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punemy-spotted · 1 year

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Sixteen Tons - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Muscle and Blood

Pairing: Miner!Curtis Everett x Witch!Reader

Warnings: THIS IS A HORROR FIC, Discussion of death, graphic depiction of someone bleeding out, 1890s coal mining town aesthetic in the modern day, strong pro-union opinions, Pentecostal Christianity, Appalachian Gothic Horror, Cosmic Horror, See future chapter warnings for additional tags, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT

PLEASE REMEMBER THAT YOUR CONSUMPTION OF MEDIA IS YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY AND IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THE CONTENT THAT IS BEING PRESENTED, PLEASE DO NOT READ

Chapter Summary: The world melts away, rots into dirt and decay, and as a garden grows untended, you find your gifts crowding out the rest of your life.

We all know that the only light in the deep dark is a paycheck. So hush. Count your blessings, boy. Roof over your head, food on the table, diesel and grease, work boots on the porch, crippled back, crumbling joints, and silence. Company and even union, tuck you in, shut you up, and leave you to rot. And God damn it, you’d better be grateful. - Old Gods of Appalachia Episode 3: The Covenant

Notes: This fic also serves as a sort of direct sequel to Glory, Amen, in that the reader is technically the daughter of Pastor and Ma Rogers, but uses a pseudonym outside of the home she grew up in. The song referenced in this chapter is No Glory, by The Eagle Rock Gospel Singers. They're wonderful, so check them out!

At the time of publishing this chapter, the Family Sleepover, Down in the Valley is still ongoing! Please come by and check it out as we celebrate spooky season all year ‘round!

Also, in this house we support Unions.

All of my work is 18+ Only, Minors DO NOT INTERACT. I do not consent to my work being posted anywhere besides Tumblr or Ao3 and I post my work there myself. Do not copy, translate, or repost any of my content.

Curtis Everett is going to die.

‘Course, everything dies, eventually. Much as you loathed sittin’ through your daddy’s sermons, you knew the truth in ‘em — death is a prize every livin’ being, regardless of sapience or the desire to be, ought to aspire for.

Death is the gift of all gifts, your daddy would proclaim from his bone-and-antler pulpit, the final gesture of our loving Lord and Savior — an’ of course, you, your sisters, your momma, your daddy and a few others your daddy claimed were kinfolk on his side were just… all the guides meant to introduce all manner of worldly beings too blind t’understand just how precious that kind of oblivion was to the glory of that final, permanent end.

Still.

Curtis Everett is going to die.

Curtis Everett is going to die in your kitchen, his own pickaxe embedded in his chest, the final desperate pumps of his pierced heart pouring blood all over that pretty linoleum you didn’t actually like keepin’ in your kitchen an’ probably would tear up after you came to terms with never feelin’ like you could scrub away the remnants of him.

You watch it play out before you like you’ve done plenty of times before, the course of Curtis Everett’s life written in scars yet t’be earned, bruises waitin’ to bloom on flesh that has known little more than the danger an’ dread of coal dust for as long as you have known him.

You also watch him sittin’ in your clinic, for once not complainin’ as you finish cleaning and re-wrappin’ the thankfully not festering burn he’d been dutifully lettin’ you treat — per your own professional orders — for the past week-and-a-half, Looks like it’s healin’ nicely, but it’ll probably scar.

It’s not the first scar he’s earned in Snowpiercer, but it’s certainly not goin’ to be the last. You’ve been countin’ down the months — and injuries — to that particular worry for a while. The ones you can help him avoid — the ones he listens to you about — you warn against, and the ones he can’t escape, you patch up. The same as you would anyone in Snowpiercer, bein’ the company’s own doctor as you are.

Your momma’d scold you up, down an’ sideways if she knew what you were doin’, interferin’ with the predestined path of men as you watched ‘em struggle, suffer, an’ eventually succumb. But your momma wasn’t here to know, an’ ever if she was, your momma’d never be able to understand just what sorta poison of a gift it was she’d saddled you with.

Death is a Rogers daughter’s birthright, even if they themselves were more often than not denied the majesty of its truest gift. You were not born into this life to die, but to be a guardian of it, to guide the walkin’ dead makin’ their way beyond the borders of that ol’Holler you’d been born in through the trials of judgment an’ that precious, ultimate verdict.

You were not, your momma woulda reminded, voice sharp as the trowel she always kept at her side, garden bloomin’ by her stern hand, meant to shield ‘em from the pains of life — an’ the lessons to be gleaned from ‘em!

Anythin’ you want me to do with it? Curtis Everett’s question breaks you out of your bitterness, reminds you of the more pressin’ responsibilities you chose. You turn to watch him, lookin’ at him as if you might just need a moment to remember the exact instructions you ought to give for his wound care.

Except that’s not what you give, is it?

‘Stead, you look over Curtis Everett’s work-weary expression, the quest dread in his eyes at the prospect of needin’ to manage yet one more thing, one more purchase at the Company Store, one more burden to bear, Just come by every evenin’. I’ll keep the coal dust outta them wrappin’s for you.

You know full well you’ll need to work late t’take care of it — an’ t’clean the coal dust outta your clinic — but it’s better you than him.

Least, that’s what you tell yourself, as Curtis Everett’s shoulder relax, relief floodin’ those work-weathered features you’ve almost started memorizing by this time, makin’ the sleep you will almost certainly lose tomorrow and the remainder of this week worth it.

It must always be worth it.

By the time you leave your clinic, barrin’ the doors for the night, even the moon’s started its settin’, leaving the town in near-pitch darkness. You might’ve — if you were young an’ naïve enough — equated the darkness around you to a mineshaft, if mineshafts still had the privilege of fresh air to reward you for breathin’.

Not on Company Time.

Wiser folk than you might’ve considered stayin’ indoors ‘til sunup. Maybe even considered the merits of puttin’ a cot in your office to avoid havin’ to brave the deep woods durin’ the Witchin’ Hour, everyone more than aware of what sorta shadows lurked beyond the borders of a sad little minin’ town — an’ what sorta shadows would encroach upon those borders the moment they got the chance.

You… ain’t got much time t’think about that now though, not when you catch sight of the figure lurkin’ by the road, the only path there is t’ween your two worlds — the Clinic and the House. Everett?

There he is, hands jammed into the pockets of his overcoat, lurkin’ by the lone streetlamp Pierce an’ Rumlow’d finally seen fit to install in this part of town, after you’d spent about four years complainin’. Too late to be walkin’ back alone, Doctor, he tells you, almost sheepishly, expression invisible in the darkness — and yet you know exactly how his lips have curved into a half-smile you might’ve been quick to return had you seen it in the daytime, Figured I’d walk you back up as thanks for stayin’ late for me.

