weak, just like the rest of them.

Koga remembers, unwillingly, a time when he crossed paths with Kagome’s party while she’d been on the edge of her heat. He smelled it, and Inuyasha noticed. The mutt pulled Koga aside to warn him not to mention it to her.

“But she’s about to go into heat. She shouldn’t be out of her house, let alone traveling with you, hanyo. Or can you even smell it?”

“Shut up, of course I can! But she can’t. Believe me, I brought it up to her once and she got pissed and said I was a pervert. Humans don’t know about stuff like that.”

They…don’t know. So that meant you didn’t know. You came into his territory by accident. You don’t know you’re in heat. You don’t know he’s in his rut, and you don’t know he’s an alpha. You probably don’t even know you’re in his territory.

The demon’s movements slow and then go still, and you’re left sitting in his lap with his cock still pulsing, a stiff rod of heat in your belly. You wait a moment, wondering if he’s going to pull out, but he doesn’t. His arm is still wrapped around you and his sharp fingernails are digging into the fabric of your bodice, no doubt leaving crescent-shaped marks in your skin. Involuntarily you feel yourself rock your hips against his pelvis, a feeble attempt to get him to pull out or even just move—the sex might’ve been uncomfortable, but feeling all full and stretched and so close to satisfaction with no way to get it by yourself is unbearable.

When there’s no response, you turn around toward him to get your first good look at the man (the demon) who’s made you want things you don’t even know how to say out loud. He’s good-looking—tall, tan, with boyish good looks (that would have earned him quite a few admirers if he were a villager like you) and flat blue eyes that seem oddly unfocused. His hair is tied up in a ponytail and you have the urge to pull on it, just like he pulled on your hair a moment ago. You don’t know his name. “Demon…please. I need you,” you whisper, letting some of the urgency you’re feeling spill into your voice.

Both of his hands clamp down on your hips, securing you in place while he slams his hips up back into yours. “Mate,” he snarls, his voice drowning out your yelp of pleasure, and before your mind goes blank with lust again, a chill runs down your spine because you’re not sure if he’s correcting you…or addressing you.

#inuyasha #inuyasha imagines #koga #koga x reader #smut #this ended up weirdly tender idk idk #i feel like the only audience for this will be me and the person who sent me the ask #but who cares #it's free real estate #yandere x reader #a/b/o #lowkey?#dubcon #tw dubcon

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whenimaunicorn · 4 years

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Playing House - Part 7.1

This one's a little short and a little subtle, but I thought I'd whet your appetite for more mayhem this week. Going for a weekly update schedule on Tuesdays for as long as I can keep it up!!

There is a small time jump here; it’s been a few days since the last chapter.

Catch up: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Ivar has really nice knives. You’ve never seen him cook, not since you moved in and not before, but you know the set of expensive Messermeister knives in the grey canvas case belong to him. They are just a dream to use, better than anything that you could afford.

You know that the knives belong to him because he gave you very explicit instructions for their care. “No one else is allowed to touch them,” he told you during the first week after you moved in, running his fingers down the longest blade as he showed them to you, “but I will allow you that privilege if you follow all my rules.”

There’s a problem today. His breath hitches when he opens the case; your body stills. “Y/N, what is this?”

You inch forward, peering over his shoulder with apprehension. His fingernail is tapping at the wide blade of the chef’s knife.

“Did you dry these with a cloth, right after you cleaned them?”

There are a few translucent white circles marring the blade, the kind that are sometimes left behind after water evaporates.

“I—” your throat is suddenly dry. “I must not have.”

“Evidently not.” He turns the knife around, offering you the handle with a significant look. “Wash it again.”

He doesn’t seem angry, and the tingling in your body is not exactly anxiety. “Of course.” His eyes linger on yours, even after you look down to carefully take the exquisitely-crafted tool from his hand.

You turn to the sink, listening to Ivar gather his ingredients behind you. This morning he had surprised you with a long, very detailed shopping list for what is apparently his signature pasta sauce. Details as in brand names, and specifying the amounts down to the ounces. You have never seen the boy cook before, but today you’re learning why he would even own expensive knives.

I cook, he had said almost defensively as you teased him about the uncharacteristic request. But do you think that animals like my brothers deserve to enjoy my skills?

Your cheeks warm now as you contemplate that statement. It meant that he considers you to be worth cooking for tonight, doesn’t it? You rub soap on the knife carefully from the back edge and glance over at him.

Ivar is inspecting the fresh herbs you bought. You hold your breath, but he gives them a little nod and moves on to the onion and garlic. You dry the knife and bring it to him.

“Good girl.”

Even just those simple words have your body thrumming. He’s not a dick about it, he just likes things his certain way, and that submissive streak in your soul is just loving every opportunity for Ivar to keep telling you what to do.

He sets the knife down, then holds out his hand. “Give me that towel.”

He folds it twice and lays it on the table in front of him. He pulls a tool from the bag that looks like a round little sword. “Oh,” you say, “does it need to be sharpened?”

“This is not for sharpening,” Ivar says, his voice cool and still, like he’s preparing a ritual. “This is a honing steel.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a common mistake. But we don’t want to sharpen a knife too often. Sharpening removes some of the metal. This,” he says, setting the tip of the steel against the towel and holding the hilt up vertically with his left hand, “is for honing.” He lifts the knife in his right hand and sets it at a close angle against the steel. His fist grips the hilt of the steel firmly, while his fingers curl more loosely, elegantly around the handle of his knife. He draws it down the length of the steel in a firm, deliberate movement. “Honing merely aligns the sharp edge of the blade, so it doesn’t blunt itself by curling to one side.” The blade crosses to the other side, sliding down in another brisk line. He builds a rhythm, every movement deft, controlled, and faster than you would have felt safe moving that blade around. “There.” He admires the edge with a satisfied nod. “Bring me the teak cutting board, from the bottom of the pantry.”

You didn’t even know they had a “teak cutting board.” You and Ubbe have been using a scarred plastic one that looks ready to crack in half at any moment.

You find the board wrapped up in the back; when you pull it out you want to cry. The rich shades of amber and honey in the woodgrain are just gorgeous. “Why do you have such beautiful things?” you say softly as you set it down in front of him.

“I like beautiful things.” He catches your eye, and there’s no way he’s not including you in the sentiment.

You smile and look away, smoothing your hands down your skirt just to give yourself something to do. Your movement draws his gaze, and a thick, satisfied look suffuses his eyes as he admires your outfit. Inspired by your little domestic 1950’s housewife fantasy, you’d bought yourself a vintage dress, royal blue, complete with full, knee-length skirt, fitted waist, and sweetheart neckline. Now that that fantasy seems to be coming true, you couldn’t resist putting it on today, even if your only plans consisted of staying home and cooking with Ivar.

He drags the knife across the steel a few more times.

“How do you know it’s sharp enough?”

He flashes you a grin, the one with the sadistic edge that makes your knees a little weak. “There is one test,” he lifts the knife in his competent grip, “to see if it can shave an arm hair . . . hold still.”

His eye glitter as you take a step back from him, sucking your arms up tight against your ribcage. Even though the idea of Ivar holding cold steel against your body is making your heartbeat quicken, a little warmth gathering between your legs.

He cocks his head, don’t you trust me written all over his smirk. He savors your discomfort for a moment, before speaking again. “Or, we slice a piece of paper.” He takes a flyer off his stack of mail on the table, something unimportant with Act Now! in big block letters at the bottom. Grasping it at the top between two fingers, he lifts the knife and slashes down quickly through the vertically-suspended page.

It slices neatly in two, the outer edge fluttering down to the floor in front of him. “Wow, that is sharp.” You wanted to say something infinitely cooler, but how exactly do you tell someone “your knife skills are turning me on right now?”

Ivar frowns at the lower portion of the 9-inch blade. “I felt a catch toward the bottom.” He turns back to the honing steel and rasps a few more precise passes.

He may be pretending this is still a normal conversation about sharpening, but there’s a darkness in his eyes when he looks up at you again. He tips his head dramatically to the side, looking you up and down until your cheeks start to heat up.

“Seeing something that you like?”

You stammer out two answers at once, so the sounds you actually make are non-sensical.

“Do not forget that I can tell when you are turned on.”

You finally notice your mouth hanging open, and you close it.

He inspects the blade’s edge with an unnecessary flourish. “You into knives?” he asks casually. His predator’s eyes watch carefully from under heavy brows as you flail about for an answer.

“Mmm,” you say, completely uninformatively. “Um, you mean like, sexually?”

Ivar nods slowly, as confident as you are flustered.

“There is something—something about it,” you babble, trying to push through your embarrassment well enough to be honest, “but not like… I’m not saying I want to get cut up right now.”

Ivar’s mouth makes a soothing sort of sound, his gorgeous lips puckering up. “Of course not. But there’s something about—” he hefts the knife in his hand, “—the threat inherent in a dangerous object, isn’t there. Even though I’m not even threatening you with it right now.”

You gulp. “Yes.”

His head is waggling, eyes narrowed over his smile. “Come here.”

It’s simultaneously the best and worst thing he could possibly say to you right now. You want to trust him, but you really have no idea what Ivar Lothbrok will do to you if you come within arm’s reach of him. You make a small sound.

He makes a beckoning gesture.

The heavy knife is resting against the cutting board; when you step toward him Ivar leaves it there and opens his arm to pull you in close. With a hand on your waist he guides you to face the cutting board, your back against his front. The stool he’s sitting on is tall enough that he can still see from behind you, and his arms up come up around either side of your body.

