#wrought iron orange county | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

punkandsnacks · 4 years ago

Text

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Six; Hopes.

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Brief mentions of violence and gore in this chapter !!!

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

Hellford park was a domineering house. It was as proud as it was beautiful.

A high and grand edifice of squared buff sandstone with the very same in all its trimmings. The roof is welsh slate. And the front of the house echoed it’s Palladian and baroque design. The Doric order pillars out front hold up a looming triangular outset to the building. There are three floors. Three towering floors all full of windows.

The house sits vast in its horizon. Dominating. She had walked up through the woods from Pembleton. A good twenty minutes of walking down the front drive merely to get to the place. Through a resplendent wrought iron black gate that looked nearly eerie in the morning fog. The cawing of throaty crows echoed around the tall dark trees that nearly eclipsed the sun. She opened that creaking gate and slipped on through. Feeling like a doomed trespasser on Lord Ren’s land.

When the walk along the paved road clears of the governing country nature, each side of her not now lined with massive oaks, and the dark wood thinned out, the sun shone down on her in speckles through the spreading tree tops.

She listens to the cooing call of wood pigeons in the far off trees. The sizzle of wind ruffling the dead leaves on their branches. Sizzling and spitting and rattling in the air. And the cold bitter landscape seems buttery warm, the colour of dandelion sunshine lifts every facet of nature. Melts the snow. Makes the countryside all merry again. Thaws it from the unfeeling and cruel fingers of frosty winter.

Though she can still see wisps of her breath flutter the air. And she tugs her rabbit lined gloves up her wrists to keep warm. Her soles crackle along the road in the misty frost.

She’s on yet another errand this morning. In her battered blue wool coat, her quite hopeless brown boots. She hadn’t seen the need for a bonnet, and now her ears are feeling the price of such a poor decision. Tipped with icy pink.

The dappling sun tangled in her hair. Where it’s scooped back off her face in a semi braided coiffure. She had her plain wool dress on. It was a boring shade of chowder grey pinstriped with white. But it did it’s occupation of keeping her warm better than her old pelisse did.

She comes up to the view of the house. Admiring how vast and proudly it stands. Resolute even under the strong sun. The sky behind its roof is a net of crepe cotton blue splashed with smeared white clouds.

From the vantage point on the road, where she is, far far far down below the humongous beast, the vast wall of windowpanes wink icy in the sunlight across at her. The huge pond to the front of Hellford Manor, is deep glass green, and navy skipped with gold from the mirrored reflection of the sky.

Her steps rap sharply on the hard road, clapping off the house and bouncing back to her. Mingled in with sounds of the woods, of the birds and the trees and the wind ruffling through it all.

She steps up to the cavernous entryway and the door that’s eight feet taller than she is. Doesn’t know if she’ll get a reply knocking here- she hopes she does.

She knocks her gloved hand loud and clear on the door. Taps her knuckles loudly three times. Hears it ricochet off the house behind and in front of her. Probably drifting through that elegantly extensive marble foyer that was bound to be inside. Manor this grand was bound to have a colossal foyer for entertaining.

She stares up at the great big white painted door in fervent hope. A few seconds pass. Nothing but the silence of her own anticipation.

She’d brought Lord Ren some welcoming gifts that high society hereabouts has decided to bestow on him. The ladies and matrons of prominence are thankful for his mentioning he’d keep an eye open for the terrorising wolf on his land.

Mrs Phillips sent him a box of Turkish dried fruits and sticky figs drowned in honey. Miss Smith sent a bottle of port and a selection of sweet meats. Her own mother had declined to send him anything.

Iris was affronted at her sudden distant behaviour when days before she’d been clamouring for her daughter to prostrate herself at his mighty feet. So she snuck to the kitchen earlier and secreted away two dead partridge’s when she wasn’t looking.

Cook was on her side covering for her. She’d spin Mrs Ashton a cunning tale that the cat got into them and she had to discard them. Let’s hope Iris’ mother didn’t decide to take action against the innocent tabby.

She’d also put in some of cooks chutney and her famous jam. She was a crass red faced, battle axe Irish woman of stout size and many years. But she liked making sure the people around her were well fed. She was a kindly woman to Iris.

Many times as a scolded young girl, belittled for improper behaviour, or something petty Caroline nitpicked over, she’d find herself hiding from mama in the kitchen. Wedged between the stove and the butchers block. Red faced and sobbing tears.

Cook - Mrs Murphy as she doesn’t like to be commonly known as - would crossly stop whatever she was doing. Whatever soup or sauce she was preparing, whatever un-plucked game bird awaited stripping by her hands, or whatever haunch of meat needed seasoning, she would stop.

Wiping her hands on her grubby apron. She’d pour Iris a cup of chocolate, sit her by the open stove and put a warm rug around her shoulders. Tell her to dry her eyes on her handkerchief. She always had one to hand. “There now. Dry your eyes. Pet.” In her soothing County Kildare, Irish brogue.

“Here’s to hoping the road rises up to meet you yet.” She’d always say. Her way of wishing all the pain and obstacles to her happiness be plucked free right out of her life. Mrs Murphy knew, even back then, what strain Iris was being put under to be the perfect daughter. Drowning under expectations at such a bonny young age.

So when Iris went to her this morning, interrupting her making her brown onion soup and scotch collops ready for supper, she asked for some donations to a man whose been kind to her, and to the scared flustered hens of matrons in the village. Cook raised a brow. “I see.” She said cannily. With an all-knowing understanding to her tone.

Steered Iris into the cold larder and gave the game, the jam and some other goods. “This wouldn’t be that infamous Lord I’ve been hearing whispers about, now, would it?” She asks with a hand on her hip. Iris blushes.

“He’s- merely an acquaintance.” Iris insists sweetly.

“Aye. And I’m the goddess queen of the upper Nile.” She smarts flatly.

“Be off with ya now pet. Before your mother gives you what for.” She says gruffly. Plonking two rosy pink apples in her hands for her journey to Hellford park. Before jabbing her thumb the back door over her own shoulder. Continuing rolling out her pastry with sticky-flour and buttery hands. She watches Iris head out with the baskets. One on each arm as usual. She smiles when she leaves.

A good girl she was- much rounder temper than her silly sisters. Cook loves Iris like a daughter. And in damn sure more of a maternal way than her dragon of a mother ever did.

Surprisingly, Iris didn’t have to wait too long at Hellford’s grand oak door before it is shuddered open with a whine from the other side.

The very pleasant face of Kylo’s butler greets her. A red dastar turban covering his head. His arrowhead shaped goatee was black shot through with silver. Straight as a yardstick. And oiled finely. He appears very well groomed and meticulous. A fine warm scent of lime blossom and something like citrus or oranges woven into his cologne.

She smiles warmly at him. Hands across her calling card through the gap of the door. “Good Morning. I’m so sorry to disturb you- but I’m just paying a call to deliver some-”

His warm face breaks into a warm beam. One of honesty and recognition. “He told me we should be expecting you, Miss Ashton.” He smiles gladly. Already apprised of her being here. Widening the door for her.

“Please do come in...” He urges. Iris likes the warm cadence to his voice. The distinctive accent of his sounds like honey syrup or spiced cloves. Comforting and rich. A voice that promises nothing but warmth and friendliness in its offering.