You can’t help yourself, really — you smile at him right back, the corners of your mouth tickin’ up despite the cruelty playin’ out before your eyes, at least until you remember yourself an’ blink away the vision, If I kept the same hours as you pit boys, nobody’d be gettin’ patched up. Now you best not be tellin’ me you were lurkin’ out here in the pitch dark an’ cold waitin’ for me t’finish my notes and close up, Curtis Everett.

Maybe you ought not have put words in his mouth — or taken ‘em out, as the case may be — as he shrugs at you and flashes you a grin you cannot see but are certain of, Then I won’t, Doctor.

An’ with that, he starts off back down the road, towards the lights still spillin’ from the windows of your boarding house, hummin’ some ol’ work song you only halfway knew the words too. An’ you watch him go on for longer than you should, takin’ in the sight of his silhouette slowly becomin’ part of the gloom.

You catch up soon enough, keepin’ up with his long, languid strides as if by some miracle, your own steps quick and harried. There are moments you wonder how a man like Curtis Everett — always managin’ to tower over everyone in the room, includin’ Superintendent Wilford an’ that lady Minister Mason he’d installed over at the Tabernacle of the Iron Gospel — ever really managed to fit in the mines this whole sad sack of a town was built around.

Shouldn’t have stayed out waitin’ for me, you scold with a good-natured ribbin’, not really meaning to chastise… but worry instead, You’ll’ve missed dinner call, Everett.

So’ve you, Doctor, he counters, the burr of laughter in his voice makin’ you roll your eyes an’ put on a scowl you barely mean — mostly cuz you hate feelin’ so outwitted, but no one dare make you admit it.

I’m allowed to be late, I own the place, you argue right back, a rebuttal that earns you another low chuckle, a sound you’re only used to hearin’ from Curtis on rare occasion — earnin’ you a burn of pride in your chest at hearing it now.

You really ought not do this, you know. But here you are, comfortable in the cold silence of the deep night, hands jammed into your coat pockets, walkin’ alongside Curtis Everett with all the calm an’ ease of dear friends.

Glancing at him. Looking without lookin’, pretendin’ you don’t know what you’ll see when you—

You know better, is the bottom line. You know you ought to know better — hell, you know your momma taught you better.

In the corner of your vision, Curtis Everett bleeds his last on your linoleum floor.

In front of you? Curtis Everett hums a work song an’ walks with you through the gloom, right up to the gold-light gleam of your doorstep an’ into your kitchen, the ghosts of the future fadin’ into an approaching dawn.

An’ maybe that’s enough.

Company House — its true name barely in use by you or your boarders, halfway for your own protection an’ halfways cuz it’s just easier — is a handsome-enough structure, nothin’ like that ramblin’ greenhouse you’d sprouted in, a bloom in your momma’s garden.

No. Company House — name lost an’ purpose found — on the other hand, is yours. All yours.

A loomin’ thing, the house cuts through the nighttime gloom like a lighthouse, every window on its main story burstin’ with light. Built on a hill overlookin’ the town proper, it served as home an’ hearth for any miner ineligible for the pretty pre-built housin’ developments south of the mine, where Pierce & Rumlow… rewarded those willin’ to produce more bodies to throw into that gapin’ wound the combine’d carved into the mountainside with such luxuries as driveways, fences, mortgages, an’ obligations.

It was just the way you liked it. Home for the lonely an’ the friendless — least that’s how it sounded in town, if someone dared ask Minister Mason about the mountain fortress an’ the ‘Godless Heathens’ inhabitin’ it. The Iron Gospel she preached ran on the blood an’ bones of its congregation, on family an’ obligation, on ties that bind whole generations to the mine.

A Gospel that had no room for the wholly different kinda worship that comes from strangers sittin’ round a table breakin’ bread an’ formin’ bonds. On brotherhood an’ union, on wantin’ somethin’ better that the paltry concessions afforded by minders with plenty of money t’provide more. You knew it then from your daddy’s own congregation an’ those Sunday suppers your momma arranged each week. You know it now from the warm surety of Curtis Everett’s hand on your arm, keepin’ you from losin’ your footing on that trick step you ain’t had time to fix — I can get Ed to take care of that tomorrow — and the sound of hurried conversation bubbling outta your front parlor, house still buzzin’ with life.

Shit, Curtis’s swearing nearly startles you outta your skin all over again as you both stand on the front porch, stompin’ the day’s coal dust off your shoes, forgot there was meeting tonight. Foreman’s gonna have words for me, no doubt.

You’re allowed t’be late, for walkin’ me home, you tell him, letting the light of the house illuminate your smile as you open the front door.

Meeting is a cute word for it — s’the way things go, get the lonely and the friendless to start airin’ grievances an’ suddenly they ain’t so lonely nor so friendless anymore. A man with a wife and children might think twice about givin’ the company a reason to tear away the roof over his family’s head, divin’ into his future tomb day after day, respirator an’ headlamp in hand, but a man with nothin’ to lose is a man with a bone to pick with the only industry in town capable of puttin’ food in his belly on a daily basis — so long as he survived to see his next meal. Unions, you got used to hearin’ back in your own holler, are the Lord’s way of puttin’ His protection back into a man’s own hands.

Too bad them folks at P&R’d forgotten that sorta conventional wisdom.

Tonight’s union meeting is just about comin’ to a close when you and Curtis walk in, a cracked joke derailing whatever Gilliam’s supposed agenda had left to cover. You’re late, the old man half-scolds, room hushed by his disappointment as all eyes turn to you and the union leader you know you’re already being accused of distracting.

Curtis Everett is going to die.

Ignoring the raised voices that begin in your wake — and unwilling to get between two men in the middle of a union dispute — you make yourself proper scarce, disappearing into the kitchen. Between running the clinic and the house, you’re run halfway ragged, but you do cheer quietly upon seeing two foil-covered plates sitting in the fridge — Yona keeps true to her eternal word, making sure nobody goes hungry if she’s got the time and the ingredients.

The sound of someone entering the kitchen while you’re putting plates in the warmer don’t surprise you much — someone was bound to follow you into this place eventually — but you don’t turn around, not immediately.

Not ‘til Curtis Everett clears his throat, Thought I smelled food.

You sure you ain’t part bloodhound, smellin’ it all the way out there?

There. Another burr of laughter, low in his throat, and another burn of pride.

They calm down out there? You wave your hand toward the general direction of the parlor, noting the distinct lack of raised voices now that the warmer’s stopped beepin’ at you.

It’s my fault — should’ve told ‘em I’d be late.

They worried?

He’s quiet at that, the silence sittin’ heavy on both your shoulders while you move around the kitchen some more, collectin’ utensils and glancin’ back at him occasionally, waiting.