“One more test. I want you to feel this one.” His voice is rich and low, so close to your ear. “Did you know that if the knife is sharp enough, cutting an onion won’t make you cry?”

“No,” You say brightly, through a burst of exhaled air. You’re relieved, although maybe just a little bit disappointed, that the topic of conversation is back to cooking, and not secret dark kinks that you might not even be ready to admit to yourself. Ivar’s body brushes softly against yours as he places an onion at the center of the cutting board and sets the knife against it.

“Here,” he says, wiggling his right hand just a bit. “Take the knife from me. Keep it lined up, but do not cut yet.”

You do as he asks, and his hand ghosts over yours, covering your grip on the handle.

“You barely have to push down. Slide it forward slightly, and the blade should sink right in.”

His guiding hand follows as you do, and the onion comes apart easily.

“Good. Keep going. We want this one finely diced.” He keeps your body pushed forward with the pressure of his from behind. Is he making sure your face is right above the onion, ready to take in all the fumes that usually blind you with tears after the first few slices?

You get the skin off and keep slicing, as instructed. The little approving noises Ivar is making into your ear must mean that your method is correct, so far. And, miraculously, your vision is still clear.

“A dull blade crushes the onion cells, releasing the chemical that makes you cry. A sharp one slices through so cleanly that this barely happens. Are you feeling anything yet?”

“No,” you say. Not from the onion, at least. The way Ivar’s body is wrapped around yours, his breath warm on your neck, has you feeling all kinds of things.

Ivar coos. “Then I’ve done well. And so are you. Even finer, please.”

You pinch the back of the blade between your fingers and chop quickly. Ivar has released your hands, placing his own about your waist instead. When you finish, you set the knife down and he coaxes you to turn around.

He inspects your face. Your eyes had started stinging just a little during that final pass, but no tears have formed. His tongue clucks, softly. “Honestly I’m a little disappointed not to get to see you crying. I think we’ll remedy that later.”

You just about quiver in his arms.

You were supposed to be his sous chef today. I mean, that would only be appropriate given the roles that you two like to assume with each other in every other context. And it is Ivar’s recipe, after all. But once he knows what watching him use a knife does to you, he performs all the rest of the dicing and chopping himself. You’re relegated to walking back and forth across the small kitchen, fetching and washing and lining up the neat little prep bowls as Ivar fills them with each of his ingredients.

He watches you all the while, in between bouts of extreme concentration on his work. He says nothing about your dress but you catch him admiring its twirl as you spin through the kitchen.

Watching him chop the garlic is almost unreal. Ivar’s not one for that garlic press contraption, and clearly he doesn’t need it. He takes a second knife from his collection, one that’s flatter and a little more squared. His slices are just about paper-thin, and he’s minced them and scooped the little pile up on the side of his blade so fast you just have to stop and stare as he does it again for each clove. His hands are large but elegant, their subtle strength readily apparent as he handles the blade with impressive agility.

“Why did you switch knives?”

He tilts the tool in question in his hand. “This is called a santoku. Japanese knives are great for speed, and the fancier skills. But for most tasks I prefer the weight of the chef’s knife. These German-made ones feel so good in the hand.”

“They really do,” you agree. “How did you get so into cooking?”

“Just a hobby I picked up for a while.” His eyes meet yours. “I am enjoying having the excuse to remember my skills again.”

You almost can’t bear to keep looking at his face, his angelic visage just beaming his delight at you. For the second time you flush, and duck your head. You’re definitely not used to Ivar being so . . . direct about his feelings for you.

He saves you from having to respond by issuing his next order. “We are ready to start cooking. Measure a tablespoon of olive oil into the pan, turn the burner on high, and help me get my stool next to the stove.”

He puts the garlic in first, stirring it briskly to, as he explains, suffuse the oil in its flavor. Next come the onions, and there is something about the way his wrist cocks as he keeps everything moving in the pan that’s almost as fascinating as his knife work. His rhythm remains steady as he directs you to add each ingredient, his other hand lightly teasing at your waist, or your hip, or your leg at the bottom edge of your skirt every time you move close to him. He pretends he’s not doing it, but there is mischief behind his eyes. By the time a thick red sauce is filling the wide pan, you’re about ready to skip this dinner and see what other treats he’s got planned for your night in.

The apartment door swings open. Ubbe enters noisily, slamming the door shut behind him. “Smells so good, Y/N! I’m starving, what are you—” He cuts off when he rounds the corner into the kitchen, and sees Ivar sitting by the stove. He takes in the luxury kitchen tools spread out on the table, and you in your housewife dress and your kitten heels. He pulls back just a little, like maybe he’s thinking he shouldn’t intrude. But then he leans one forearm against the wall and grins. “You’re making the sauce, bro?”

Ivar rolls his eyes. “Yes, Ubbe.”

“I can’t fucking wait.” He turns to you, his wolfish eyes bright. “This is gonna be the best spaghetti night you’ve had in your life.”

“It is not spaghetti night,” Ivar says crossly. “We are having gnocchi. Also, I didn’t think you were going to be home.”

Ubbe shrugs. “I don’t have anything going on.”

“Ubbe,” Ivar chides, shaking his head as he speaks. “Don’t you usually have a date lined up just about every night?”

Ubbe is only looking at you. “That just doesn’t seem very interesting anymore.”

Ivar makes a dismissive sound and nudges you. “Time to add in the spices, Y/N.”

You tear your eyes away from Ubbe, and all the things that you might just be imagining are lying behind his eyes. He walks away as you lift the last prep bowl, headed back toward his room. You sprinkle the herb blend over the sauce.

“Now we simmer,” Ivar says, turning the burner down low. “But we must keep stirring.” He slides the spoon quite precisely around the edges of the pan, then spirals it through the middle. “Can you do it this way?”

You take the handle from him and attempt to replicate his practiced movement. After a little adjusting, he leans back with a satisfied sound.

“Keep that up. No more than sixty seconds between stirrings.”

He reaches for his crutches, and you lift a brow in silent question.

“I want a shower before dinner.” He gets to his feet, then leans down to murmur low into your ear. “I am planning a long night after that.”

How can he slay you so well with only a few words?

The corner of his lip is quirked as he shifts his weight back into his crutches. “After ten minutes, start the water boiling for the gnocchi, too.”

Read On

Taglist: @swagmonstertoes @hanhanxx @xxdearlybeloved@littledeadrottinghood @persephone-is-here-omg @rekdreams247 @what-the-heart-desires @inforapound @creepshowzombae @tomarisela @vladsgirl@youbloodymadgenius @walkxthexmoon@funmadnessandbadassvikings @trashqueenbitch @justlovelifeblog @earl-aive @supernaturalvikingwhore @equalstrashflavoredtrash @that-was-not-supposed-to-happen @ceridwenofwales @grungyblonde @pokeasleepingsmaug @hvittysmutanon @honestsycrets @wuxiesalt @thorins-queen-of-erebor @writingfromasgard @tootie-fruity @lordsexmachine @ uncomfortable-writers @sadbutatleastsassy @sweatstreatz01 @ritual-unions-gotme @likealostkiss @thehangedmanandthehoneybee @xxlilqueeniexx @thefightingdragon

#ivar x reader #ivar x you #ivar imagine #dom!ivar #ivar the boneless #playing house fic #vikings college au

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coeurdastronaute · 4 years

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The Story, Ch. 1

I am going to tell a story.

It is not a marvelous story, nor is it very heroic, nor ghastly, nor mysterious, nor epic by any Ovidian means. It’s much more simply just a real story, perhaps a true story in that it could very much happen, but hasn’t, exactly, to the best of my knowledge.

I’d rather like to use the word true in the sense that it is universal, innate, honest to very idea that all humanity is capable of experiencing it. It’s true and honest and real, and that might not sound like magic, but if we’re being honest, as most storytellers are known to be, the most magic that can be found is in the moments we can’t tell about-- the moments stricken from pages for being mundane, superfluous from the plot, as if it’s possible to decide so easily what matters, and what doesn’t, as if memory and life are easy enough to foresee to know that a single moment won’t resonate indiscriminately through time and space, etching deep ridges and valleys and canyons into a person’s heart.

I am going to tell a story that is superfluous from the plot, that’s not very heroic nor ghastly nor mysterious nor epic, and yet one that is full of bravery and ghosts and fear and perseverance.

No one will tell you what I want to tell you, that it is impossible to truly understand that depth of the pain that life will haphazardly, and often lazily, often with abandon, toss upon you. I need you to understand this, because once you do, you can survive it, and if you survive it, you can fill in the spaces, the inbetween, the pauses and inhalations and dark, dark, deep and dangerous moments with perhaps a dash of love.

I am going to tell a story that is true and honest, I am going to trip over my words because I believe in being exact, and perhaps precision is muddled by searching for perfection. I will not tell you what I hope you take from it, for that would defeat the need to finish it, but rather I shall tell you the how. I hope you read this and forget the words, or at least think you have until one day when you understand them more than you do when you read it.

This tale has no more ghosts than the normal amount. It has no more pain, no more love, no more jealousy, nor anguish, nor magic than the average truth would. This is the warning.

I am going to tell a story, now.

XXXXXXXXXX

In the summer of her twelfth year, the fair came to town. She remembered it especially because it was not the same as the festivals that came with such regularity it was practically ingrained in her DNA, and much like sparrows, the town just went to work of returning to every year. No, the fair that came to town was different. It was not of them, but for them.

To be honest, she hadn’t thought of it much since it happened, as time wiped away the newness of it, replacing it with the present and the not-too-distant.