Where he widens the door, Iris catches a glimpse of the exotic threads of his clothing. Something akin to a silk coat covers his top half. Indigo ink silk with buttons that glimmered like raindrops in rain. It’s almost military style in its fashion. He is a lean, towering man with broad shoulders. Though not as powerfully foreboding as the man he serves. His coat covers most of his legs. His knees are clad in loose fitting black trousers of thin substance. Puffy at the knees. Tucked into impressively shiny black boots.

The sun catches on a bangle on his right wrist when he moves. Hitting against the silk of his peacock blue sleeve. When she stopped in, she sees the coat is embroidered with twirls of silver thread stitched into vines. It was such a beautiful garment. She’s in awe of it.

She steps in from the cold, thanking him, and the huge house engulfs her. It’s warm for such a colossal place. And she was right. The foyer is entirely marble.

Marble pointed tile floor. Walnut panelled walls and wainscoting coat the house. Set with gilded gold frames resting on them, surrounding impressive paintings. Black votives of candles stand lit and flickering amber flame. A gigantic mouth of a limestone fireplace is directly ahead on the wall. It’s twice as big as her bedchamber, that one hearth alone. Roaring flames lit within. Around the neatest pile of logs that blazed. Not even a spec of ash was out of place. There’s no decoration. Hardly any vases or relics. That’s strikes her as odd.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Ashton.” He bows his head respectfully and tucks his hands behind his back. “I am Raajaa Jomar. Lord Ren’s butler.” He introduces himself.

“Pleasure to meet you. Mr. Jomar. I only called by to give Lord Ren a few tokens of gratitude from some local families.”

He smiles and accepts the baskets from her. “Of course. How kind. Do follow me to wait in the parlour. I will see to finding his lordship.”

He leads her through the impressive house. Walking her deeper into the expensive bowels of the place. She walks demurely behind him. Aghast at the display of wealth that lines every wall. It hangs in the dripping crystal and spotless chandeliers. The way the tiles underfoot gleam like they’ve been scrubbed mercilessly.

Paintings ooze oil and grandeur dour wealth from their spots on the walls. Ancient portraits of powdered wigs and styles of the 1700’s. Robes a la Francaise and beauty spots on powdered faces and craggy noses, casting a disapproving eye out at her.

He brings her to a double door entrance of a richly furnished parlour. Decorated with red and white. Fire roars in the pearl marble of the hearth. She steps onto the fine cushion of a scarlet Aubusson rug. Sees her reflection in the huge antique mirror above the mantel. The room is trimmed in old French antiques. Side tables and end tables around the garnet red settees that bleed gold gild at their tops.

“Do please make yourself comfortable Miss Ashton. I will arrange for a tray of tea and refreshments be brought to you.” He bows his head politely again.

She feels like calling out to stop him. She was only here to pay call delivering a basket after all. Which she now sets both things down on the immaculately polished low table, set before her. She sinks into the luxuriously soft settee. Plump velvet feather cushions catch her back and prop her up.

She feels rather nervous. Here, in this grand place in her shabby coat and ragged boots.

She’s looking out the white glass of the terrace doors into the finely trimmed dutch gardens. Neat shrubs arranged in symmetrical patterns with paths cutting through to the lawn. A fountain crowns the central spoke of the flowerbeds. Blooming waxy tulips in summer spring up there. In punching reds and fierce oranges.

In no time whatsoever, a waify scurrying maid appears in the doorway. Thin arms laden with a silver tray of a tea service. She smiles a beaming polite grin over at Iris. Who bids her a good afternoon. She sets the tea and a plate of warm jam tartlets before her, and they discuss the weather. She bobs a cute curtsey when she’s done and nods a parting and a good afternoon at Iris.

She found it slightly odd to have someone curtsey to her. Sat here in her shabby boots and too-small-pelisse. She almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. Not in cruel jest to the sweet maid’s behaviour- just that in her household, she barely outranked their maids. She helped out with the cooking, the cleaning, as did her sisters.

That didn’t seem to place her worthy of a curtsey. She had no title after all. Was likely never to bare a title or be among nobility.

She drinks some of the excellent tea. A fine rich blend no doubt. She nibbles the corner of a sticky jam tartlet and listens as the carriage clock on the mantel strikes twelve. Dinging softly around the opulent room. Along with the crackling of the fire spitting spewing out embers and ash in the hearth.

She idly awaits company- drains another cup of tea. And stands to better admire the frosted gardens from the big windows. Lifting the scarlet red curtain out of her sight as she admires.

A different maid enters across the room. Clunking the heavy door. “If you please, Miss. I’ll take you to his Lordship. Mr Jomar says he’d do it himself only on account of him getting caught up chatting to the cook.” She explains.

Iris leaves her baskets in the parlour on the table. She goes directly with the girl. Who leads her through the house and out across a courtyard, and points to a little track road down to the working stables. She apologised that she had to skip back to the kitchens to attend to some errands. Iris says it’s quite alright. She can find her way from here.

She walks up the pea-shingle paved road. Seeing the U shaped courtyard ahead, under the stone arch of the gates leading into the stables. Stalls surround the shape of it. Running around the perimeter. She can smell hay and animal sweat and the stench of hops. As she walks closer a repetitive clunking noise rings in her ears. The clatter of wood tumbling onto stone. Coming from the direction she’s intended toward.

She passes under the arch, cool shade of it tickles the back of her neck. She comes into the clearing of the cobblestoned courtyard. Horses stamp and shift in their stalls surrounding the walls. She spies Erland in his stall. Munching on something he’d recently been fed. Carrots most likely.

She comes into plain view of the whole stable- and then she lurches right to a sudden stop. A gasp punched out her lungs. Chest seizing up.

She’s now stood facing a very shirtless Lord.

Chopping logs with a heavy axe. Blade of it glints wicked sharp in the sun as his thick arms swing it over, crossing it over his body to strike sharp down the centre of the log before him on the stand. The wood tumbled and clunked to the ground.

Chest gleaming slipping shimmering with sweat from his exertions. Stood in his obsidian breeches and boots to match, even in the winter cool of the courtyard. His shirt lay discarded on the nearest stall door. Folded cotton crumpled there.

She idly wonders as her eyes take all of his naked state in, why he was doing this himself when he probably had tens of hundreds of servants who could do it for him. She knows she not supposed to look. But she’s seen the bare beauty of him now and her eyes don’t wish to be rid of it-

She didn’t have any concerns that his frame was in any way unimpressive. But seeing him in such a bare manner merely reconfirmed what she already knew. He is broad in the shoulder, wide at the waist.

His chest doesn’t taper it remains a solid stack of muscle. His thick thick build of his arms flex. The trapezius lines slipping outwards from either side of his neck are intimidatingly big. As is the reach from his shoulders down over his pectorals.

He is a hugely broad warrior of a man. Crude. Monumental.

A few seconds have passed since she stumbled onto the sight of him. Though it felt longer. He raises his eyes to the movement of her. Though he hadn’t needed too. He could sense her walking up the front drive to come to him. Felt her presence here ever since she set foot on his land.

He unsticks the heavy axe from where it lodged chipping into the wood block stand below the logs he’s cutting up. He lets it hang down by his side. Grins wickedly across at his guest. Wall of muscular chest panting. Abdominal muscles flexing. His breath spirits silver out his smile up into the bitter air.

His smile is sinful and his eyes are shady with promiscuous motive. “Miss Ashton...” He greets her rakishly.

Fully aware of what the sight of him will do to her. How much it will stir her blood, get her blushing. The potent effect of him enchanting her lust. Dazzling her weak mortal senses.