Finally — Gilliam’s steppin’ down. Nobody wants the job — company’s made sure of that.

You set the platter in front of him, to quiet thanks, He still want you to take over?

He don’t need to answer. You see it again, written all over his face — someone’s gotta do it.

The rest of the meal is… quiet. Heavy. Uncomfortable. A silence neither of you are willin’ to break, coupled with glances neither of you are willin’ to admit to, brows furrowed and thoughts elsewhere. Barely tasting the food, just glad to have something to busy your mouths with, ‘stead of trying to hold a conversation neither party wants t’have or worse — trying to change the fuckin’ subject, with both your minds trapped on the things you’d rather not think about.

Curtis Everett is going to die.

Everything dies, eventually. You rationalize it between bites, teeth on tongue to keep the scream of it all held in your chest. Everything dies, including Curtis Everett. Including Gilliam — whose death you’ve pre-emptively forgiven certain parties for. Including Yona — whose hands will evidence endless adventures before she lays down for that final rest, satisfied an’ satisfying. Everything dies. Includin’ Curtis Everett.

Curtis Everett, who will take on the work. Who, in three weeks’ time, will be back in your clinic, bullet in his shoulder an’ strike unbroken. Company infuriated.

One injury closer.

You open your mouth, about to do the unthinkable, disappointment and poisoned bloom — everythin’ dies, but Curtis Everett deserves to choose — when the music finally registers with you both.

Music. And singing. And laughter.

The kitchen door slams open hard enough to rattle the plates in the cupboard, Yona’s wild presence in the doorway, Come on!

No explanation. No answers. You’ll have t’see it to know it.

Curtis glances back at you, brow raised an’ hackles too. Better make sure they’re behavin’ out there, is all you give in response to it, on your feet in a flash, empty dishes in hand.

He lingers, eyes on you. Imposes his will with his presence, You need help with the dishes?

Let him stay.

You don’t.

S’two plates an’ a couple mugs. I’ll be fine — you go, keep an eye on ‘em for me.

He’s so fast — behind you in a flash. How does a man so tall an’ so full of presence move so fast?

Got no time for answering that, not when his hand’s on your shoulder and you’re glancin’ back at him without thinkin’, waiting. Come out there when you’re done or Yona’ll never let either of us hear the end of it.

An’ neither will I, is what he doesn’t say. Not aloud, at least, stepping back only when you nod.

It don’t stop you from hearin’ it though, playin’ on loop in your mind all the way through dishes, through cleanin’ up your kitchen, through makin’ good on your word an’ takin’ that cautious walk to your parlor, where the sound of stompin’ boots joins in with the chorus of voices pouring outta your record player, blessedly drownin’ out all manner of conscious thought.

Take me down to that red dirt road Where all them white tails, white tails roam

The parlor is abuzz with life, a hive of movement as you take in rearranged furniture an’ the slowly climbin’ beat of stomping boots coupled with clapping hands, ring of bodies circlin’ the room, all watching Tanya — up from the General Store like always, on behalf of the widows this town left behind — in her valiant attempt to tutor Edgar in the complexities an’ social conventions of a good ol’ fashioned barn dance.

I don’t belong in a big coal town Can’t hear my Lord in all that sound

You almost manage t’become part of that ring of onlookers, slippin’ past the disapproval ruining Gilliam’s face, but turns out no one escapes Curtis Everet, work-hardened fingers winding around your wrist an’ pulling you back, Thought I was gonna have t’come rescue you from the sink, and now there’s no getting away, nor are you feelin’ quite so keen on it anymore.

Not when he looks at you like that.

Wanna show ‘em how it’s done, Doctor?

You dance, Everett? Since when? And since when did Curtis Everett become capable of smiling so sweet he just might fool you into saying yes?

Hell — what gave him the right?

Well I’ve had my fill, of concrete floor Where all them highways, them highways grow

You don’t get a chance to ask too many questions of him, not when he’s pullin’ your fool self right into the center of that cleared floor, sayin’ somethin’ about secrets you barely catch before he’s turnin’ you about an’ you gotta start paying some fucking attention.

There ain’t no glory None that I see None to compare Your love for me

‘Course, you’ve danced before — your daddy might’ve been a fire an’ brimstone preacher up at that bone an’ antler pulpit but he wasn’t a fool — but barn dances an’ church revivals don’t do shit t’prepare you for the rush, for the easy pressure of Curtis Everett’s hands on you, for the peal of laughter that pours outta your throat before you get a chance to think about it the moment he spins you out an’ catches you back with entirely too much ease.

He surprises you and doesn’t at the same time, sure hands and steady feet, both of you catching on to the rhythm quickly as the rest of the room drums the beat, a cacophony of work boots strikin’ the floor in a steady pattern, You gonna answer my question properly, Everett, you accuse him and he pulls you closer, smile on your face betrayin’ any anger you might be feigning.

I’m full of surprises, Doctor.

My days are few, my time is near But I know God will take my fear

He keeps his hands respectful, holdin’ one of your high and keepin’ the other at the small of your back, but there’s nothin’ either of you can — or want to, you’re startin’ to realize — do about the closeness, about the way you can’t stop looking up at him and the stormclouds in his eyes, like you’re seeing them for the first time. Really seeing them, that is.

It’s somethin’. Hypnotic.

The chorus turns into a loop, a rising swell of voices joinin’ your thudding heartbeat, lips parting to ask another question, make another joke, feel that burr of laughter against your chest, feel hands fallin’ from the glory of God to meet a different kinda worship, feel fingers curl into his coat like a lifeline.

He holds your cheek. He draws you in.

His mouth slides over yours like an invitation, your lips parting like an acceptance, like forgetting, like surrender. The music does not slow, but you do, fallin’ into the languid ease of hungry breathlessness, like you could find answers in the sweep of a tongue against yours, in the tightening of his grip on your back, in the wall of him around you.

Your love for me Your love for me Your love for me Your love for me

#curtis everett x reader #curtis everett x fem!reader #curtis everett #curtis everett x you #curtis everett imagine #chris evans #chris evans imagine #fanfiction #writing #in which tessa finally writes something #series: down here in this valley

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dawn-of-worlds · 1 month

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Salt

The King Irradiant begins turn 4 with 12 points: 2 (left over) + 2 (non-hoarding bonus) + 8 (roll)

Shape Land (-3): An arterial spatter of rocky little islands where, no doubt, nothing of importance will ever happen.

Shape Climate (-2): Jungles in the south, Mediterranean/monsoon in the north.

Create Race (Cooperative), -6 (total cost 15, 9 from others, 3 each from Siarruk, Aatos, and Zoreinak):

Between the storms that shake the new-wrought jungles, bright and clouded, calm and tempestuous, bursting with life and alive with death, there is a rain of dust:

Some from the mountains that force themselves through the skin of the weary land...