Later, she would come to remember that as the year before the end of it all. With the perfect hindsight she realized had she just listened, she might have heard it, as an adult she could practically hear the knowledge that something was indeed almost over, the knowledge that hummed, faint and lazy below the noises of the house and the town and the summer evening, the sound Jamie heard when she tossed and turned in the stale, sticky heat of her bed when the breeze was no where to be found.

Gawky and just becoming aware of her body, she remembered the look she gave herself in the fun house mirrors. The one that stretched her legs, all knees and knobby, the whole way up to her chin. The one that made her hips jut out and when she bent over, that made her chin and nose and ears disproportional, or more so than she already knew them to be. But her little brother didn’t mind at all, laughing at how ridiculous he looked, and then at her until she punched him in the arm, earning a wail of pain.

With change scrounged and stolen from pockets, she bought their first taste of cotton candy. They snuck onto the rides and rode until they threw up behind the animal tent. For hours and hours and hours, for what felt like days, they roamed the fair in a type of delirium, removed from the ordinary, escaping, as it were.

But that night was forever tinged a different hue than pink cotton candy and a burning sky where the sun refused to set. It wasn’t even stained black like her father’s hands, nor did it reek of gin or shine on her mother’s breath.

Alone and indignant, she wandered through the tents and shoddy booths after rinsing her mouth with water from a bucket hanging near the horses. Her brothers were done, tapped out of money and eager to hold onto anything left in their stomachs, but Jamie didn’t want to leave. She never wanted to go home again.

Forgotten was the looks she gave herself, unable to table the mess of frizz on her head, unable to comprehend the knobby knees and perpetual layer of dirt accumulated on her clothes and cheeks. Forgotten was the music of her brother’s laughter, shrieks, and crying accompanied by the splashing of guts against the compacted dirt mixed with the smell of the animals. Lost to time were those moments unless they were dug for, rooted up and yanked back into tangibility with a great deal of effort.

What remained of that night was the sheer terror of the tent with the black curtains. The tent on the edge of the fair, that Jamie stumbled upon, as young women stumbled out of, afraid and clutching different bundles of herbs or totems. The tent under the smooth-leafed elm near the broken fence, list solely by candles and a fire that never seemed to grow higher than flickering.

What Jamie remembered was the large velvet chair and the ancient lace that covered the tables. She could smell, from time to time, the old, moldy dried herbs and flowers that were packed and chopped right there.

And for some inexplicable reason, she slid across her last five pence piece and waited for the woman to take it. And when she presented her palm, dirty, with moon shaped divots where her fingernails had dug into to find some steel against the appraising eyes, she clenched her jaw, almost defiant, and waited.

Kindly, the woman smiled, prepared to believe in her own magic for a moment for this brave little girl. While she made her money selling potions to unhappy wives and bundles of herbs and totems for pregnancy and wealth, she refused to use her gifts unless called upon. As inexplicable as it was to Jamie, so too did this woman not understand what made her cradle the small palm in her hand for a tenth of her normal fee.

Occasionally, as if a slowly moving echo, Jamie would hear her words, or rather bursts of them, phrases really, bouncing back to her from that moment. The older she got, the less she listened enough to hear them, though they kept moving forward toward her at a steady pace.

With kind eyes, she remembered, a softening of features, the woman across the table tenderly traced the lines in her palm, something Jamie would do from time to time in the years to come, as if she, too, could see something important.

With a heavy heart, the palm-reader shook her head and kissed Jamie’s palm. I am so sorry, my love. It is not fair.

As much as she wanted to snatch her hand back, Jamie remained still and listened to the entirety of the woman’s words. She allowed her to rub an oil onto them, to write with burnt twigs, tiny symbols on her wrist, to hum a tune and press the coin back into her hand.

Only much later would Jamie realize it was a kindness, to understand someone’s future and be unable to do anything about it, but to try anyway.

But the great pain, the great sadness, the great joy, the great everything that the woman promised, Jamie refused to acknowledge ever again. She avoided those echoes and she didn’t stop running. That was how she was going to survive it.

And as the woman pulled out a knife and sliced a gash in Jamie’s palm, as she muttered the words, as Jamie recoiled in pain, pushing back the chair and frantically looking for the exit, she saw the flames growing higher, she felt the woman corner her as she scuttled across the floor, the dirt and the discarded stems of her herbs searing the cut, leaving a trail of blood there. She fled beneath the tent flap, crawling and tripping over herself until she was home, safely in her room behind a closed door.

She pressed the gash on her palm to her chest as blood warmed her shirt.

She never spoke of it again.

For some reason, the fair that came to town the summer she turned twelve came alive in her mind once again, the moment she walked into the kitchen and saw a new face at the table. It was instantaneous, the appearance of that memory. All-encompassing were the noises and smells and terror in her heart.

In a move that would look, to anyone else, as if she were merely wiping the dirt from her hands, fighting against a stubborn smudge, she ran her thumb along the perfectly straight but raised scar through the middle of her palm.

But she washed her hands and ignored the momentary echo before sitting down at the table, forgetting it all once again.

XXXXXXXXX

With a great start, the new au pair’s eyes burst open as she inhaled a shaky breath, as if she’d been holding it for hours and was finally able to defeat whatever had been sitting on her chest, choking her through the night.

It took a full minute for her sense to come back, for her to understand where she was, to chase away the remnants of the dream that seemed to repeat itself nightly despite her best efforts to escape it.

Slowly, and with great effort, Dani focused on the sound of the birds just outside her window in the copper beeches that towered alongside the manor. Outside, the waking of the manor and the grounds were becoming regular and soothing, reminding her in their foreignness that she was not home anymore.

It was still early as she climbed out of bed, the thin fabric of her sleeping gown clung to her skin as the heat and her dreams had won against the coolness of the lovely breeze during the night. She stood by the large window with the heavy, ancient glass and peered out onto the lawn as the haze did its best to burn itself away in the rising of the day.

Three weeks ago, she’d answered the ad that took her out of London and deep into the countryside so that even in an atlas, she was somewhat unsure of how to get back if she were have the need to escape, which was simultaneously terrifying and freeing.

Even after a full week of waking in a lovely English manor, Dani hadn’t grown too used to the feeling of peace she experienced despite the dreams, as if waking was a better time than sleeping, as if she was living a dream, even, and her dreams were the reality she resigned herself to at night, forever haunted.

Before the children could wake, Dani washed and dressed, taking a little bit of time every morning to explore the expansive house and grounds. The tragedy of the entire home softened slightly in the beauty it still had, and the hope the children still, despite all else, seemed to cling to against all odds.

Walking helped clear her head, helped to shed away the old skin, like a snake rubbing against rocks, wiggling out of old skin that it’d outgrown, though she felt it was more forced than that for her, that perhaps the skin she was in wasn’t ready to be shed, and despite her best clawing and scratching and wiggling and rubbing was struggling to pull it off. The past was a sweater that shrunk in the wash and now she couldn’t escape it despite contorting herself into all different positions and yanking.

So instead, Dani walked in the morning.

Sometimes she beat Owen, who arrived early with arms full of fresh things to cook for the day. Sometimes she would slip out through the back and he wouldn’t have arrived yet, or she would hear the sound of his tires on the gravel as she turned the corner away from the house.

A few times, she even beat Hannah, up before the housekeeper had made it to the kitchen, though Dani suspected Hannah rarely slept, and was instead simply elsewhere.

Only twice had Dani seen the gardener, and with grounds that she was still discovering, she doubted their orbits would often overlap. They’d never formally met, but it seemed only a matter of time with such few options for adult conversation in the manor.

On her walks, Dani didn’t let her mind wonder too far from the course of action for the day, plotting how to keep two active and unpredictable children busy taking up much of her energy and leaving her exhausted every night in a way that made her hopeful for rest. She thought slowly, taking her time, careful not to let those thoughts drift, steering the ship purposefully.

More and more, she was allowing herself to relax at the manor, to shirk off some of the guilt and the pain of her previous life that existed just a few months ago. There was a healing that could be found in a departure. There was a kind of reward in giving up. A ghost still followed her, still reminded her. How simple the act of forgetting seemed to be, except when it truly mattered. It baffled her, that she couldn’t remember what Eddie’s particular brand of toothpaste was called, but a random whiff of something close to his cologne strangled her entirely.

Memory was cruel in that way, stealing away anything good, and leaving the worst of it. Those dark thoughts stained the countertops of her mind, the ring of week-old coffee that refused to be wiped clean and seemed to dismiss all notions of fading.

The loss was too much to hold, sometimes. He followed her around everywhere despite her departure from the routine

Maybe if she stayed here, stayed at Bly and got used to it, the familiarity would wipe away the dust and dark. Dani was determined to start new, to begin again. That was the only thing to do after such a thing.

“Oi, watch where you’re walking!”

The voice startled the absent au pair as she jumped away from whatever she’d apparently been walking on.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-- I don’t see where I…”

“You almost went knee-deep into my fertilizer, and my Delphiniums have been quite eager for that. I’d hate to make them cross so early in the summer.”

The lilt of her tone bordered on teasing, but Dani was almost certain there was some honesty there, as if the gardener really did worry about the moods of her plants and of the garden as a whole.She quite liked the pleasing way the gardener’s mouth moved, cocked up at one corner in an oddly shy grin, and she quite liked the pleasing way the hardness of consonants were mulled over and softened.

In just that moment, Dani realized she was missing some gentleness, and how shocking it was to find it in the sticky heat of the countryside morning.