“Your lordship. Do forgive me. I’d no idea you were-um. So-“ Her eyes flicker across to his chest again, darting away quick. But he saw her snatch a look through blushing hot cheeks.

“Informally attired?” He finishes for her confidently.

She gulps and nods. “Yes- I do beg your pardon.” She’s now turned three quarters away from him. Giving him a ample view of her profile. Looking rather like she wants to scamper back to the safety of the house. Those pink cheeks and her flustered breathing that pulses out her neck in a sudden unexpected rush of lust... It gets his temper straining at its hold when he senses it.

It’s captured the side of him that she should absolutely not want to rouse.

He lays the axe down. Standing it against the brick wall near the log shed. Shifts closer. She can hear his boots scrape on the cobbles. Dusted with hay and splintered wood chipping’s from his laborious work. His fine booted soles crackle and shift with it. He brings his shirt into his free hand. Leaves it folded down by his side.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” He seeks smugly.

Her brain malfunctions. Caught on his choice of word. Pleasure. Pleasure. Pleasure-

She wills the impertinent thought away.

Feels him coming closer. The way his eyes stab into her coat. Rake along the back of her neck like dragging flint knives being drawn along her skin. She tries not to shiver too much at the not-entirely-unpleasant sensation.

“I just paid a call to deliver some tokens of gratitude from obliged Pembleton residents.” She offers.

“There’s um. Port and figs in honey. Some partridges. And some very excellent jam... Miss Smith, The Phillips and us Ashton’s all send our compliments.” She babbles.

He chuckles warmly. Stepping ever closer. Sparing her blushes and gazes. He slips the rumpled cotton of his shirt over his head and lets it fall, untucked, down to his thighs.

The open v neck tips to hang between his nipples. Dusky bronze discs of them. And the coarse smattering of dark hair brushes his chest too. She shouldn’t know that about a man.

“That’s very generous of you. I’m very fond of partridge. Do be sure to thank your family for me. For such a thoughtful offering.” He insists in a drawl that gets her smile increasing.

She chuckles. Feeling safer about meeting his eyes now. “Miss Smith was delighted. With your assurance of looking out for the murdering beast. She has decided to forgo the extra bolt on her bedroom door.” Iris explains.

“I fear she’s now quite enamoured with you. She said she means invite you over to take tea, very soon.”

Kylo raises a brow that instantly told Iris how very ridiculous and inconsequential her found the always-flustered Miss Smith.

“I might accept the invitation on the provisory condition that you accompany me. To keep me from beating my head against the wall in sheer desperation.” He smarts.

Iris chuckles lightly. She tries to swallow it down but she can’t.

“She is a little trying.” She confesses. She was a harmless woman. Just admired the sound of her own voice rabbiting on too much. And she fretted about every beast, man, and creature put on this earth. Everything was cause for suspicion with Miss Smith.

“She’s the most trying woman in all of the British Empire.” He declares lowly. His smile crooks up on one side.

Iris thinks for a second. Looking down at her shoes. “I do so hate to disagree with you, your lordship. But I fear that title must instead be awarded to my mother.” She smarts.

He chuckles rightfully loud. It’s warmer than all the winter sunshine that slopes down on them. Crinkles form near his eyes and his divots beside his mouth.

“Anyway-“ She begins. “I should take my leave. I’ve lingered far too long. You must have matters to attend...” She smiles. Dipping into a short curtsey. Flicking her eyes back up to him after she does.

“Nothing so urgent could possibly draw me away the honour of your visit.” He insists. Making unabashed eye contact with her. Face so open and genial. Eyes all melting honey and granite.

“I wouldn’t wish to importune you.” She says crossing her hands and holding them in front of her.

One ink brow curves up. “From my incredibly laborious and eventful morning of, chopping firewood?” He lets her infer her own conclusions.

“Well. I do have errands to take heed of. Back at Westwell.”

He smiles like the devil. Like he knew how Satan himself leers- which he very truly almost does. He’s seen the closest thing this earth knows to a demon, grin at him. White pearly smile so savage and handsome.

“Defer them.” He presses nicely. “I promised you a tour did I not? Come take a ride of Hellford Park with me and Erland.”

Iris swallows. “You wish me to- spend time with you, alone? unchaperoned?” She checks.

His eyes glow with that savage glimmer once more. The one that makes his eyes look like the most melting shade of black imaginable. Oh yes he did.

“I promise to be the very saintly soul of propriety.” He pledges. Cupping a hand over the black vacuum where his mortal heart once laid in his big chest.

“I won’t stand for indulging in any behaviour on my part if it severely discomforts you.” He vows seriously. She believes him. He was respectful enough to let her truly escape this endeavour if she wanted. He would never inopportune a woman for the benefit his own comforts.

Even if she stirs him up so violently like the way this woman does-

She tries not to follow where his hand lay on his body with her eyes. Tries not to look at that divine sticky chest again. Her head swims with comparisons of marble Greek gods swimming in salty tepid seas. Emerging dripping from the cobalt ocean.

She blushes. Yet again her silly female heart betrays her. She hesitates for a second- she should say no. A polite girl would be a shrinking violet and scurry away at such a bold suggestion.

She should turn her back and apologise profusely, head on back toward the house. She should walk home, the cool air stinging at her hot cheeks. She should go and think about scrubbing their curtains back home. Or arranging flowers. Or donning her apron and helping cook on with peeling the maris pipers in preparation for supper.

She looks at his eyes again. Words fly from her mouth before her brain comprehends how it came to an answer. He truly was an enchanting creature.

“I’d be delighted.” She nods bravely.

It wasn’t what should be done. But it’s what she so desperately wanted to do.

Westwell has had 23 years of her looking after everyone and everything in it. They can miss her for a meagre few hours whilst she finally puts herself first.

“Allow me to briefly adjourn and attire myself correctly. Then I’ll see to having the horses tacked up.” He excuses himself. Smiles all wicked, and turns to head for the doorway in the brick wall near the logs he was cutting up.

She flushed and almost fell faint to a dizzy spell. Seeing his finely muscled back as it lumbered away from her. Slicked with sweat.

She watched the savage blades of his shoulders, as sharp as that axe blade he’d been swinging. Her eyes stuck on the three slashes of scars that rake deep over the left jutting bone hill of his scapula. Where an animals claws had long ago cut and torn into his skin.

If she knew just precisely how long ago- she’d faint.

A time she can’t even comprehend. An age away. An age she’s only studied in books. An age he can moderately remember anymore. It was several centuries past him now.

He remembers towering pine tree tops scraping at the sky. How bitter bitter snow blazed and churned between the tips. The ruddy tang of houses back then cast solidly out of timber and roofed with straw. The smell of the sticky sap bleeding out the wood. The ash from the open fires and the clog of acrid woodsmoke sunk into the fur pelt he wore around his shoulders. The beast that had scarred him on his back and left him to rot away with fever of the wound. Left Kylo clinging desperately onto life by his dirty fingernails.

He found that creature. He sunk his knife into that brutes belly and gutted it. He wore that black pelt with savagely earned pride. The gloom of longhouse where feasts, battles, births and politics were celebrated. The place that reeked of ash, the stench of smoking meat and the sour reek of stale urine from the odiferous tannery, when the frigid wind blew and shuddered into the village in the right direction.

Back breaking labour was crucial for survival. Farming and hunting and warring. Truer dignity in hard work than any of these perfumed dandies of the fashionable ton knew about.