Some that slipped the grasp of the many-coursed moon...

Some kicked up by the joyful wars of the elder race...

Some from the crashing fire that burnt the skies and clove the earth...

...and some from the stars above.

For three days, it settles like a scent, lies down in the gullies and the mud, soaking it in dryness.

Then the rains come. Hot, too hot for rain, sickening whatever drinks of them, withering the green. Where the pools and puddles dry, the monkeys gather to lick at the thin white stains...

For a night and a day, it rains salt water.

The mud it leaves is warm and thick and supple, and, at night, the brightest star just visible, hanging on the horizon above the canopy, the monkeys work with their hands at an art they know not, dim ambitions flitting in their starstruck minds.

And what a piece of work they make! Four gracile limbs, hair on the head, two eyes big and expressive and rich in many colors. In the end, there’s only one thing to be made in the image of.

From Kirrik, mother of all flesh, the new race takes the gift of life; from the King, the gift of death — a soul and a bargain to keep. And...

...from Siarruk:

“They walk sideways like a crab, brachiate, or otherwise have unusual means of locomotion.”

Let’s, uh, get into the swing of things. (They can still walk.)

“They have great powers of speech and song.” Man is like God because he speaks, but he sings like the devil himself. Or the Moon herself, if you’d rather. In the jungles, they howled to summon the moon and sang to mourn the dead. The cities of the world to come will echo with song — shrill, haunting, wild, even to them, echoes bouncing in the hollows of the soul.

“They clean themselves often with water or other substances.” They have a thing about baptism.

“Regardless of the above, their eyes will be beautiful to Siarruk in some way: very rounded, faceted, and/or having many colors.” This race has large, round, charismatic eyes — blue, brown, lavender, pink, amber. Many are a lunar shade of pale grey. Sometimes, in the half-light, ever so slightly, they shine. In the blind elders of this race, they will turn starry.

...from Aatos:

“they favour innovation, experimentation, and industry.”

“they experience euphoria when separating living or dead flesh, whether by butchery, vivisection, execution, or self-mutilation.” They nurse a perverse attachment to the destruction of flesh, to its separation and division. They will feel it in the throes of their white-hot rages and the deepest folds of their desires, in their nightmares, in their mythologies and psychopathologies, in the rituals of their religions and sciences. Does the heart not war with itself? Does the will not turn over and over in its sleep? Does what is one not yearn to multiply? The desire to bring forth children, fictions, innovations — the procreative act itself — all a sort of mutilation, self from cosmos, future from past, desire from self, self from self.

...from Zoreinak:

There looms in the future of this race an immanent confusion and profusion of tongues whose details are yet to be settled upon but which will take on an appropriately MYTHIC register, that it may echo menacingly from the pulpits of a million churches yet unbuilt.

...and a little more from the Lighter of Paths:

The secret word caught in them like sand in a pearl, the word all their songs will try to sing and every mutilation try to reach.

A fascination with laws and contracts, the terms that structure the world.

The pull of the stars — astrology, divination, an ear for the tick-ticking of the divine clockwork.

An overweening ambition which will, before the game ends, destroy three great things.

These are humans, a little long in the limbs; their skin is a medium brown, their hair black, brown, or sandy blonde. They will diversify and differentiate as they spread.

And afterward, the clay knew rest, but the newborn race did not, and nor did the gods.

1 point remains.

[There was absolutely no way to make this one short. It works if you consider each contribution an action.]

#world 02548 #the King Irradiant

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whumpspicelatte · 11 months

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Nobody Left To Listen - 1 - Acquisition

And here we go! Time to meet our main whumper and our whumpee!

TW: hints of human whumpee-turned-whumper & vampire whumpee, dehumanization, mind control, failed attempted murder, vampire hunters being vampire hunters, dunno what else to put in here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The darkness settled over Cole’s shoulders like a mourning veil. Ironic, perhaps, but apt enough.

He knelt in the fragrant bushes outside of the dilapidated church’s broken window, sniper rifle at the ready. The leaves scraped against his uniform when he shifted. The moon was out, casting the only light to be found in the velvet black of the night sky. It was time. The hunt had gone on for long enough. Fitting, considering his current target.

A flash of movement caught his focus from the corner of his eye. The huge doors to the chapel swung open, and a pair of figures danced through, laughing as they swung each other around. Through the green of the night vision goggles, Cole recognized the frame of the target, marking the seemingly drunk, giggling girl it was cavorting with as the target’s current prey. She showed all the signs of enthrallment; unfocused eyes, slurred words, increased dopamine and endorphin release, unsteadiness, lowered coordination, heightened trust. The girl leaned against the target’s chest as it swayed with her, all the way towards the pulpit.

The target grinned above her, flashing its fangs.

‘Almost…there you go…just a bit further…’ Cole primed his rifle right at where he knew the target would take her. And, true to form, it did. The target picked the girl up, making her laugh as it circled around the pulpit and set her down upon the same bookstand where a preacher would lay a Bible long ago. She batted ineffectually at its hand as the target unbuttoned her shirt, revealing her collarbone and shoulder. Her glasses were knocked askew.

Just as the target opened its mouth, ready to plunge its fangs into her flesh, Cole made the shot.

The target’s body slumped to the floor as the girl startled awake from the enthrallment put in place by the target’s potent persuasion. Her eyes went wide as she looked down at her would-be killer, then clumsily jumped down from the pulpit and ran out of the church, eyes bubbling with tears as she rebuttoned her shirt.

Good. No civilians to manage.

Cole set down his rifle and packed up his equipment, slinging the bag over his shoulder before making his way down the hill to enter the building himself. The wooden floors of the church were dusty, but still clearly of fine make, and the thuds of his footfalls vibrated pleasantly through his boots. He dropped the bag down on the floor by the target’s prone body, and knelt down beside it. A sigh left his lips as he took off his goggles to grab a flashlight instead. The target was close enough that he needed not his glasses to inspect it.

The shot had been clean, a single silver bullet through the target’s left temple, blackish green blood slowly dribbling from the wound. Of course it was; this was far from Cole’s first hunt. And Abelard Montagnard’s greatest identified weakness was its arrogance.

Cole’s phone vibrated within his thigh pocket. Of course it did. He set down the flashlight to face the target’s slack face, pulling out his revolver from its harness to jam the barrel into its mouth and fire two more silver bullets up into its brain. Just in case. It would not keep the target down forever, but it would ensure that it would not be getting up anytime soon. Vampire biology. Fascinating.

The smartphone screen was bright, burning Cole’s eyes in the dead of night. He grimaced as he lowered the brightness before checking the text.

Henrikson: So, all smooth?

Cole: Went well. Target down. Still need decapitation and cremation.