“I’m sorry,” Dani offered weakly, looking around and finally seeing the pile of compost and fertilizer waiting to be dispersed throughout the day. “I hadn’t-- I was a little lost there, I guess.”

“Try not to get too lost, Poppins. We need someone to wrangle those two heathens, and I have my hands full.”

“Delphiniums are notoriously ornery.”

They shared a smile and Dani looked over the gardener, mud already appearing on her bare shoulder while her overalls had pockets full and gloves hung near her hip and a patch sewed on one side of a thigh. The messy mop of curls was somewhat tamed in a bandana, and even without make up, her lips seemed impossibly red, like strawberries.

“If you think they’re bad, you should hear how my peonies have been acting out. Don’t even get me started on my deutzias, who are normally so well-behaved.”

As she rambled, Dani thought about how nice it was, to hear someone talk about something that they clearly loved. She couldn’t help but smile, which made the gardener slow down and end her explanation earlier than either would have liked.

“I should let you get back to your walk. You looked like you were going somewhere important, with purpose.”

“Oh, yeah, I was… not really. Just clearing my head.”

“That can be tricky,” Jamie nodded.

“Thank you for saving me.”

“It’s my pleasure. I kind of prowl about all day waiting to save beautiful damsels. It’s part of my charm.”

“I’d work on the delivery,” Dani teased, taking a few steps back as she realized it was late enough for the manor to be waking.

“Never been my strong suit,” Jamie shrugged it off. “How was the follow through?”

“I’d give it a solid B-.”

“Tough marker, you are. I feel for those little ones already.”

“Practice makes perfect, Ms. Hawthorne.Can’t disappoint those damsels.”

“I’d never want to do that.”

With a rakish grin, Jamie nodded a farewell to the au pair, and Dani returned it with a small wave over her shoulder.

The realization that the gardener had called the au pair beautiful was met simultaneously by both members of the previous conversation. Dani was nearly rounding the corner as she replayed it all in her head, stopping suddenly at that detail while Jamie was furrowed and pulling on her gloves, meeting at the same point. Both looked up at each other when it happened and from across the lawn, looked away quickly.

As swift as her legs would carry her, Dani retreated into the routine of the day, refusing to think of gardeners or Delphiniums.

#bly manor #dani x jamie

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goldleafacrossyourlips · 4 years

Text

Uneasy Lies the Head - Dark Lord/OC - Chapter 5

Chapters - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13

Chapter 5 - Snapdragon and Arrows

The days following Aunt Zelda’s wedding and Ambrose’s imprisonment were somber. Samara’s original plan was to depart from the Spellman house shortly after the wedding and head back to Vail. She had a business there after all. However, with all the recent developments she had decided to stay with her family and offer the support they needed. So as the dawn rose, Samara got herself ready, patted Phlox on the head where he still lounged in the bed and left her room.

Aunt Hilda was downstairs in the kitchen, mixing something in a bowl. Stress cooking. Samara approached her melancholy Aunt with a soft smile.

“Auntie, I wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

“Of course, my love. What is it?” Aunt Hilda dusted her hands off on the apron she was wearing.

“I know originally, I was going to be leaving today to head back to Vail. But I figured, what with everything going on, I could perhaps stay for a bit longer? Just until everything is figured out with Ambrose and Auntie Z is back from her honeymoon. I just want to help.” Samara wrung her hands together and stared out the kitchen window, towards the many flowers that swayed in the wind. The brightly colored Snapdragons caught her eye.

“Samara, when would we ever deny you staying?! Of course, my girl! We’d be thrilled to have you around some more. Perhaps we can even convince you to stay forever with a little more time. Keep your cousins out of trouble.” Aunt Hilda squeezed her hand teasingly. Samara let out a low chuckle.

“We’ll see, Auntie. Well, if I am going to be staying for longer than I planned, I do need to hop back to the shop and get some things ready for it. I’ll be back before evening. Anything you want me to bring back?”

“Oh! How about some rationality brew to pour down your bloody cousins’ throats?” Samara laughed at her Aunt’s joke. She leaned forward and kissed the woman on her cheek.

“I’m afraid even the Dark Lord himself couldn’t brew a potion strong enough to keep their heads on straight. I’ll see you soon Auntie. Give Sabrina my love.” Samara stepped back and braced herself for the teleportation. With a whispered chant she was floating through space and time.

She landed in the small sitting room of the house she had in Vail. Luckily there was a side table near where she appeared and she used that to steady herself. She shook her head to clear herself of the disorientation. Snapping her fingers, the lights flickered on and she moved to the workshop at the back of the house. It was a nicely sized room where she did all her brewing, grinding and bottling for her work and hobby. Dried and fresh ingredients lined the walls and ceiling either in containers or hanging. The pungent scent of herbs and flowers lingered in the air.

Samara felt the tension she held in her shoulders release as she took in the scent of her workroom. She checked the moisture level of the foxglove and mint as she passed by them. She had a lingering thought that they’d be dry as a bone by the time she returned. Shaking the thought away she turned to the brews she had on one of the counters.

She went to work bottling the requested brews and writing letters to her clients that she’d be indisposed for the unseeable future. She’d get in touch with all of them when she returned to work. She gathered everything up and set them in their designated boxes. She focused for a moment and then began tapping each individual box which instantly disappeared and transported to the client that needed it.

The time passed quickly as she continued to work. She safely stored some of her more testy and hard-to-aquire ingredients and gathered some gifts for her family. As she got her little cottage prepared for a more longer term vacancy. She went around the house and gathered what she’d need for her longer stay at the Spellmans. By the end she had two suitcases ready in the sitting room.

She went outside to her sprawling garden and began to carefully walk through the many rows of herbs, flowers and foliage. She stopped by the large patch of red Chrysanthemums that had been what convinced her to buy the cottage. Not only were the flowers beautiful, they were incredibly useful in many brews she made. And without fail, whenever she used those flowers her potions were always successful and potent. Samara was sad to part with them, even if it was only for an indeterminate amount of time. She stroked one of the petals before she headed back inside.

She went over to her bags and glanced at the clock. It was just reaching late afternoon. Hopefully she’d get to the Spellman house just in time to be able to help plot something for Ambrose. She grabbed her two bags after making sure all the lights were off and took a deep breath. She chanted under breath and began teleporting.

She landed in her room at the Spellman house, falling forward onto the bed after dropping her luggage. Samara groaned as the feelings of teleporting drained from her body. She sat up and took stock of her room. Thankfully her suitcases had remained sealed and not spilled everything everywhere. She’d done that before. She quickly set to work unpacking her bags and settling in.

The sun was still high in the sky when she finished. She had heard noise downstairs indicating someone was there. More than likely Sabrina since she would’ve just finished with school; her having to return to the mortal school since she’d been expelled from the Academy. Samara brushed her hands off on her jeans and headed downstairs. She was interested in hearing what plans Sabrina and her Aunt had come up with to help Ambrose. She had a few ideas herself.

Samara felt herself begin to frown in confusion as she heard a male voice talking downstairs and her cousin’s voice replying. She hurried down the stairs to see who their guest was. She entered the kitchen to see her cousin filling a glass with water and a taller, handsome man standing by their dining table.

“Cousin. Who’s our guest?” Samara felt giddy delight brush through her at seeing both jump at her question. Sabrina turned around and smiled brightly at Samara but before she could answer her question the man spoke.

“Hi. I’m a missionary for my church. But the young miss here explained that your family already has a faith. I just asked for a glass of water before I left.” The man stared at Samara as he spoke. Chills raced down Samara’s spine for some reason. She stepped closer to Sabrina and watched the man. Her Shadows threatened to twist and turn where they were but Samara kept them still, not wanting to show them to the mortal.

“I see. Do you get many converts, going door to door?” Samara asked, still remaining by Sabrina’s side. Something was off about all this. Samara tried to brush it off, thinking it stress and worry from the past couple days.

“Uh, you’d be surprised. The Word of the Almighty can hold a lot of appeal to people. As long as they’re open to it. I’m Jerry by the way.” He accepted the glass of water from Sabrina and began peering around the room.

“Sabrina. And this is my cousin, Samara.” Samara shot a quick look towards her cousin for giving their names to a stranger.

“Thank you. It’s thirsty business doing the Lord’s work.” Samara subtly rolled her eyes at the man. She leaned back against the counter with Sabrina, her taller cousin shooting a quick smile towards her.

“What religion do you practice? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“It’s more spiritual, really. Personal to our family.” Samara answered before her cousin could. Her arms crossing over her chest. The chills up and down her spine were getting more intense. More feeling like flames and ice racing along her skin.

“Does it comfort you?” His question was off-putting. Samara thought back to the night she signed her name in the Book and the reassurances she had been flooded with.

“Yes.”

“To be honest, sometimes it scares me.” Samara turned her stare to her cousin at her answer. Barely concealing her shock and irritation at divulging personal information to this stranger. A stranger that promoted the words of the False God at that!

“What about it?” Jerry was subtly prying and Sabrina was falling for it. Samara wanted to grab her cousin and shake her. Where was her sense?

“That at its core it’s...What’s at the core of your religion?” Samara let out a quiet breath at her cousin not fully answering.

“Forgiveness and salvation. Who couldn’t use more of those things in their lives?” He gave a soft chuckle with his answer. Samara kept her eyes on him as he began rounding the table towards them.

“But aren’t some people beyond saving?” Sabrina’s question held honest confusion. Samara closed her eyes in exasperation. Honestly, her cousin just didn’t know when to stop.