He’d been brought up in those freezing acetous lands. He’d farmed for oats and barley and rye in the summers. Then one winter, he trained as a soldier. Upholding the honour of his family and willing to go and to defend his people.

Then he went to war- His fate was violently and horribly rearranged.

He’d marched right on in to fight a battle from which he’d never return home. Never would he be the same man. He was offered instead, a sweet mercy of a deathless death. And he greedily snatched it with both hands- glutted himself on its chance.

It was all so different back then. Life was so brutal. Compared to the pomp and ridiculous circumstances the narrow minded people in this village are governed ruthlessly by, by things they think matter.

When he thinks of the contrasts to the two societies it makes him sick. All the stuffy airs and graces and endless bowing and scraping. Veiled insults cloaked as compliments. Velvet draped over daggers.

He vastly preferred this world back when it was a more feral one. Atleast then he knew where he stood.

When there were no falsehoods or lies floating out sugared words from simpering sickening smiles. Here, when one thing was said to his face, quite another was hissed behind his back when he turned. Maybe he was just a relic of a time long since over-maybe maybe maybe.

He goes into the stable rooms, where he left his jacket and other attire earlier. Luckily there’s a washroom out here that was used on hunts if the work got bloody. He washes himself down from the basin and jug of cold water, and clears away the salt of his sweat. Pats himself dry and redressed in his fine jacket, white shirt and white cravat. Atop a burgundy waistcoat.

When he steps back out, buttoning his thick wool jacket. Silver buttons blazing proud in the sun, he sees Miss Ashton at Erland’s stall. The stubborn animal nudged into her shoulder again as she strokes his handsome velveteen forehead. Remembering her. Thinking she had more treats to bestow.

He comes across and chides his horse in the Bavarian tongue he was trained by. “Nett Sein. Erland.” Kylo barks across low at his horse as he walks over. Be kind.

He then adds, chiding him, that he shouldn’t be disrespectful to ladies. Croons to him. Speaking fluently in his own language. Stroking his nose as the horse turns and nibbles at his masters coat shoulder and snuffles his hair with his hot, hay scented breath. Kylo pats the chunky meat of his solid corded neck.

She strokes a hand over his silken mane. Hair harshly stiff and bushy under her gloves. Parted to one side over his neck and shoulders as the animal bows his head down for the handful of oats Kylo held out for him. Erland snuffles them up in a mere matter of seconds. Chews on the cud’s and almost headbutts his master for more.

Miss Ashton laughs. “You were right about his stubborn blood. So I see.”

“One of the most obstinate beasts on four legs.” Kylo promises with a grin.

“Would you mind riding one of our mares, Miss Ashton? They are generally easier of temper.”

“Not at all.” She accepts.

He steps back and urges her over to the next stall. Here, a shimmering white horse awaits them. Brushed coat glistening the way untarnished snow lays sparkling in the sun. Bright and pure.

This horses mane and snout is an ash grey. The same colour bleeds up past her fetlocks. There’s some dappled patches of pebble grey also on her flanks and rear. She was the sweetest mare with the softest temperament. She stays in her stall but gently cautiously seeks Kylo’s hand to eat the food her offered her. He strokes her neck fondly.

“This is Kana. Shortened from the old Norse word for Birch tree.” Kylo’s introducing her. The mares ears twitch with her mentioned name. “So named, if I recall because her coat resembles the colours of the trunk.”

“She’s beautiful.” Iris insists. Rubbing up the flag bone between her eyes. Kana appreciates the caress with an equine little snort.

Across from them. The stable boy has brought Erland out his stable to tack him for their ride. Kylo and Iris stay stroking the sweet white mare. Stood at her stall.

“Do you ride them out often?” She asks.

“Every morning with Erland if I can manage it. Sometimes at night too. If sleep evades me.” He tells. Sleep always evades him. The one curse of immortality.

“This poor old girl deserves as good a chance as any to stretch her legs.” He smiles.

Another stable hand comes out and gently leads the white mare from her stall. She stands quietly as she’s tacked. Erland however? He pounded the cobbled floor with a scraping hoof and was twitching with excitement to be ridden. He bays and snorts and huffs until he gets his way.

When his bridle and bit are slipped on, Kylo steps over and soothingly rubs his shoulder. “You, are an intemperate old beast.” He chides to his horse, as the stable boy lifts the fender to secure the cinch strap around Erland’s strong belly.

After they’ve tacked her mare, the stable boys see to their other work. Bidding them a good ride. Kylo leaves Erland for a moment and steps around Kana to help Miss Ashton safe into the saddle.

He takes her hand as she holds her skirts decently and levies herself up to her horses height via a handy wooden footstool. There is still a shimmering spark of contact when his hand closes around hers to hold. Even though they are both wearing gloves. The thrill of it is wilder and more potent than ever.

She sets herself side-saddle. Takes the reins in her gloved hands. Gets used to the sturdy solid weight of the animal beneath her.

Lord Ren heads back to Erland and hoists himself onto his strong back. In all his tall glory he didn’t need assistance into the saddle.

He leads their walk out under the stone arch of the stables, and into the winter sunshine. He pulls Erland up flush to her and Kana’s side when the path widens out.

They walk a to a slow paced trot through the dewy grass, that follows along the merry ash and taupe brown of the silver and white of birch winter woodland to their right. He was entirely correct about Kana. The sweet horse was gentle and unassuming in her nature.

Iris sighs happily as she sees the sunlight cast an enchanting amber through all those pale trees. The waxy nectar of tulips drifting in the air from the Dutch gardens nearby. It was like something beautiful out of a dream.

“You were right about the beauty of the ride. Your Lordship.” Iris remarks as she watches the amber stripes slope through the birches.

He turns his head and catches that very same view she’d remarked on. He’d seen a million woodlands in his life. Over numerous centuries. And the place he spawned from was between tall pines and a ground eaten up thick with snow. He’s seen every copse of nature on every continent that exists. This view was stale to him. But he appreciates her admiration of it.

“I suppose it is.” He says offhand.

“What made you choose to settle at Hellford Park?” She asks him. “If that’s not an impertinence.” She adds. Smoothing her grey gloved hand over Kana’s neck.

He smiles. “The house seemed of a decent size. The land holdings were vast. And I appreciate having my own space away from society. My worst nightmare is being wedged into a modern townhouse in London. With all the smog and the ton being rammed down my neck. I far prefer the country. The quieter pace of life.” He tells her.

“Easier for hunting and sport...” He adds.

“I feel easier knowing nature is on my doorstep. I need only walk out and be in it.” He explained.

“I can’t bear the thought of a town life. I bless every year that my family haven’t the capital to rent a place in town.” Iris tells him. Probably not something she should admit. But she felt like her honesty was safe with him.

“The most of town I’ve ever seen is a season in Bath when I debuted at sixteen. We managed to stay with my aunt and cousins. I thank heavens we’ve never repeated the experience.” He makes a firm sound of fond agreement.

“I’ve seen the way you take to country life.” Kylo smiles at her. She nods across at him.

“Same as you. Your Lordship. I appreciate the peace and quiet. Able to go and walk in the woods and be where my thoughts and wishes are my own. No one else’s expectations get forced upon me.” She says.

“Nothing I like better to soothe my mind than walking around the Hampshire wilderness...” She comments as they head along a lane under a glade of golden elm trees.