Henrikson: Course. Pics?

Cole obliged the request. Typical procedure.

Cole: Acceptable?

Henrikson: Yeah, all good. Pretty though. Sad to see a perfectly good leech go to waste.

He frowned.

Cole: Would you like it?

Henrikson: Nah, no need. Still got Tanaka’s biter, remember? Was thinking more about you.

Cole: What do you mean?

Henrikson: Not like you’ve ever put that basement I prepared for you to use. Dunno, might help. You know.

Cole: Nearly two decades & you killed the vampire responsible.

Henrikson: I know. Still, old wounds are hard to shake. No shame in that. But haven’t you been curious about that old domestication theory?

Cole: Is there really time?

Henrikson: Don’t mind switching places for a bit. Been a little while since I’ve last been on the field anyway. Don’t wanna lose my touch.

Cole looked down at the target. It…was aesthetically pleasing, he supposed. Long, wavy hair the colour of wine-rich burgundy, long lashes falling upon high cheekbones, a classical beauty meant to pull humans in like mites to a pitcher plant. Besides, Abelard made for a particularly nasty bloodsucker. According to both his and Daniel’s research, the target was responsible for at least twenty different all-out massacres, the ones vampires liked to consider ‘buffets’, and that did not even take into consideration how many people it had killed on its leisurely ‘pleasure-hunts’. It was unlike those vampires who only fed from a few chosen thralls and took care to keep said thralls alive for further nourishment, as much as he loathed that type. It preferred to go out and drain humans dry for each meal.

It would make an interesting study, to see if such a bloodthirsty monster could be tamed into an obedient pet. Daniel had already proven how enough trauma could leave the fledgelings eating out of the palm of even a vampire hunter’s hand. Why not a proper beast?

And if the experiment failed, he could always put it down.

Cole: Fine. We shall see how it goes.

Henrikson: That’s my boy.

Cole: You are barely six years my senior.

Henrikson: Still your mentor, kid! Remember, the silver’s in the trunk!

Cole: Understood, dearest elder.

Cole turned off his phone before Daniel could respond. He slipped it back into its pocket and buttoned the pocket closed, then sat down by his bag to grab the silver-enlaced rope. It would do until he could haul his new test subject back to the car.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Okay, this is my first whump writing, much less whump series, so I hope everyone's fine with a bit of a slower start! The next instalment will be from our new whumpee's point of view, so stay tuned for that!

taglist; @whimpity-whumpity, @blackrosesandwhump, @thatfruitymonster, @kira-the-whump-enthusiast, @skittles-the-whumpee, @dulled-ivories

#Nobody Left To Listen #my writing #vampire whumpee #kidnapping #vampire whump #whump writing #NLTL series #not much whump yet #only the start #objectification #dehumanization #future pet whump #whump fic

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poemoftheday · 11 months

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Poem of the Day 18 October 2023

Francis Beaumont. 1586-1616

On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey

MORTALITY, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones: Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands: Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.' Here 's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royall'st seed That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried— 'Though gods they were, as men they died.' Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings; Here 's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

#poetry #poem of the day #poem #francis beaumont

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socially-awkward-skeleton · 2 years

Note

Kit + 🔮 for the ask post!

A snippet from Chapter 11 of American Beasts:

Kit climbed the old wooden stairs of the church cautiously, having already passed through the wedding arch flocked in Bliss flowers. A murder of crows nailed around the doorway gave her enough warning of the danger that lay ahead. Opening the church door, she was met by the butt of a rifle, knocking her out cold. Her head hitting the red carpet with a heavy thud. She was dragged towards the pulpit unceremoniously.

John swaggered towards her, he had finally gotten his chance to claim his prize - to mark her as he had promised to in the depths of his bunker. He knelt down beside her, his hands gripping at the collar of her shirt. The mad twinkle in his eye had the congregation he had amassed half believing he might finally try to kill her, but instead he tore the material of her shirt away from her, splitting it in two down her sternum. A church filled with Peggies and her allies alike all seemed to fall dead quiet at the soft gasp that escaped his mouth as she was laid bare to him. His bright blue eyes danced in the golden light that came through the windows, his hands shaking as he grabbed the needle.

Kit was still out cold on the floor, limp and lifeless, except for the soft rise and fall of her chest. He ran his hand over the smooth curve of her cleavage held tightly by her bra, the smattering of freckles that dotted her sun-kissed skin made for a perfect canvas. He brought the needle to her chest, the buzzing sound filling the church like the drone of a million locusts. The tip of his needle gently kissed her skin, vibrating into her flesh, a thousand tiny pin pricks tearing into her.

He waved over one of his men, not sure when she might wake up and he didn't want to ruin his fine penmanship or to break his nose. She would be his greatest work to date.

His subordinate pressed his foot to her shoulder, his weight holding her down to the old wood floor. Her eyelids fluttered and slowly opened, finding herself lying on the ground, a gun pointed at her face with John sitting on top of her, straddling her waist. She grabbed at his arm, her fight reflex taking over.

"Hold still. It's supposed to say ‘WRATH’ not ‘RAT’." He pressed the needle to her once more and returned to his work.

“Get off me!” Her brow furrowed deeply as he ignored her and continued with his work. Her eyes flicked over to the man currently standing on top of her, staring into the barrel of the gun. She swallowed her pride and didn't make a sound, not a scream or a cry. She just watched him work.

“Sin must be exposed so it may be absolved.” His hot breath fanning over her flesh, crystal clear blue eyes flicking up to gauge her reactions. A chance for him to remember her face and the way she looked as he marked her. “If we hide our sin, we hide ourselves…” He looked up with a smile, his voice growing quiet and gentle. “You will not hide any longer. Your true self will spill out on this floor for all to see.”

The smile he gave her stung worst of all. Speaking in riddles, secret messages only they could share. This monster and her were more alike than anyone else could know. All the faces they wore, the lies they told so others would see them the way they wanted. No one would ever believe the amount of masks she wore, except for him.

“John, this doesn’t change a thing.”

His eyes narrowed but he stayed focused on his work, he wouldn’t lose his composure, not now.

“I won’t say yes. I’m not joining the project.” She grabbed at his arm again, this time a little tighter, digging her thumb into him. “I’m not going to be yours.”

His jaw clenched, fighting so hard to ignore her. To maintain whatever version of this scenario he imagined would play out. He’d dressed the church up like some sort of a wedding, she could only believe that he had some fucked up fairy tale notion of her saying yes to him in more ways than one. Was he really that far in denial? That delusional as to believe she’d drop everything to come crawling to him like that after a kiss?

Still he kept right on carving into her, he would not, could not be dissuaded. Once the mark was done, he pursed his lips and blew cool air against her raw wounds to relieve the pain he caused her. With a wicked grin on his face he stood up and took a step back to admire his work.