“Not in my book. No matter what choices they’ve made.” The man continued to look at her cousin. Something in Samara wanted him to leave and stay away. Something in her wanted to flee. She wanted to grab her cousin and run. It was such a ridiculous thought. This mere mortal was causing her senses to go haywire. Maybe she inhaled more of the fumes from that Confusion Concoction than she originally thought.

“But if you dedicate your entire life to something most people think is wrong...or evil...you can’t just wash that away.” Sabrina walked closer to the dining table as she spoke. Samara tensed and dug her fingernails into her arms she still had crossed.

“A hundred percent you can. You just have to ask for forgiveness.” Jerry set his drink down and leaned towards Sabrina.

“If only it were that easy.” Sabrina’s face was scrunched in disbelief.

“Sabrina, that is exactly what I am saying. It is.” Samara scoffed at his words about retort when she heard Phlox making one Heaven of a commotion outside, screeching and chattering. She felt herself tense even more, torn between sticking to her cousin’s side or checking on her familiar. Her answer was made when the phone began to ring and Sabrina hurried to pick it up. Samara rushed out the back door to check on Phlox.

Her worry instantly died when she found him sitting in the garden flicking his tail. He looked fine and nothing around him seemed disturbed.

“What? Phlox?” Her questions stopped when she heard something going on in the house. She began running back in with Phlox at her feet growling and chattering. She entered the house to see her cousin and the missionary man missing. Cautiously walking through the ground floor, her worry began mounting as she still couldn’t find Sabrina. Just as she rounded the corner of the staircase, she could see the front door hanging by its hinges. She could see Jerry hulking in the doorway, looking out towards the driveway. Just around his side she could see Sabrina cycling down the driveway Salem close behind. Samara began to slip back around the corner and run when Jerry turned to face her.

“Wait! You can be forgiven! I can show you salvation!” He began screaming and quickly approaching her. As she turned to run she saw the familiar glint of a blade in his hand. Samara felt true panic and fear begin to settle in her chest. She weaved through the house with Phlox sticking close. She could hear Jerry’s thundering footsteps close behind her. She just needed enough space between the two to be able to teleport away, but she also needed to be able to have Phlox touching her so he could teleport with her too.

She was almost to the stairs leading down to the mortuary when she tripped over one of the many rugs in the house. She landed harshly onto her knees and was quick to flip over onto her back to keep Jerry in her line of sight. Seeing her on the ground, he slowed. He began stalking towards her, knife stretched out at his side.

“The choice to be who you are now was made for you when you were still a child! There is still time for you to change and be saved! Repent! Ask for forgiveness and you shall receive.” His ramblings were causing irritation to flutter in with her fear. Out of the corner of her eyes she could see the Shadows begin to writhe and twist. She felt her core relax a bit at the sight. She began to slowly extend her arm towards Phlox.

“Sorry bud, I like my cult, not looking to join another one! Phlox!” She yelled to her familiar at the same time the Shadows descended upon the man, keeping him back as she gathered her familiar in her arms.

“Lanucae magicae.” She spoke clearly and buried her face in Phlox’s fur. She landed with a thump in the middle of Cerberus’ Bookstore. She was sure her Aunt would be there. She lifted her head out of Phlox’ fur and took in her surroundings or rather what was left. The bookstore was in tatters, shelves busted and books strewn everywhere.

“Samara!” She heard her Auntie yell her name. She raised a trembling hand and was helped up. Sabrina was by her side and they quickly wrapped the other in a hug.

“What happened here?” Samara’s voice was buried in her cousin’s shoulder.

“Witch-hunter. It seems there’s a couple running around here. What happened to the one at home?” Aunt Hilda’s hand stroked through her free-flying hair. Samara pulled back and looked at her.

“He’s still alive. I got a couple seconds to run away and I did.” Samara stared at her Aunt as she spoke, hoping she’d get the meaning behind her words. Luckily she did. Aunt Hilda’s face lit with realization and relief. She patted Samara’s cheek in response.

“So, there are two witch-hunters running around Greendale. Lovely.” Samara sighed, Phlox leaning against her leg.

“Three.” Nick’s breathless word came as he burst open the door. “Well, there were three. They call themselves the Innocents.” Sabrina immediately went to him and wrapped him in a hug. “The one who stormed Dorian’s is now trapped in one of his paintings. Sorry Sabrina. I was a dick before but believe me, I’m sobering up fast.” Nick grasped Sabrina’s arms as he apologized.

“What do they want? Do we know?” Samara broke their reunion with her question. Her arms were crossed over her chest as she looked around at the damage.

“To kill all the witches in Greendale. According to the hunters we subdued, their plan was to start with the outliers. You, your aunt, the crew at Dorian’s. And then converge at the Academy.” Nick answered. They all looked at eachother with worry.

“Ambrose.”

“They’ll all be sitting ducks. We have to warn them.” Sabrina stressed.

“We’re expelled. There’s no way we’re getting into that school. Not without a Hand of Glory.” Nick had a good point. Samara and Hilda shared a glance.

“Oh! You can take your pick in the botanical room at home. I mean, I have half a dozen at least. Okay?” Hilda reassured the two. Samara stepped forward, her arms unfolding.

“Let’s go kill some Witch-Hunters.” She shared a wicked smile with Nick and Sabrina.

#caos #Chilling Adventures of Sabrina #dark lord x reader #dark lord x oc #dark lord #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer morningstar x oc #lucifer morningstar x ofc #lucifer morningstar #ofc #oc #spellman #sabrina #ambrose #hilda #zelda #nick #scratch

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michelles-garden-of-evil · 4 years

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Quiz: Which Desmond Hall Character Are You?

SPOILER WARNING FOR DESMOND HALL ARCS I AND II

Last week, I was going to work on finishing my next review, but then my muse pulled me aside and ordered me to write a Desmond Hall personality quiz while threatening me with a conjure doll and silver pin. Not every Desmond Hall character is in this quiz, only the ones that I thought would be the funniest to write. Enjoy!

1. You have just arrived at an ancient manor house enveloped in darkness that rests atop a sinister network of haunted caves. When you learn this, how do you react? A. Lie in bed for several days while writhing in agony. B. Accept it and keep myself busy while pining for my voodoo island home. C. Act insufferably smug, because soon the house will belong to me. D. Go search for creatures in the caves to alleviate my boredom and satisfy my compulsion to do random disturbing things. E. Barely react at all because the writers have forgotten that I have a personality. F. Swan around while talking to myself about how the manor looks like something out of a storybook. G. Wish that I could live there again, because I've been trapped in a trippy magical closet for months.

2. The daily newspaper arrives and the headline reads, "GIRL BRUTALLY MURDERED.” What is your response? A. Retreat to my bedchamber and panic loudly about how I hope no one discovers that I’m the murderer. B. Get the body buried and all evidence concealed. C. Observe a moment of silence for my former doxy, then promptly forget she ever existed. D. Cut out the photo of the victim's face, suspend it from a papier-mâché gallows tree, and display it prominently in the foyer. E. Feel moderately concerned for my safety, but not too much. My ghost boyfriend will protect me...maybe. F. Scheme to blackmail the killer into marrying me. G. Wonder, "Was that my brother again?"

3. Your hobbies include: A. Moping around the manor house in fancy suits and contorting my face as though trying unsuccessfully to relieve myself. B. Reciting dramatic monologues with bits of scenery caught between my teeth! C. Plotting murder, robbery, and the corruption of young maidens while sipping sherry. D. I wander. I visit. I'm here and there. I'm a kind of ghost of Desmond Hall. E. I used to enjoy rebelling, flouncing, and bickering, but I've lost my taste for those. Now I prefer hanging out with old people in a cottage that smells of strange spices. F. Talking to and stroking my sweet little snake. (By which I mean "reptile with no legs and a forked tongue." Get your mind out of the gutter.) G. Necromancy.

4. Your favorite foods include: A. Bubbly eggs cooked in champagne. Definitely not kippers. B. The cuisine of my native island, before the evil of THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES made all the plants poisonous and killed all the animals! C. My spouse's hors d'oeuvres--but only when I don't have to eat them off the floor. D. Sugar, strawberries and cream, and the very best...*checks Teleprompter*...butter. E. Muffins laced with magical herbs. F. The delicious misery of the man who tried to strangle me and of all the other women who want him. G. I don't eat anymore. I'm a ghost. Food passes right through me--literally.

5. What turns you on? A. A lover who is unpredictable but not murderously crazy, and who likes to wear lacy nighties. B. I would not know! I have not felt those urges in three hundred years! C. Money. D. Anyone from my preferred gender who actually wants to spend time with me. E. A ghost who behaves like Edward Cullen. F. Jean Paul Desmond! He is the sexiest male character in the history of television. G. Submission and unquestioning devotion. Also, lesbians.

6. What is your signature look? A. Highly flattering mod suits combined with an unflattering combover. B. A long black Victorian dress. C. A stodgy gray/green suit, which is probably in desperate need of Febreze after being worn three days in a row. D. Turtlenecks. E. Bleached blonde hair and faddish early ‘70s fashions. F. Long pointed fingernails, false eyelashes, and a creepy grin. G. I once hung from the ceiling with my shirt torn open. Does that count?

7. Everyone has a skeleton in their closet. What is yours? A. Although I want to reach out and help the beautiful young women who come to me, instead my hands reach out to kill! B. I single-handedly cursed my employer's family by signing his grandfather’s (misspelled) name on a pledge to the Dark Lord. C. I am a black widower. D. I used to participate in necromancy rituals with my dear cousin. E. I stole a piece of my mother's jewelry and sold it at a pawn shop. F. I am a priestess of the Serpent God. G. Funny you should mention skeletons. My closet has a literal one hanging in it.