“I hope you don’t going adventuring out after dark, Miss Ashton. Even such tame country places can grow afoul after nightfall.” He warns her. Even in this genial little village he’s glimpsed the vile echelons of scum hereabouts.

“Oh. I never run errands outside Westwell after dark.” She puts his mind at ease. “Mother thinks my evenings are best spent extensively reading of the Mirror of the graces and better improving my embroidery.” She tells him.

He’s honest in his answering remark. Where most men she associated with would call her fine and sensible for indulging in etiquette novels. Kylo can’t think of anything more intrepid.

“I can think of a million better ways in which I’d rather indulge my evenings.” He offers sincerely.

“I don’t tell her that I often escape to my room to read my Johnathan Swift novel and to get a bit of peace away from her and my sisters.” She says with glad derision.

Kylo smiles at her. “A far better use of your time, I’m certain.” He tells her.

“Do you have any family?” She asks. And then she winces. “Sorry if I’m irritating you with nagging questions-“

He smiles. He’ll answer any question she aims his way.

“I did. A long time ago. It’s just me left now.” He imparts.

She glances back at the gigantic house of Hellford. Save for staff, he had no one in it.

“Doesn’t that ever get lonely?” She’s asking.

“Don’t you?” He questions back nicely. Melting eyes catching hers. Sunlight spun them to amber glowing off dark walnut.

She can’t help but nod. She doesn’t have many friends in this world. She has a greek harpy for a mother - talons, scales forked tongue and all. Her sisters were about as dense to understand as a Chelsea boot. Air headed and with no substance. And her father, loving though he is, is usually preoccupied in his study or being bullied down by mother. She doesn’t really have anyone.

“I’ve never been left alone a day in my life. I’m permanently surrounded by noise and people yet- I’ve always felt... lonely.” She admits. Looking down to her hands where she held Kana’s reins.

“It’s a privilege to finally have liberty to be able to express that to another living creature.” She smiles gladly at him.

Kylo looks over at her. Brow furrowed. She does so many things for other people. She cares after every member of her dratted family. And she’s got this two tonne grey weight of sadness pressing down on her shoulders.

It’s no secret he doesn’t care for the piddling and idle emotions of fleeting mere humans. But he so cares for her.

“You never have to feel lonely if you don’t wish too.” He offers.

“You have my confidence. And all that my acquaintance and friendship can offer to you. Miss Ashton.” Whether she likes it or not- she does. She has it. He firmly and fondly tells her so.

“I’m very thankful for it. Vastly thankful.” She promises. “I could use a friend just now. With all the terrible circumstances happening in Pembleton.” She relays with a note of grimness.

Erland snorts. Kylo pats his neck to sooth him. “Yes. The uh- madman Miss Smith raves about.” He recalls. “I’m sure it is the imaginings of her overworked mind.” He tells.

Iris supposed that was a very accurate statement. Kylo had only met the awful woman once, too. And he already had sussed her flighty panicked character. That spoke volumes of her temperament.

“Not to make mention of the supposed wolf thats said to be stalking these parts...” She adds.

“An exaggerated tale, do you think?” He asks.

“Well. I do subscribe to my fathers notion that wolves did die out centuries ago- but who knows? An animal that big and vicious, I’m all astonishment it hasn’t been spotted before now. This is a farming county. There’s poultry and livestock for the taking. Why would it bother with drunkards in the middle of the forest.”

“Easier to stalk. And pick out- I imagine.” He smiles just a little. His gleaming eyes hold back his many dark secrets.

He hears her inhale a shaky breath. He hears her throat pulsing next to him.

“You know, you shouldn’t be afraid.” He starts. “Of the alleged wolf. If, heaven forfend, there is one.” He surmised.

“Why ever not?” She searches. Face pulled back. A little shocked.

“Because wolves are not just blood thirsty beasts. They are intelligent and sociable animals. They are more likely to be spooked by a human than want to kill them. The reason those men were attacked? They were half clumsy, gone on drink and weakly vulnerable.” He tells.

Iris swallows. Brings Kana to a stop. “Lord Ren...” She gulps. “You talk as if you-“

She takes a deep breath to fortify herself. “As if you know of such a thing...” She finally remarks.

He stops Erland and doesn’t shy - from her glance or her question.

“I know merely how wolves operate. Miss Ashton. Nothing more.” He says openly.

Of course he does. She thinks stupidly. His home. Back in Bavaria. He said it was surrounded by wolves. He’s no doubt seen some people succumb to the packs of them.

There’s silence for a minute as Kana and Erland chew at their bits. Clacking and shifting its crunch in the air. Erland leans his head over and snuffles Kanas snout. The creak of leather eases out in a squeak from The reins in Kylo’s hands.

She nods. Cheeks beating. The shame of foolishness slithering up her spine. “Forgive me-“

“I would if there was something to forgive.” He smiles.

She ducks her head. Cheeks pink as she tips her chin to her chest. She sighs in bliss as she looks out at the open field before them. Before she gets a niggling flare of a brilliant yet stubborn idea in her head.

“For once in my life...” She insists, almost angrily, Kylo’s eyes shift to how she shoves herself, adjusting on Kana’s saddle. She bunches her skirts. Leans back and he sees a flash of a white cotton chemise and pearly wool stockings as she swings her legs over, the both of them now astride the saddle.

“I intend to do something completely and utterly dishonourable and unfeminine.” She says.

Kylo’s smiling at the sight of her skirts draped up almost over her calves where she’s sat on the horse. He watches her adjust the reins in her hands and skip her feet into the solid stirrups.

With a gentle kick into Kana’s flank she braces herself on the horse, as the mare proceeds to lurch into a gallop, breaking into the frosty meadow in front of them. Her blue coat flaps behind her. Kylo smiles after her lead. Adjusts Erland’s reins and spurs him on after her.

For just that afternoon, for just those heart pumping minutes of uninterrupted bliss- Iris feels the sun bleaching onto her face, and the wind stinging and ripping at her hair. She feels her body and her soul stirring. For just those few minutes, she doesn’t feel like a trapped suffocating girl. Like a toy being manoeuvred in the dolls house that was her strict life.

They gallop up the field and through another one. Coming up a trail that rises onto a hill in the sunny wood. She slows down when she gets to the top. Lord Ren catches up behind her. Erland could really get up a speed when he got going.

She comes to a stop where the hill levels out. Looking across all the acres of Hellford park. She’s still winded from the ride. Sun and wind having kissed her cheeks a bright pink. Where she ducked past low branches in the forest, Kylo spies a green leaf nestled captured in her hair. Making her comparable to some frolicking wood nymph.

He draws Erland up by her and Kana’s side. Listens to her panting as they take in the view of Hellford together.

“Truly is a beautiful house, your lordship. I hope you’ll be very happy here.”

“A truly fine prospect.” He agrees. Looking out at all his wealth. All his grandeur and land.

“Finest land holding in all of England I expect.” She smiles. Still panting for breath. He can hear how her blood beats like sweet syrup around her body. He can smell her skin and he is just- a man whose found heaven on earth.

“Indeed it is. Nothing quite like it.” He admits. Iris doesn’t see how he turned to look and admire her rather than the view. Intoxicated by the tug and pulse of the artery her throat. It thunders her neck and it’s all he can hear or think about.

Kissing her. Tasting her neck. Her skin. The subtle perfume of her body. Her caresses.

He might aswell be a man half starved-wild at this point.

They ride back to the stables. Slowly together. Conversing along the way. She changes back to side saddle as they get closer - didn’t wish for his stable hands to catch sight of her and remark on how unladylike she’d been.