She raised herself up onto her elbows, she was exposed to everyone in there, a wound as sore as the one that pulsed freshly on her chest. Her embarrassment burned as hot as her nerves from where the needle had torn into her.

He looked entirely pleased with himself, like a cat toying with its prey. “Perfect”

#ask answered #thanks for asking!!#american beasts

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stoicbreviary · 1 year

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"On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey"

Francis Beaumont (1584-1616)

Mortality, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones: Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands: Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust They preach, "In greatness is no trust." Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royall'st seed That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried— "Though gods they were, as men they died." Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings; Here 's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate . . .

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austerulous · 2 years

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◈ @thesaint said: ❛ a bloody kiss. // anriiiii- (: ❜ // a fucked up kissing meme

Snow fell like feathers, muffing all sight and sound. Anri thought of Icarus, of angels, of doves eviscerated. The city was a snow globe with horror lurking on its periphery.

Frost crept, clung, kissed. Cold was a colourless flame that licked her calves. It burned her extremities, scraped at her bare arms, bringing roses to bloom in her cheeks and staining the tip of her nose pink. Hypothermia did not cross her mind. Frostbite was not a concern. Instead, she feared only the glinting, enamel edges of a too-wide mouth.

Against the backdrop of slaughter, of feasting, beneath the glittering vault of stars, Anri lived on, stumbling and numb. Ill-fated members of the congregation were split open like pomegranates. They lay discarded among the slush, leaking all over the cobblestones, blood already beginning to freeze. On their lips, silent exaltation. In their unseeing eyes, life’s last revelation – that their god was ravenous, that they would not be spared. Living counterparts scattered like marbles, praying to the very god that pursued them.

Seeking shelter in the shadow of a frozen fountain, its silvery rivulets long turned to glass, she paused, breathless, doe-eyed and darling as she trembled with trepidation. Saint Aldrich would gorge until he bloated like a tick, until he had his fill of followers’ flesh, until the decreed day of purging passed. A looming, crimson wave that moved with inhuman agility. It might have been dismissed as fantasy, save for the dead that littered the ancient streets, save for the skirt that hung around her legs in tatters. Her god toyed with her, tormented her, hunted her. Each time, he came close – close enough that Anri was sure her heart would seize, cease beating altogether – and then receded, retreating to exact his divine wrath on another.

Now he swept over her like the sea, irresistible as tidal currents, imbued with the spiced scent of incense and saline tang of blood. Anri had not seen him approach, had not heard his footfall despite the churned blanket of snow. A breath was lodged in her throat, tight with fear, displaced by the cry that bolted from her when she hit the ground. Aldrich took her into his arms in a new, terrible way, pinning her body to the ice. Here, there was no pulpit to keep them apart.

“Holy Father, have mercy, I beg of you!”

Blanched, blue-tinged, bruised, she shivered in his grasp. He was the source of her immeasurable fear, her only hope of salvation. Her comfort, her anchor, her penance. Trembling hands fisted clumsily, numbly, in his robes. Bold, needy, demanding and desperate. Aldrich gave no sign that he was moved by her plight, by his lamb’s quiet pleading. Jagged silence was the only answer as viscera dripped from his chin, painting her with hot droplets, falling like so many plum petals.

How small she felt, how imperfect, but while the face of god was turned her way, she touched him. Frozen fingers tentatively traced his jaw, gliding through sticky spots of drying blood. Hungry for the heat that dripped slowly into her, she breathed in his bestial exhalations, his low growls boiling in her ears like honey. As if to explore the source of that sound, her fingertips dipped past parted lips to touch the saint’s ornate mouthpiece, to test the sharpness of those artificial fangs. Curiosity was punished with a prick to her finger, blood rising in a crimson bead. Aldrich mantled her, predator arched over prey. Death might yet follow.

Perhaps it was a reward for her courage, or an attempt to assuage her fear, that saw him move to kiss her brow, her cheeks. Slowly, tenderly, he branded her with remnants of the night’s butchery. Anri squirmed in both terror and desire, aching inexplicably for his divine, ruinous mouth on hers. Indecent, how her thighs had parted as she fell, how they now hugged the hips that nailed her to the snow-strewn street. Her god could have her, if he wished. With her ceremonial gown hitched to her waist, he might mount her here, spoil her in the sight of many. Anri would permit it.

The mouth she craved pushed against hers, in a kiss that was thick with blood. Saint Aldrich all too soon moved to nip at her jaw, to kiss and nibble her throat, while coaxing the delicately embroidered strap of her dress down with a gloved finger. At any moment, he might sink those gargantuan teeth into her flesh, might bite her with such power and purpose that there would come the creaking, splintering sound of enamel scraping against bone. He snarled possessively, approvingly, against his congregant’s skin, lips peeling back to trail the ridges of his teeth along her clavicle. Such dark promise. To the Anri’s dismay, a breathy sigh escaped her, blending into a soft moan of approval that bordered on blasphemy.

“Oh, God.”

#okay oh boy all right #◈ › bonds — ❛ prayer dissolving on the tongue into honeycomb or bloody flesh ❜ — anri × aldrich — thesaint #◈ — answered #thesaint #cw: cannibalism #cw: suggestive

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questionsonislam · 2 years

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What is the sin of listening behind the door? What are the verses related to this issue?

It is not permissible to peep in order to find out about the sin of a person who commits a sin secretly in his house and keeps his door closed; it is not permissible to swoop on such a person or to tell others about his sin.

Allah states the following:

"O ye who believe! Avoid suspicion as much (as possible): for suspicion in some cases is a sin: And spy not on each other behind their backs. Would any of you like to eat the flesh of his dead brother? Nay, ye would abhor it...But fear Allah: For Allah is Oft-Returning, Most Merciful." (al-Hujurat, 49/12)

When Hz. Umar was the caliph, he heard sounds coming from a house. He climbed the wall, looked inside and saw the host doing something bad. When he wanted to prevent the host from that bad deed, the man said,

"O leader of the believers! I have committed one sin, but you have committed three sins." Hz. Umar asked, “What are they?” The man answered as follows:

"Allah said, ‘Spy not on each other behind their backs.’ (al-Hujurat, 49/12) However, you have spied. Allah said, ‘It is no virtue if ye enter your houses from the back’ (al-Baqara, 2/189) but you entered by climbing the wall. God Almighty said, ‘O ye who believe! Enter not houses other than your own, until ye have asked permission and saluted those in them: that is best for you, in order that ye may heed (what is seemly).’ (an-Nur, 24/27) "

In the face of this defense, Hz. Umar did not apply a penalty but laid it as a condition for the man to repent to be forgiven. Therefore, Hz. Umar asked the Companions for consultation while delivering a sermon on the pulpit if the caliph or a judge could apply a penalty if he himself sees a crime without looking for witnesses, Hz. Ali said two just witnesses were necessary even in such a case.