8. If you had to guess, which of these personages were you most likely in a past life? A. A freebooter possessed by the Devil. B. Myself. C. Henry Seewald--who looks exactly like a toddler version of me--transported back in time via the 49th hexagram. D. Someone named Claude. E. A young girl sacrificed by a priestess who looked like my mother. F. Ophelia, if she were real. G. My great-uncle with the same first name as me, who was allegedly disowned for being a poet.

9. Your favorite Dark Shadows character is: A. Barnabas Collins. B. Magda Rakosi. C. Nicholas Blair. D. David Collins. E. Carolyn Stoddard. F. Angelique Bouchard. G. Quentin Collins.

10. What from 1970 Dark Shadows do you believe was most likely inspired by Strange Paradise? A. The character of Judah Zachery, who is highly reminiscent of THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES. B. The use of a retcon to completely change Angelique's backstory. C. The name Desmond Collins. D. The implied reincarnation in the Summer of '70 arc that (sadly) never got explored as much as it should have been. E. The subplot about Quentin falling in love with Daphne's ghost. F. The Leviathan cult's use of snake iconography. G. The carousel in Tad and Carrie's playroom.

If you answered mostly A, you are Jean Paul Desmond, richest man in the world and master of Desmond Hall. Tall, dark, and incredibly handsome in spite of his receding hairline, Jean Paul is the victim of two self-imposed curses, one of which causes him to strangle people when the Mark of Death appears on his hand (which is totally not a reflection of some repressed or hidden part of his personality, having formerly displayed megalomania and control freak tendencies on his island). When not under the effects of this curse, he is the living embodiment of charm and sweetness and attracts would-be partners like moths to a flame. Logically, the same must be true about you, because online personality quizzes are never wrong. ;)

If you answered mostly B, you are Raxl, daughter of the Priestess of the Serpent and winner of the Canadian 1969 and 1970 scenery-chewing contests. Far older than she looks, the Desmond family’s housekeeper may not be as loyal as she appears, depending on the whims of whomever wrote the plot outline for the final arc. She is an expert on all things occult and supernatural, from tarot cards to the Egyptian Key. Even after her retcon, she is awesome.

If you answered mostly C, you are Laslo Thaxton, husband of Ada (Desmond) Thaxton and master of Desmond Hall in the absence of Jean Paul and Philip. I would say that you are an unscrupulous, greedy Devil-worshiper like Laslo, but I’ve always hated those personality quizzes that make moral judgments about people just because they share some traits in common with the villain. Therefore, I’m just going to assume that you are most likely a decent person who only got Laslo because you happen to love money and Nicholas Blair.

If you answered mostly D, you are Cort Desmond, twenty-something cousin of Jean Paul and Philip. Eccentric and erratic but oh-so-adorable, Cort is a polarizing character loved by some fans for his good looks and (often unintentionally) funny lines, but hated by others for being somewhat of a spoiled brat. Like Hamlet whom he idolizes, he seeks justice for the death of his father, along with the inheritance his Dear Stepfather Laslo wants to steal from him.

If you answered mostly E, you are Holly Marshall--or, rather, what Holly has become since her creator Ian Martin left the show. Formerly a spitfire with a high IQ, a low boiling point, and a love for outdated slang, Holly has become a shell of her former self under the new writers. She spends more time unconscious and hypnotized than not; when she is conscious, she wastes her time pining after an unsuitable love interest who treats her like Edward treats Bella in Twilight. I hope this doesn’t describe you, because, if it does, you should seek help. Don’t be like Desmond Hall-era Holly!

If you answered mostly F, you are Agatha Pruitt, a young seamstress obsessed with Jean Paul. While the master of Desmond Hall has attracted many suitors, none are as strange or disturbing as Agatha, who blackmails him into letting her live at Desmond Hall after his failed murder attempt and proceeds to wreak havoc there along with the Serpent God (who may or may not be Raxl’s Great Serpent) whom she worships.

Finally, if you answered mostly G, you are Jean Paul’s brother, Philip Desmond (not to be confused with his cousin Philip Desmond, or either of the two Philippes des Mondes). A secretive figure largely mysterious even to his own brother, the handsome Philip dabbles in the dark arts and other mysteries, which ultimately leads to his disappearance into the caves beneath Desmondton and reappearance as a ghost. His character alignment is unclear--he may be evil, or just chaotic neutral--but one thing is clear: whoever messes with Philip has the Devil to pay.

#strange paradise #desmond hall arc i #desmond hall arc ii #dark shadows #quiz #justforfun #i'm cort by the way #although i thought i would be agatha because of my answer to question number 5 #a lot of people think of sp as a ripoff of ds #but in truth the copying and inspiration went both ways #case in point: the carousel which sp introduced several months earlier #also you're welcome for that bad ada subtitle

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neoatiny · 4 years

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Ateez!pirate au (Horizon)

Chapter 2: ??? (2)

Plot summary: Obedience has been the very core of who she is. Cursed with not being able to identify faces and haunted by dreams of a monstrous woman, she spends her days serving under the feet of others with no hope of freedom. Later proving herself on a slave ship, she's recruited into the ranks of the Horizon and meets the infamous Pirate King, Kim Hongjoong. The pirate life is uncertain, but at least she's free.

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of violence

Word count: 1854

Synopsis: Welcome on board.

Masterlist / Next chapter / Previous chapter

She had collapsed the moment she stepped on board.

In her dreams, various colors of green swirl around her vision. A green liquid drips down from above her, creating a small puddle. It unnaturally grows bigger in size and a menacing hand rises from the water. She steps back in fear.

To her horror, it was not the violet woman who has been haunting her dreams. From the green water emerges a man. He steps forward in a forced motion and he opens his mouth to speak. “Eun..” He gasps loudly, his body freezes in an unnatural position and she forces herself awake.

Her eyes quickly flutter open and she finds herself in an unfamiliar room. A man moves around carrying various medicinal herbs towards a wooden desk.

“Where the hell is the mortar and pestle?” He angrily mutters. “I told Seonghwa not to take it anymore, but no, of course not. He doesn’t understand the health concerns in using a mortar and pestle for toxic plants and using it to crush nuts.”

She shifts around on the bed to sit and her head throbs with a dull pain. She can still feel the hands of the man from the Serpent around her throat. She follows with tired eyes the black-haired man digging through the medicine cabinet.

“Aha!” The man pulls out a smooth marble bowl. He stops for a moment to acknowledge her.

“You’re awake!” Closing the cabinet, he heads towards a desk, pushing stacked books and papers aside. “Now I get that you’re probably not used to this,” He starts, busily crushing the herbs, his back turned against her. “But you’re in good hands. I know my medicine, so you’re not going to die while you’re here.”

She is not the very least assured.

She had encountered the Serpent’s healer once after scrapping her knees and elbows when she was forced to beg on the floor for forgiveness after spilling water on the boatswain’s shoes. The healer was a very thin man and flinched when spoken to. He didn’t even seem to know what he was doing, having rubbed the wrong herbs against her wounds, leaving them itchy for a week.

The man in front of her, however, was the complete opposite of the Serpent’s healer. Though he gives off a friendly aura, she notices the long scars around his muscled arms. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought he was a fighting pirate. She suddenly remembers the silver-haired captain.

What are they going to do to me?

The healer turns around, dramatically waving a small bottle with a green substance inside. He shakes the bottle towards her. “Here.” He offers. “Yeosang brought you here and told me you hit your head hard on the Serpent’s deck and almost got chocked to death, so this will help soothe the pain.”

She stares at the mixture, outstretching her hand hesitantly to accept it. “You’re not going to die.” He jokes. Their hands touch for a brief moment, sparking something in her, before she quickly drinks it, realizing now how thirsty she was.

She coughs at the bitter taste, trying her best to keep it all down. He passes her a glass of water, which this time she accepts gratefully.

Taking back the empty glass, he continues to be friendly. “You’ve been asleep for about three days now, which is normal in my experience, don’t worry. You made a scene collapsing on the deck and you had to get carried here bridal style.”

Her ears burn in embarrassment.

“You should be grateful that you didn’t have any serious injuries. Wouldn’t want you getting an amputation on your first day.” He laughs. She doesn’t respond and he lets awkwardly clears his throat, wiping his hands with the towel slung over his shoulder. “I’m the healer here on the Horizon, but I think you’ve guessed that already. My name’s San, what’s yours?”

An uncomfortable silence fills the room before there’s a knock on the door.

“Captain!” She freezes in fear as San greets him quickly. “I was just making conversation with the girl here. She has a few bruises, but other than that there’s nothing that could lead to her death.”

The captain pats him on the back. “Thank you, San.” The healer leans against the door, crossing his arms as his captain turns to face her, pulling the desk’s chair forward and sitting down.

“I would appreciate it if you would look at me when I talk to you.” She raises her head to finally look at him in the eye, but all she’s met with is his blurry facade. Her eyes wander throughout his face, the only thing visible is his silver hair.

A strange color for anyone, she thinks to herself.

The captain perches his arm on the back of the chair, resting his head on his hand. “So you really can’t see faces. I thought the pathetic excuse for a pirate probably had too much to drink before we came aboard, but it seems he wasn’t lying.”

Even with the curse, she can feel his intimidating gaze on her. “How did you get it?”