Kylo slips off Erland and hands him across to be untracked. He marches up to Kana’s side and takes Iris’s hand to help her slip down from the mares saddle.

Only, fate seems determined to drive them into each other’s arms at every foreseeable opportunity. Her skirts snag on the pommel and this makes her fall onto her feet too fast.

Kylo’s there to catch her. She’s once again, wedged now between Kana’s back and his chest. She thuds down to the ground with a soft “oof.” Escaping her lungs.

That escalated when she looked up and found him so, brilliantly close. He towers over her, he’s twice her width in his shoulders alone. But he’s gazing at her so tenderly. His hand had shot to her waist to steady her outside her coat. The span of it reaches from her ribs almost to her hip.

It’s somehow more dizzying to be nearer him now she’s seen what form lies under those clothes. The sheer immensity of this man.

He looks up into her hair and smiles a tipped up curl of a crooked grin. His fingers reach up and skim away the leaf caught in her hair. She blushes and laughs a little when he shows her.

She touched over the spot his fingers had skimmed. The skin still burned with heat and cold from the leather of his gloves.

“I had the most pleasant afternoon.” She encourages. Swallowing nervously again. He can smell her hot throat. Her hot bare throat and it’s addictive- to be so close as this to his biggest temptation.

“Thankyou very much for your hospitality, Your Lordship.” She adds.

“And you for yours.” He thanks her for the baskets she’d bought. He breaks the trance. Turns back and calls to one of the stable boys to ready the carriage to take Miss Ashton home.

“Oh, please. You needn’t bother. I don’t mind the walk.” She tries to fuss

“I insist on seeing a lady safely home. It is all of five miles from here to Westwell.” He announces. She smiles in gratitude.

He parts with her at the coach door, after it’s brought around. He holds her spare hand as her other clutches at her skirts and she steps up into the scarlet black box of it- to think on all that had passed between them since she first saw this coach mere days ago.

If only she knew how much-

He kisses her hand in parting. “A delight as ever, Miss Ashton. I do hope you visit Hellford again.” He urges.

“As do I.” She beams back. Leaning forwards to look at him through the carriage door. He smiles before he steps away. Hands behind his back again. He nods to the driver, who cracks the whip on the horses and the coach lurches away. Takes her home. Safe away from him.

She passes the ride to Westwell in his comfortable carriage, remarking with a sly smile to herself about the pleasantness of the afternoon. Looking out the window as the carriage shakes and cracks and tumbled speedily along the road, she noticed how the sun is dipping low into a evening sky. Misty purple and burnt peach copper. She wonders if she’s been missed at all.

As soon and she alights the coach, thank’s the driver and slips inside Westwell’s front door. No sooner than she pushes the door shut, flat to her back on the wood to close it. And she is ambushed by her mother.

The foyer is dark save for the amber fire. Daylight dies in the window frames. Here there is gloom waiting for her. Her crushing boa of a life wraps around her neck again.

She is greeted with a pursed thin lipped glare of displeasure. Mother rips herself up to a stand from the armchair by the fire and snaps her book to slam shut. Loudly. Like a slap. Looking across at her daughter.

Happiness shatters in her chest like a glass vase being dropped. The splinters and shards clog up her once happy heart.

“Where in the devil’s name have you been?” She demands to know.

“Paying call to Lord Ren.” Iris says. Moving into the house. Intending for the stairs. She doesn’t wish to be bitten by this poisonous viper. Not tonight. She’s had such a wonderful day to reflect on.

“I beg your pardon?” Her mother remarks.

“You heard me perfectly well.” Iris says flatly.

“I dropped off the basket Mrs Phillips and Miss Smith sent to him in gratitude.” She adds in explanation.

“I can’t think what gratitude they could possibly owe to that man.” She curses.

“Why do you think so ill of him? What possible vexation has he caused you?” Iris accuses.

“Pray tell why do you praise him so?” Her mother narrows her eyes.

“He is a kind man. And he has the phenomenal benefit of having a working brain unlike all the preening idiots I usually have to comport myself in front of.” Iris explains.

“I will not tolerate anymore stupidity. Think of our reputation to uphold. You were gone half of the afternoon. And I’d no clue as to where. And now you’re telling me you were in the company of a man, unchaperoned?” She shrills.

“Yes I was.” Iris spits out plainly. “And there was no impropriety in it. Before you start accusing me of that.” She adds.

Lifting her skirts and beginning to stomp away up the stairs. Mouth bitter and full of anger dashed with sadness. Mourning her beautiful day.

“Do you have any idea what this could do to us? To our family name? Running around unsupervised with a man like that-”

Iris turns back. Fuming. Hair wild. Eyes bright with rage. Glittering spitfire red from the hearth.

“For once in my life, mother. I did not think! And I was glad of it! I did not need reminding of the fact you use me as a chess piece for this family’s hopes. Seizing my skirts and dragging me from square to square to make sure I catch a man of fortune and hale breeding.” Iris fairly yells. Voice scraping hoarse through her throat.

Her mother stands in the foyer like some grim harbinger of doom in her plum muslin dress that looks black in the gloom. Her face sternly cross and icy at her daughters outburst. Her pale claw of a bony hand gripping the banister.

“You will not associate with him again.” She tells stonily.

“I wrote to Armitage Hux today. He travels back from London tomorrow and I’ve stated he is excessively welcome to come to tea.” She explains.

“You will put on your best dress and make him welcome. And let him entertain the idea of a marriage match. Don’t be a fool Iris. A man like Lord Ren would never wish for your hand. Learn that now and be done with it. It’s time you took our family situation seriously.” She comments with finality.

She takes her hand off the banister and walks away. Words ringing in her ears like knives stabbing at her brain.

Iris’ pounding heart hardens over with grey nausea and glass shards that stab her lungs. Her eyes flood with quivering and filling up of silvery tears.

She slips up the wooden stairs to her room and collapses into great fits of tears. Muffling her sobs with her hand. She wipes off her face and her stinging eyes.

Kylo felt her dread, all those miles away at Hellford Park. He felt it like a punch to the gut.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

10 notes · View notes

aironconcepts · 4 years ago

Link

Advanced Iron Concepts has been in business for more than 14 years. The company started as a family owned business in 1998 and incorporated in 2009. Advanced Iron Concepts has serviced Orange County, Los Angeles, Riverside, San Bernardino and surrounding areas. Our clientele consists of both residential and commercial businesses.

Our designs include decorative entrance doors, side gates, balcony rails, driveway gates, fences, window guards and decorative furniture. We pride ourselves in offering our clientele the highest standard of workmanship in the industry. Customers have the opportunity to visit our premises and view the fabrication of their product from start to finish. Read more...

#Huntington Beach Iron Doors CA #Irvine Iron Doors CA #Iron Doors Laguna Niguel CA

1 note · View note

babbushka · 5 years ago

Text

Last Straw (1/12) - The Beginning

Newly married to your high school sweetheart Kylo Ren, the two of you move into Skywalker Ranch, a farm recently passed down after the death of Kylo’s grandfather. The place is charming, and the people seem friendly…but are they?

Content Warnings: Mentions of family death, allusions to violence, but mostly fluff. It is only the first chapter after-all!