Verses between twenty-seven and thirty-three of the chapter of an-Nur states the manners and rules of house visits by believers and the principles of dressing for women. The religion of Islam protects the wealth, life, home and workplace of everybody from violation. Therefore, it prohibits entering a house without greeting, getting permission and having an acquaintance with the owner of the house. On the other hand, it regards peeping a house through the door and windows a sin. However, it is stated that desolate houses can be entered without permission if it is necessary:

"O ye who believe! Enter not houses other than your own, until ye have asked permission and saluted those in them: that is best for you, in order that ye may heed (what is seemly). If ye find no one in the house, enter not until permission is given to you: if ye are asked to go back, go back: that makes for greater purity for yourselves: and Allah knows well all that ye do. It is no fault on your part to enter houses not used for living in, which serve some (other) use for you: And Allah has knowledge of what ye reveal and what ye conceal." (Nur, 24/27-29).

TAJASSUS (SPYING)

It means searching the inside, hidden parts of an affair and mistakes of a person; curiosity to search.

The word tajassus is an Arabic word derived from the verb jassa. The word jasus (spy/agent) is derived from the same verb.

Tajassus is generally used for searching bad deeds and mistakes. The word tahassus is generally used for good deeds. As a matter of fact, Allah states that Hz. Yaqub addressed his sons as follows using the word tahassus: “O my sons! Go ye and enquire about Joseph and his brother, and never give up hope of Allah´s Soothing Mercy...” (Yusuf, 12/87). However, both words can be used in the sense of searching bad deeds and mistakes. Awzai states that tajassus means searching anything and that tahassus means eavesdropping or listening behind the door.

The word tajassus is mentioned only once in the Quran:

Allah addresses believers in the verse above and wants them to keep away from three harmful things. Those three harmful things are suspicion (having bad thoughts about others), spying and backbiting.

As it is seen, tajassus is one of the things forbidden, prohibited by the Quran. The verse also describes the attributes of a believer. Accordingly, believers keep away from suspicion (having bad thoughts about others), spying and backbiting. They differ from others with those nice qualities.

The Messenger of Allah (pbuh) prohibited tajassus and advised people to keep away from it. Thus, he informed us that tajassus was something harmful and bad. The hadiths narrated regarding the issue are as follows:

"Keep away from having bad thoughts about others because it is the worst lie. Do not spy on one another and do not search the secret affairs of one another; do not eavesdrop; do not compete one another; do not be jealous of one another; do not hate one another; do not turn your backs to one another. O slaves of Allah! Be brothers." (Ibn Kathir, Tafsir VII, 357)

"If you search people’s mistakes, you will cause mischief." (Ibn Kathir, Tafsir, VII, 358)

"O community of people, who believed by their tongue and whose hearts belief did not enter! Do not backbite Muslims. Do not search for their faults. If anyone searches for their faults, Allah will search for his fault. If Allah searches for the fault of anyone, He disgraces him in his house." (Abu Dawud, Adab, 40; see also Tirmidhi, Birr, 84)

"If a person does not help a Muslim in a place where he will be disgraced and leaves him alone, Allah will leave him alone in a place where he will ask for help. If a person helps a Muslim in a place where he will be disgraced, Allah will help him in a place where he will ask for help" (Abu Dawud, Adab, 41)

A man went to Ibn Mas'ud and said, "raki (alcoholic drink) drips from the beard of such and such a man." Ibn Mas'ud answered him as follows: "We were prohibited from spying. However, we can catch him when he drinks openly." Mujahid made the following explanation regarding the issue: What is meant by the verse “spy not on each other” is "take what is revealed and leave what is kept secret". (Sayyid Qutub, Fi Zilalil-Quran, Beirut 1971)

As it is understood from the hadiths above, man has inviolable and untouchable things: honor, dignity, rights and freedom. One of them is searching secret affairs. Thus, Islam orders showing respect to the rights of individuals perfectly. In Islam, man is ordered to act in a way that fits human honor and he is not allowed to be harassed.

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petaledwitnesses · 2 years

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Condolence Resolution

By Fahmida Riaz (Translated by Patricia L Sharpe)

(When a poet dies in Pakistan, friends often hold a condolence meeting to pass a resolution affirming that the poet was a Godfearing patriot mistakenly persecuted by the authorities.)

When I am dead, my friends, spare me the pain Do not give me a testimonial of faith. Do not declare, in passionate orations, 'This woman was indeed a true believer.' Do not seek to prove me loyal, my friends, To the state, the nation And the powers-that-be. Do not beg the lords of the land To claim me at my death.

The taunts of the mean were laurels to me; The wind and the dust were my soul mates. The deepest truth lies far within the soul And those who shared it were my friends. Mounting a pulpit was not their way, But they stood tall for me and held my hand. You must not show them disrespect Or try to ingratiate me with the judges. Never say, 'Her corpse seeks forgiveness.'

Don't be distressed if I am left unburied If the priest denies me the final rites. Carry the remains to the woods and leave it there. It comforts me to think that the beasts would feast At my bones, my flesh, this strong red heart, They would feel no need to screen my thoughts.

Their bellies filled, they'll clean their paws And their sinless eyes will gleam with a truth That you, my friends, dare never express: 'She always said what she had to say, And for all her life had no regrets.'

#pakistani poets #poetry #poems #protest

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truthandlove · 2 years

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Spiritually Alive

Most pastors, even those that TRY to be good pastors, they just quickly reach a PLATEAU. They get several dozen sermons and topics (often pre-made sermons, like frozen meals, for them on the Internet), and then get COMFORTABLE just recycling those messages. They get a COMFORTABLE ENOUGH donor base, and then they just CONTINUE the plateau. The dead continuity. Maybe a micro-breakthrough here and there, but nothing too disruptive... Regardless of the ideals or goals they start with, they get NEUTRALIZED because they end up working for the CONTINUITY of their business, not the discipleship or growth of those under their care. This pattern of neutralization IS fallen human nature controlling things (do the minimum to get by). This is NOT the Holy Spirit - the Holy Spirit is always dynamic and active. The spiritual life of a REAL Christian is thus ALWAYS FRONTIER. God's love will REGULARLY move you out of comfort zones, into zones of NEED, zones of PERSECUTION, zones of EVANGELIZATION, zones of radical risk for the sake of love! They GET COMFORTABLE behind the continuity of their pulpit. That is against God! For we are also AMBASSADORS, and not just teachers. Jesus taught both synagogues and in boats and on hillsides, when under arrest -- literally WHEREVER He was. So don't even try to tell me that you get to stay off the front lines! Jesus was bringing the Good News of the Kingdom of God - centered around Himself as King. A humble and good King.