“Captain, I don’t think she understands you.” San mentions. “Slaves on pirate ships usually spend most of their days there, usually their entire life, without any proper education. For all we know she doesn’t even know to speak-”

A sound resonates from her. An intake of air as she opens her mouth to speak in what feels like forever. “I can talk.” Her voice comes out hoarse.

San whistles impressed. “Sorry. Please continue.”

The captain moves back slightly, taking in the state of the girl in front of him. Her clothes were worn out and dirty. Multiple holes were visible on the bottom of her shirt and there was a large tear, visibly showing a faint bruise. “So you do understand us. You haven’t been a slave for long, then.”

She nods, swallowing nervously.

“Where did you learn how to shoot?” He moves closer towards her, the chair creaking. “You remind me of my head gunner.” He adds as an afterthought.

“I can’t remember.”

He scoffs. “Are you trying to fool me? You lose everything you practice when you lose your memory, but you obviously haven’t. I’m not a fool.”

“It’s not like that, I swear.” She weakly defends. “I remember how I grew up, but after that, I can’t remember the rest.” Her voice continues to crack as she speaks.

“Retaining habits isn’t uncommon in memory loss.” The healer helpfully adds. “Handwriting is the most common, but I’ve never read anything before about shooting.”

The captain hums thoughtfully. “That’s stupid.” San only laughs at his captain’s childish comment.

The captain repeats his question. “How did you get the curse?” Curse? She’s spent nights alone in the hole trying to remember the encounter.

She remembers the rain falling harshly that night. She had stumbled inside a cave, drenched from head to toe. “I’m here to make a wish.” She had announced. From the darkness of the cave, a pair of glowing green eyes followed her around. Everything else was a haze and she only remembers waking up by the shore, dazed and confused.

“I made a deal with a witch.” She decided to say.

The captain says nothing more, but she does not fail to notice the way he balled his hands into fists at the mention of the word ‘witch’. “You saved my life back on the Serpent. So in return, you’ll get to join my crew.”

“Why?” She asks without thinking. The captain stays silent for a moment before responding, taken aback from her quick response. “It’ll be better for you to stay on our ship Horizon than on a slave ship.”

She touches her wrists instinctively, still feeling the shackles the Serpent crew took off after they assigned her to scrub the deck. Anger swells in her heart at the memories. She’s not going back. “What would I do?”

“You’ll be working on the deck mostly. I informed everyone about your curse so there won’t be any future misunderstanding. I’m going to assign you as the apprentice of my head gunner. He’s a quick shot, so you’ll be able to learn well from him.”

The healer makes a surprised sound, slightly annoying his captain. “Captain, really? Wooyoung isn’t going to like this. You how he’s like.”

He dismisses the healer’s worries with a wave, not even turning his head to look at him. “He’ll get over it.”

“The captain called you Hex.” She sucks in a breath sharply at the name. “Was the name given to you by them or is it just a really sad coincidence?”

“It’s Eunsung.”

He hums acceptingly, beginning to stand up. “San, make sure to get her new clothes, some of the crew here are about her size, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Then bring her to the kitchen and eat.”

San nods. “Sure thing, captain.”

She looks down at her fingernails, dirty from sleepless nights of scrubbing and scratching the dirty walls of her poor excuse of home. The sounds of struggling slaves, their cries for salvation-

“What happened to the slaves?” She suddenly recalls, sounding almost too desperate. “The slaves I was with, what happened to them?” Her voice grows the tiniest bit louder in worry.

He answers simply. “They’re back at the ship. We let them go.”

“Some of them were injured. The boy I was with, he needed medical attention.”

The captain sighs, shaking his head. “I don’t know about any boy, but after the sad display the captain showed, the rest of the crew are probably going to demote him.” He makes a slicing motion to his neck, leaving her silent.

“Then it’ll take a day for them to pick a new captain, so they will probably not have moved the ship that far. The Honor Guard makes their daily rounds there, so they’ll capture them and save the slaves.”

She’s still unsatisfied with his answer. “How can you be so sure?”

“I’m the Pirate King. I know.”

San moves to make way for his captain. Before he leaves out the door, he turns back one last time to face the new addition to the crew. “For a slave, you don’t back down. You’re part of the crew now; act like it. Call me captain.”

With that, he turns the doorknob and leaves. San claps his hands together, getting Eunsung’s attention.

“Welcome to the crew.” He says happily. “You can’t see it right now, but I’m smiling.”

A sinking feeling lays at the pit of her stomach. Even with the detailed reassurance from the captain, Eunsung can’t help but feel like she’s abandoned the slaves.

It wouldn’t be the first time. “I hope you die!” he yells.

Her heart aches at the memory of her brothers. Even with the missing pieces of her memories, she still longs for them. Eunsung feels that leaving the slaves won’t be her last mistake.

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headoverhiddles · 5 years

Text

Hide Your Hand - Marilyn Manson x Reader [Smut]

Synopsis: You can throw your rock and hide your hand, working in the dark against your fellow man. As sure as god made black and white, what's done in the dark will be brought to the light.

Notes: Started this when the God's Gonna Cut You Down video came out, and it's been a while, but I rewatched it and finished this! The ending is kinda up for interpretation. Also, this is kinda based on the idea that this video is a sequel of sorts to Man That You Fear. Enjoy!

Tagging: @blueinkblot @antichristsuperslut @skin-slave @peachynun @plagued-rat @livelifewondering @elrosew

His eyes open.

The lids crack with falling dust as he attempts to move his head, but notices white plastic in his peripherals. Confirming his suspicions, he finds his limbs packed too tight to move as well. Flexing the muscles in his shoulders and making fists, he begins to rock, the necessary evil of desert dirt filling his mouth as he cracks his confines. Tattooed fingers break ground, and blunt fingernails pick their way out of the makedo grave.

Thankfully the coward who buried him didn't do a very good job. Then again, not many people expect a dead man to emerge from the dirt, especially when they can't see past the ends of their noses. A reanimated corpse would have given whatever bastard who did this a heart attack; then he'd be the one holding the shovel.

Shaking the dry dirt from his black hair, he tries to remember why he was buried in the first place. It's as if he's half brain dead-- or half his brain hasn't been awakened yet. Every time he tries to think of his past, it's as if a mental dam would go up, blocking him access. But it isn't mechanical-- no, he is the opposite of mechanical. He is biodegradable, or he should have been. The only undeniable clarity in his mind is one single fact: he should be dead, and he should've stayed dead.

Seeing as it isn't really an option to get back in the hole and cover himself up again, he starts walking. He has hopes that this was some kind of underworldly mirage in a sea of punishment, that he'd wake up and see some nightmare only he would be capable of dreaming up. But thus far, the devil wasn't popping up to laugh in his face, so he supposed he could stop being so cynical.

Once bitten, twice shy.

Why the fuck is that? Who had done the proverbial biting? What had happened, and how had he awakened? He lets out a long sigh, the air in his lungs brittle and unnatural. What he does remember of his life before, is there was an element of relief found in simple country indulgence. Whoever he is, he recalls the taste of whiskey sour and the satisfying singe of burning herb on his tongue, filling his mouth, filling his dry lungs.

He has to find a bar.

You feel like the ice box in front of the motel you passed on the highway: melting slowly in the desert heat.

A single coin, older than three of your lifetimes, tumbles down your fingers like a staircase, swiped up into your palm and placed again at the top. The pure silver glints under the bar lights, and your drink is placed in front of you.

"On the house," the bearded man, who was as close to a modern day cowboy as he could get, smiles at you. You tip your wide brimmed hat. Nobody questioned why you were wearing a hat and dark glasses inside, or why you had taken the very end of the bar, farthest away from everyone. Southwestern places like this get people from all walks of life passing through, and people, in general, were all just as fundamentally odd as they pretend not to be.

Finally placing the coin heads up on the cracked wooden table, you swirl your drink and observe.

Something had drawn you to this town. Last time you had contacted the other world, they had directed you here, and though you hadn't studied the occult for long, you understood that that many signs, from the living world or otherwise, meant something catastrophic had just happened out here in the desert. You'd wait it out, and see if whatever it was would come to you first. You can already feel it, whatever it is-- you can feel the energy, and it makes you shiver. Fermented hatred, violent impulse, and bitter restlessness buzz beneath your skin, and you're dying to figure out where-- or who-- this bad mix of hoodoo is coming from.

A white pickup truck, damaged by some kind of weather, sits abandoned on the side of the road. He looks around, and as he suspected, there isn't another soul as far as the eye can see. That, by his standards, makes this his pickup truck.

As if a gift from god, the keys are still in the ignition, and he doesn't have time to worry about the two bloody bullet holes in the seat. He drives out of there in a cloud of dust, hoping for civilization.

Civilization, and people.

He suddenly swerves violently, eyes snapping shut.

He had a wife. She looked somewhat like him, only more feminine. Her name was Marilyn.

He wore a hat. He had long hair back then, hair that would get tugged in moments of passion and brushed in moments of vulnerability. Soft hands interrupted rivulets of warm water cascading down his back as he sat under a showerhead and let tears fall.

He lived in a small community. A cult created out of fear. A pointing finger, blindfolded shot caller.

He had been a scapegoat.

Bare chest, open palms, and a deep, aching pain, repetitive, blood running down into his eyes, until...

Those eyes snap open, and he swerves back onto the road. Narrowly missing a white painted cross, he looks back to see a graveyard.

"Marilyn," he says to himself. His voice sounds like paper ripping, and he coughs, growling a little until his throat begins to feel normal again. He still doesn't remember what they called him, or who he properly was... his wife wouldn't be needing her name anymore, since she must be long dead; he decided it suited him.