---------------

It’s a long drive, through the mountains. It’s been a long drive, the past few days. But though it’s been long, it’s growing to a close, and with each mile that you get under your belt, each mile closer to Sweetwater County, the excitement and anticipation grows. Kylo drives the brand new ‘62 F150, a wedding gift from your folks, and with the windows rolled down as the wind blows through your hair, you enjoy the trip.

You try, try your damnedest to stay in high spirits, high enough for the both of you. Kylo’s grandfather’s passing hadn’t been sudden, hadn’t even been unexpected, but well.

It was still hard.

Moving out from the city to live on the ranch, a fifteen-hundred-acre chunk of land, the very same land which Kylo had the happiest moments of his childhood, was hard.

But cancer was harder.

Still, it was his, the ranch. Left to him by his grandpa, the only thing he had left to give to anyone. Kylo hadn’t wanted it to just get sold to the state, so on the trip you went. You packed up everything you owned from your small apartment in the city, hopped in the truck, and headed for the countryside.

It’s scenic, so scenic, on all sides of you – the winding road offering a panoramic view of the rich golden brown earth that surrounds you. The air is so much cleaner here, so much more crisp in the late fall. The trees have all gone red and yellow, a couple leaves hitting your hand as it hangs out the window. Kylo has the radio turned all the way up, and for the first time in a long time, he sings along. He scowls through the lyrics of the old crackling tunes from a bygone era that come from the radio.

They’re nostalgic songs, the old slow sad country type, and maybe that’s why he sings along. Maybe he sings along because he can’t live inside his own head much longer, can’t stay silent much longer. You’re not sure. But whatever the reason, you don’t interrupt him, not for a long while, not until the sun begins to dip beyond the mountains and you emerge from the wood, not until you cut through the golden fields via a dirt road, a big wrought iron gate locked shut before you.

Kylo puts the car into park, turns it off. On the ring he twirls around his finger is an old key, and you stick your head out of the truck’s window to watch him walk away.

“Are we here?” You ask, not sure if this is just someone else’s land that you need to cut through, a secret shortcut he knows about.

Kylo opens the gate, opens it wide, the hinges creaking and groaning, rusted from disuse. His leather boots crunch on the earth below his feet as he makes his way back to you in the truck, kisses you square on the lips through the window with a wistful smile.

“Edge of the property. Everything that stretches until the mountains is ours.” He points as he speaks so softly. Your husband’s always been a quiet man, an explosion of emotion simmering just beneath the surface.

“You okay?” You ask, because you know this, as you cup his scarred cheek, give him a sad smile of your own.

The death has been hard on him, hardest on him than anyone else in the family. Kylo had been the only one to really care for his grandpa, towards the end. His senator mother and sister wanted nothing to do with him, felt he was too bad for her campaign image; his uncle was too busy working at the university, too busy teaching to spend more than a day with him. So Kylo went, visited four times a week, took him any and everywhere he wanted.

Until he couldn’t anymore, the old man too ill to leave his bed.

“Yeah. Just…” Kylo sighs, kisses your palm before stepping away, rounding the truck to start the engine just long enough to bring you onto the property, before jumping back out and locking it once again. When he’s back, he sighs, stares out at the expanse of land before you both, and sighs again. “Just a lot of memories, is all.”

You nod, strike up a match and light a cigarette, handing it to him. He accepts it gratefully, and he drives the truck down the road some more, down the fields some more.

“He would be proud that you’re taking over, keeping those memories alive, you know?” You say, trying to be encouraging, and he chuckles just a little, more of a self-deprecating laugh than anything, and you know what he’s thinking.

It’d be the first time anyone in his family is proud of him, for anything.

He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to. You’ve known him long enough.

“If I remember it right, the house should just be up over this way.” He says instead, and you scoot across the bench seat enough to rest your head on his shoulder, smiling at the sight of it all.

You had thought you had an idea of what fifteen-hundred acres was, but really, this was much bigger than anything you could have imagined, so much different when you looked at it on Google Maps. As you pass by the fields and fields of tall grasses in desperate need of a cut, you can only picture the transformation, can only picture how it might once have been. The cattle grazing, horses galloping, sheep baaing. It really feels like the wild west out here, as the farmhouse comes into view.

The house itself is huge, and you can’t help but grow giddy at the sight of all the windows, all the rooms. The apartment you had shared in the city was only a one-bedroom, but it looked as though there were at least two stories here, maybe even an attic.

It looks old, but there’s a certain charm to that, you find. The whole house is made of wood, long strips that have been nailed together, painted white once upon a time. The roof is wood shingles, these too painted, but in a dusty rusty red. You wonder if that’s just from age, if they were once bright as a firetruck. You can picture it, you think.

The house greets you with a beautiful front porch, above it is a large protruding bay window that you think will be a perfect place to sit and read or write. It needs work though; the windows are broken, whether from vandalism or force of nature you couldn’t know. The paint is stripped and the wood is weathered, there are shingles missing, and the landscaping has grown unruly, out of control. If there weren’t such a beautiful sunset casting a deep orange and pink glow across the farm, you thought it might have looked creepy, some old haunted thing untouched by time.

“How long has it been since someone lived here?” You ask, curious.

“Shit,” Kylo whistles, when he pulls the truck to a stop for the final time of the evening, when he comes round the cab to open your door, offer you a hand to step down. You stretch your legs with a big grin, it had been three hours since the last time you’d had a break from being on the road. “I don’t know, just about fifteen years?”

You whistle too, and Kylo smiles at you fondly, wraps an arm around your shoulder as he pulls you close to his side, kisses the top of your head. He’s so tall, you think, you have always thought.

“Oh good, there’s electricity then.” You tease, grabbing your suitcases from the bed of the truck, which he immediately takes from you so you don’t have to carry them.

“I don’t know, the house was built around the turn of the century, there very well may not be, not all the way out here.” He says, and you stop in your tracks, “I’m kidding – of course grandpa had electricity. Grandma wouldn’t have let him get away with that.” He laughs, trying his best to stay in good spirits.

You can tell though, all he wants to do is cry, can tell by the wetness in his eyes.

He turns away from you though, hides the grief for now, and goes into the house. You follow, not bothering to lock the truck, because honestly, you didn’t expect there to be another person for half an hour at least.

When you cross the threshold onto the creaking floorboards, you’re surprised to find it fully furnished. It’s old furnishings definitely, definitely from around the fifties or sixties, but you don’t hate it – in fact you think of how jealous your city friends would be, the mid-century-mod look so in fashion.

No wonder Kylo loved the place so much, he definitely had a penchant for the 60s. The golden age, he always called it, of real social and political change, of real optimism. You wondered if he was optimistic now.

“Come check the place out with me?” You ask, reaching out a hand for him to take as he puts down the suitcases.

He rushes to hold your hand, always so eager to be near you, and you smile.

“Here, watch your step.” He says, leading you down the hallway, running his hand along the faded and torn wallpaper. “Fuck, it’s a lot more run down that I remember.”

“That tends to happen when a place is abandoned.” You reply honestly, and Kylo’s shoulders begin to shake. You can’t imagine the sort of shock he must be going through, and you waste little time in holding him close, hugging him so tight. “Hey, Kylo, look at me? It’s going to be okay. It just needs a little a work that’s all.” You reassure, and he nods, but tears slip down his nose anyway.

You think about this hall, how there’s spots on the wall where photos once hung. You think about the wallpaper, and how bright it must have been, how Kylo must have trailed his hand along it when he was a boy, a boy playing cowboy with his grandpa, baking pies in the kitchen with his grandma.