Ephesians 2:10 "For we are God's masterpiece: created for good works in Christ Jesus that we should walk in them."

Your FLESH will always try to find reasons to go back to a comfortable plateau -- the complacency and consistency of mild-mannered dead people. But the Holy Spirit in you is urging you to the front lines of ministry - bringing the Good News of the Kingdom to the broken, hurting, demonized and lost/confused/deceived. The spiritual front lines are not a geographical location so much as WHEREVER the Holy Spirit is moving! The Wind of God flows, and being STATIC behind a pulpit is a dangerous place to miss the dynamic Holy Spirit.

1 Corinthians 1:40 "For the kingdom of God is not a matter of talk but of power." 2 Corinthians 5 So from now on we regard no one according to the flesh. Although we once regarded Christ in this way, we do so no longer. Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.a The old has passed away. Behold, the new has come! All this is from God, who reconciled us to Himself through Christ and gave us the MINISTRY OF RECONCILIATION - that God was reconciling the world to Himself in Christ, not counting men’s trespasses against them. And He has committed to us the message of reconciliation. Therefore we are AMBASSADORS for Christ, as though God were making His appeal through us. We implore you on behalf of Christ: "Be reconciled to God." God made Him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God.

The Holy Spirit will always: • point to the core, the heart, of the matter • by dealing with the core issue (by being the light of God, the Wisdom and Instruction of God, the Spirit of God's Truth), bring breakthrough • bring reconciliation, healing, redemption, make whole hearts • disrupt deadness with resurrection LIFE And so much more of course. So pray for pastors. They are under enormous attack to neutralize and compromise them. Call them to repent and for the Holy Spirit WORK, the TRANSFORMATION in them. For life and revival by God's imitative and power. But don't wait for them. They are not to be active while you sit around! instead be fervent in prayer. CALL FOR workers to go out into God's field of humanity to be led to those ready to receive the Gospel. Satan wants to present, is desperate to present to the world, a meaningless religiosity as Christianity. Something dead that does not change the systems of this corrupt world. Satan FEARS a dynamic, active, praying church willing to stop worshiping their own damn comfort. God can and wants to use us as His hands and feet. SO SAY YES to God and ask for more Holy Spirit to overshadow you, to fill and explode through you this day! 10/4/2022

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punemy-spotted · 1 year

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WIP Wednesday: 16 Tons

It's Wednesday, my dudes, and therefore I'm getting in the spirit to share a new WIP... because I can.

Please enjoy a preview of a new Curtis Everett fic set in my Down Here, in this Valley universe. Featuring Miner!Curtis, a Witch!Reader, and a whole lot of Lore™

Warnings: discussions of death; a relatively brutal murder scene; burn scars; my limited understanding of how medicine works; exploitation of workers; the fic is dark because the content is; THIS IS A HORROR FIC; Dead Dove: Do Not Eat (MIND THE TAGS)

If you would like to be tagged in updates, please check out my (new and improved) taglist and sign up! I have also created an archive where just my fics and drabbles will be reblogged (and tagged), over at @punemys-library. It's a little under construction, but we're working on it.

Curtis Everett is going to die. ‘Course, everything dies, eventually. Much as you loathed sittin’ through your daddy’s sermons, you knew the truth in ‘em — death is a prize every livin’ being, regardless of sapience or the desire to be, ought to aspire to. Death is the gift of all gifts, your daddy would proclaim from his bone-an’-antler pulpit, the final gesture of our loving Lord and Savior — an’ you, your sisters, your momma, your daddy an’ a few others your daddy claimed were kinfolk on his side were all the guides meant t’introduce all manner of worldly beings too blind t’understand just how precious that kinda oblivion was to the glory of that final, permanent end.

Still. Curtis Everett is going to die. Curtis Everett is going to die in your kitchen, his own pickaxe embedded in his chest, the final desperate pumps of his pierced heart pouring blood all over that pretty linoleum you didn’t actually like keepin’ in your kitchen an’ probably would tear up after you came to terms with never feelin’ like you could scrub away the remnants of him.

You watch it play out before you like you’ve done plenty of times before, the course of Curtis Everett’s life written in scars yet to be earned, bruises waiting to bloom on flesh that has known little more than the danger and dread of coal dust for as long as you have known him. You also watch him sitting in your clinic, for once not complaining as you finish cleaning and rewrapping the thankfully not festering burn he’d been dutifully letting you treat — per your own professional orders — for the past week-and-a-half, Looks like it’s healing nicely, but it’ll probably scar.

It’s not the first scar he’s earned in Snowpiercer, but it’s certainly not going to be the last. You’ve been counting down the months — and injuries — to that particular worry for a while. The ones you can help him avoid — the ones he listens to you about — you warn against, and the ones he can’t escape, you patch up. The same as you would anyone in Snowpiercer, being the company’s own doctor as you ar. Your momma’d scold you up, down an’ sideways if she knew what you were doin’ interferin’ with the predestined path of men as you watched ‘em struggle, suffer, an’ eventually succumb. But your momma wasn’t here to know, and even if she were, your momma’d never be able to understand just what sorta poison of a gift it was she’d saddled you with.

Death is a Rogers daughter’s birthright, even if they themselves were more often than not denied the majesty of its truest gift. You were not born into this life to die, but to be a guardian of it, to guide the walking dead makin’ their way beyond the borders of that ol’ Holler you’d been born in through the trials of judgment and that ultimate verdict. You were not, your momma would have reminded, meant to shield ‘em from the pains of life — an ‘the lessons to be gleaned from ‘em.

Anything you want me to do with it? Curtis Everett’s question breaks you out of your bitter ruminating, reminds you of the more pressing responsibilities you chose. You turn to watch him a moment, looking as if you might just need a moment to remember the exact instructions you ought to give for his wound care. Except that’s not what you give, is it? Instead, you look over Curtis Everett’s work-weary expression, the quiet dread in his eyes at the prospect of needin’ to manage yet one more thing, one more purchase at the Company Store, one more burden to bear, Just come by every evenin’, I’ll keep the coal dust outta them wrappin’s for you.

You know full well you’ll need to work late to take care of it… and clean the coal dust outta your clinic, but it’s better you than him — at least that’s what you tell yourself as Curtis Everett’s shoulders relax, relief flooding those work-weathered features you’ve almost started memorizin’ by this time, makin’ the sleep you will almost certainly lose tomorrow and the remainder of this week worth it.

It must always be worth it.

#curtis everett x reader #curtis everett #snowpiercer #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans imagine #wip wednesday #au #down here in this valley #sixteen tons

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