The sun is just going down over the Mojave hills as you finger the black crystals dangling between your breasts. Whatever it is, it's taking its time.

Licking a small sheet of rolling paper, you fill it with some of your own homegrown bud, and strike a match off your boot.

"You waiting for someone?" the bearded cowboy asks you, and you recognize the charming glint in his eye as someone who's barking up the wrong tree.

"I don't know yet," you reply honestly, and leave it at that. The man presses.

"What do you mean? You've been sitting here all day." He leans in. "My name's Shooter. What's yours?"

"Call me Clint Eastwood, cause I'm the Woman With No Name," you answer drily.

"Hey now..." Shooter leans in, "It would just break my heart if a pretty little lady like you got stood up... left lonely for the night."

You meet his gaze. "I'm far from lonely. And the night is far from over."

Just then, a breeze blows the door open, and someone walks in. It's a man in a white wife beater and a plaid button up over it, jet black hair covered in dust and dirt. His eyes are dark, just like the rest of his aura, and you're drawn to him. This is him. This is the feeling.

He sits next to you at the bar, but doesn't look over immediately. First, he checks the place out... then his eyes land on you.

"Thirsty?" he asks. You nod, smiling.

The twitch of his lips carve a mysterious half smile in his face as he lifts his fingers to catch the bartender's attention. Not like he hadn't already.

A drink is placed in front of you, not on the house as it was when you were "lonely and pretty". The man takes his own glass of dark amber liquid. Nursing his own poison and seeming to revel in it, he lifts it to his lips. You notice the alchemical symbols tattooed onto his fingers.

"Marilyn," he glances up, catching a newspaper clipping of the old Tate murders glued to the wall, "-Manson."

"Manson," you nod, "I'm (y/n) (y/l/n)."

"Pretty name." You wait for the "for a pretty girl", but that part never comes. You tilt your head, intrigued.

"Where are you from?"

He gives a mirthless chuckle, voice still caked with dust and the unfortunate secret that he had just freed himself from his own grave. "I have no goddamn idea where I'm from."

Now you're very interested. “You have amnesia or something?”

He considers this. “Maybe. I just woke up this morning in a body bag out in the middle of devil’s asshole, Nevada.”

“Sounds like someone tried to kill you,” you say softly, heartbeat picking up. He drains his glass, pushing it forward for another.

“Mhm. The strange part is, it feels like they succeeded.” The crystals hanging around your neck begin to warm against your chest, and you look down. He spots your dwindling joint in the nearby ashtray, and sees that half of it is ash now. “If you’re not gonna finish that, hun,” he nods to it. You gesture to it for him to take. He does, studies you, and puts it to his lips. His eyes squint through the haze, and his mouth opens in an ‘o’ to free the smoke. You feel a different sort of warmth fill you.

“You live here?” he asks.

“No.”

“Why you here?”

“I felt like I should be.”

He looks around slowly. “Sure. This is really the place to be, huh?” A fly lands on your glass, and a bearded guy burps over by the cobwebbed jukebox. You look down, smiling.

“I have my reasons.”

He watches how your lips graze the mouth of the glass, leaving a faint red imprint. He feels something rouse inside of him. Now that drinking’s out of the way, he’s suddenly reminded of another need. But he's not certain how everything's working just yet... best to make sure. Shooter fills up Manson's glass again, turned away but intent on eavesdropping.

Manson lifts it to his lips, drinking the Tennessee Whiskey down like it's water from a mirage. Finally, he decides he can trust you.

"I have something inside of me," he murmurs. You rest your elbow on the bar.

"Like what?"

"A sort of intuition. There's somebody I need to kill. Lots of people."

"I hope you don't mean everyone in this bar," you joke.

He smiles, looking down. "Wouldn't kill you. And that guy over there by the jukebox looks like he's on a mission from God to drink the most whiskey any man's ever drunk, and I'm not about to stop him on his righteous path."

You laugh. "I think you're well on your way to getting there first."

He looks back down to his now emptied glass. "That's another thing. I can't even feel the effects." He cocks his head. "Fuckin' awful. That was the best part about living."

"Was?" you ask in amusement.

"I'm telling you. I can't be alive. Something brought me back, and it's not for good."

"That's it," Shooter says, loading a rifle from behind the bar and pointing it at Manson. "You two take your devilspeak and you get the hell outta here before I blow you away." Manson lifts his eyes to Shooter, taking in the man's much smaller form. He stands, and it all happens in a blur. You snatch the rifle in what can only be described as symbiotic intuition on both your parts, and Manson rushes Shooter, grabbing him by the vest and pulling him over the bar.

"M-Mister I'm--" the bartender begins to say, but Manson impales him with a sickening crack on the deer antlers hanging on the wall below the Budweiser sign.

You pass Manson the rifle, watching the drunk in the corner try and decipher what just happened. He's no threat. Manson slings the rifle over his shoulder, and grabs the bottle from the other side of the bar, drinking from it. He passes it to you, where you’re standing, leaning with your back against the bar. You take the bottle, swirling your tongue around the top, before drinking. You watch the body drip blood from where it’s hanging. He watches you.

As he stares at your lips, the need building inside of him is almost undeterrable. He remembers what it was like before, to be deep inside a woman, to get everything he can take from a willing, welcoming girl.

"What makes you tick?" he murmurs.

You exhale. "I'm certain you could find out."

He drives toward the address of the motel you had given him, shotgun in the backseat for safe keeping, and parks the truck in the front. You unlock the door, ignoring the strange look from the motel owner, and let Manson in. He sits down on the edge of the bed, and you take your jacket off. Sensing how he reacts to that, you pause, and begin to unbutton your shirt. You turn to him, and take the rest of your top off.

Manson stares, watching every movement closely. You take off your shorts slowly, and your panties with it. Soon, you're fully naked, and his breathing has increased. He's aroused even more when you walk toward and get in his lap on the edge of the bed, breasts pressed against his chest.

He brings his hands up to feel your back, and smooths them all the way down to your ass. You straddle him, helping him take his shirt off. You trace his mosaic of tattoos with your fingertips, and cup his cheeks, pressing your lips to his. They're dry, cracked, but you don't care, and neither does he. He kisses back, and a surge of violent desire prompts him to pick you up, clearing everything off the table and sitting you there. You help him work at his pants, and he finally gets them down just enough to lay you on your back on the table and push into you.

You groan, reaching down to help yourself along. He takes a black rosary hanging from the TV set, and ties your hands together with it, keeping them above your head. You whine as he fucks into you, moans increasing as he touches your clit. He uses one hand to massage your breasts, giving attention to both, and his hips stutter.

"It's... okay," you breathe out, "You can..."

He grunts, but refuses to cum before you, no matter how long it's been. He picks you up and moves you to the bed, lying you on your back. Your hands fist the sheets as his lips move down your body, pressing kisses down your chest, between your breasts, to your stomach, sucking hickies down your inner thighs, licking down your legs to your feet. Then he finally kisses back up to your pussy, watching the wetness leak to the mattress.

"I want to hear you," he rasps, and you sigh, appreciative noises building as he darts his tongue out to make small circles around your clit.

"Oh," you whisper, "Oh yeah."

"Louder," he growls, licking faster.

"Please, please!" you whine, "Right there!"

You cry out loudly as he brings you to the edge of your peak, but he disappears from between your legs before you can cum. Disoriented, you wiggle your hips, but look up to find him standing at the foot of the bed. He tugs you by your ankles down to where he is, and lifts you up. You arch your back in relief as he slides his cock back into you, like it’s your lifeline. That's all it takes for you to come undone, crying out his name as you cum on his cock.

"Baby, baby... so good," he grumbles, drawing out almost all the way and slamming back in deep. He keeps up his bruising, thorough pace until he too becomes erratic, leaning his head back and groaning your name. You feel him finish inside you, and sigh contentedly, spreading your arms out.

He drops your legs, and you crawl back up to the pillows. He lays down on the other side of the single bed, letting you cuddle into his space. Your head rests on Manson’s chest, as you close your eyes and search for the stranger’s heartbeat.

You're awakened from your dreamlike state as you notice he doesn't have one.

It's 3 am. Hours have gone by, and he can't sleep.

He realizes, hands behind his head, that nobody who killed him is still around. They all must have died years ago, that he would be chasing ghosts. That's just what he was... a ghost. Or a demon. Maybe he was the devil himself. Sooner or later, he knew that the darkness would return. It came for them, it would come for him.

He turns to look down at your sleeping, naked form, and strokes you. You look like an angel, sleeping on a halo of the hair spread out over his chest. He defiled you last night, spread his darkness over you.

Maybe he wasn't a scapegoat after all. Maybe he deserved everything he got. Maybe he wasn't an avenging angel. Maybe he was chaos on earth, brought back for a short time. But his feelings, his human urges were so real when he felt them raging through him. He felt like he needed to kill everyone who wronged him, but he didn’t know how to find them. So many unanswered questions, and the sun would rise on them all in a few hours.

The dim TV with the rosary draped over it glitches, and turns from snowy static to a black fuzz.

You wake up in the morning, and find that the spot next to you is empty. You expected that-- the man was on a mission, but it was a nice detour. Still, you get up, and look out the motel window.

That's strange. His car is still there. You start to search the bed for your panties, but stop. There's a strange dust left in his side of the bed, and a note on the bedside table.

You can run on for a long time, but sooner or later God'll cut you down.

- The Stranger

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