“Can we just go to bed? I’m exhausted.” He asks, voice barely above a whisper, and you hug him again, give a soft kiss to his cheek where the salt from his tears are beginning to stain.

“Of course honey, of course.” You agree, you’re exhausted too. Something about traveling always tires you out, you don’t know why.

The bedroom itself is huge, almost as big as the living room, or at least it feels like it with all the windows. There’s that great bay window you had seen out front, and you grow a little excited at the thought that such a beautiful feature is in the bedroom, it makes the whole place feel a little more elegant. There are delicate white curtains, or well, maybe they were once white, now faded and yellowed just a little bit from the weather. You run the scalloped lace edge between your fingers, and hope that a good washing and a bleach is all it needs.

You wish that a good washing and a bleach is all the house needs, but nowhere is it more evident than in the bedroom that this place is a serious fixer-upper. There are panels loose, wiring exposed, rusty nails jutting out from the walls. Big stains in the ceiling suggest water damage, and warped flooring only confirms your suspicion.

After you and Kylo make the bed with fresh clean sheets and have replaced the pillows with ones you brought from your old apartment, you both lay in bed, facing one another, eyes shining from the light of the moon. It is so much quieter, out here in the country, and the two of you can’t help but smile against the sounds.

It’s windy at night, something you didn’t really expect – had it been windy in the city? Maybe it had but you just couldn’t tell, the noise of it covered by the ever present rumble of traffic. The insects are so loud, so loud it’s almost deafening, and every now and again there is the hoot of an owl.

Neither of you can sleep, and this for some reason is the funniest thing, both of you giggling like teenagers, like the very first time you spent the night at his house, way back in eleventh grade. It feels like a beginning, some grand new adventure, one that’s so outside the box of anything anyone could have imagined for you – that you could have imagined for yourselves.

Kylo pulls you close, tucks your face under his chin and kisses the top of your head. He’s all out of tears for the moment, and you count his breathing until it slows to an even rhythm, letting your own eyes slip closed as you sleep for the first time in your new house, on your new farm, in your new life.

If falling asleep to the sound of nature was weird, waking up to it was even weirder. You almost felt like you were on vacation, had stolen away some time to be able to appreciate the quiet, but now that all you had was quiet, it was a disorienting sensation. You have no alarm, your phone battery dead from accidentally forgetting to plug it in, so when you wake it’s to the sun already high in the sky, though despite that, it’s freezing from being so late in October.

Kylo is out of bed, his side empty when you blink your eyes against the brightness of the day, and you follow the smell of coffee to find him standing in his boots and blue jeans, looking all too much like the corn fed farm boy you knew and loved. You wondered if he would get a hat, one with a big curled brim, the same shade of brown as his boots.

You shuffle into the kitchen, find that the floor has already been swept away, presumably by Kylo while you were still sleeping. He opens his arms to you immediately, kisses you despite your sleep-sour breath, and pushes a hot mug into your freezing fingers.

“Did you sleep okay?” You ask, stealing a kiss once more, and then another one and another one, until he’s smiling at you, pouring cereal into a bowl.

“No, but it’s fine,” He says, and you sigh sympathetically, because you both know it really isn’t. He pulls out a chair for you at the small kitchen table, and you sit side by side. “You know, I was thinking, since you’re busy working on your writing, maybe I could put an ad out in the paper for some help.” He says, and you look up at him with a playful brow raised.

“The paper?” You ask, and he shrugs, a smile into his mug. No one reads the paper anymore, not in such an age of digital and technological advancements. You weren’t even sure the last time you saw a newspaper was, let alone looked for an ad in one.

“The farmers have a community newsletter type thing. I remember reading the cartoons in the Sunday edition, but there were always personal ads. People looking for help with cattle, with produce, I’m sure I could put out one asking for handy-work.” Kylo explains, and you hum to yourself while you think.

On the one hand, it would be a great opportunity to meet some new people. You weren’t entirely sure if such an opportunity would come often to you, living way out here. If the newsletter was still up and running, what harm was there in putting out an ad?

But on the other hand, you think as you tap your nails against the mug, it could be a really wonderful bonding experience for you and your husband. You weren’t the most handy person in the world, but you figure, if you’re going to live on a ranch, what better time to learn than now?

(If you agree to put out an ad, click here) (If you decide to help Kylo yourself, click here)

#reader insert #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo x reader #kylo/reader #my writing #dead dove do not eat #last straw

146 notes · View notes

griimreaping · 4 years ago

Text

@kaijvking ━━━━━ ╳ ( john )

ending word count: 4.3k ( posted on AO3 )

Autumn is in full swing over northern Montana. Trees bursting into vibrant flame as their leaves succumb to winter’s quickly approaching grasp. The Whitetail Mountains are a painter’s dream of colors, reds, oranges, and yellows that few are able to capture on the canvas. Yet, there is an ink smear across an otherwise picturesque afternoon—a fire burning within the compound of the Veteran’s center sullying the vista.

Jean’s nose wrinkles when the dusty white truck finally pulls up to the wrought iron gates encircling the perimeter. A stack of what looks to be tires, and the occasional corpse, is burning spectacularly in one of the few pits dug into what once was the front lawn of the Hope County’s Veteran Wellbeing Center. Speculations between the faithful of the mountains settled unanimously on the smell of those burning pits put the Whitetails’ soldier at ease. However, it did nothing to help the rib rattling cough that plagues him during wet weather.

“Out.” The driver nudges the blonde with the stock of his rifle. He’s easily twice her size, and the stained tan shirt he wears is stretched thin over the man’s barrel chest. Jean isn’t sure if the stains are blood or dirt. It’s been several months since the woman even approached the center, and now to suddenly be yanked back like an animal about to be punished made her throat feel like it’s wrapped in barbed wire. Eyes watching from every corner of the expansive yard has the woman being paraded toward the front door prickle uncomfortably. Jean’s skin felt too tight for her neck and face, a cold sweat sticking her shirt to her skin despite a breeze that rattles dead leaves up the front path. In an attempt to solidify her slipping resolve, the blonde meets each gaze wagering a silent challenge for them to try something.

All around them, Jacob’s well-oiled army machine performs just as intended. Men go through the motions of training with their rifles. Push-ups, jumping jacks, sit-ups, even a small pack of them were jogging the perimeter. Worn down paths all over the yard show routes of most traffic and directly disobey the Soldier’s first rule. Make yourself unpredictable. If Jean were a click away on a ridge, she’d be able to pick each of them off without even blinking. The thought alone makes the woman’s palms slick and itchy. That had been the first thing taken from her. Trailing behind, the stocky escort has his head on a swivel, the brown leather strap of Jean’s sniper rifle slung over a meaty shoulder. She wants to rip his throat out for even looking at the weapon, let alone taking it from her.

Once inside the musty interior, she suddenly wishes that they could have met at any other outpost that Jacob controls in the north. That thick sticky copper smell of blood and agony drips off the walls. Somewhere deeper in the building, a man is screaming, a broken keening sound that’s ripped from a raw throat. Past injuries flare across Jean’s body in a knee jerk defense mechanism to alert her that this place is dangerous. As if she isn’t already aware. Still, the hesitation stokes the short temper of the man that has escorted the woman this far. With a rough shove again from the weathered stock of his rifle, he growls a word Jean doesn’t catch over the ringing in her ears.

Frayed carpeting that once might have been red still covers the floor of the main foyer, though it looks like enough tracked mud and heavy boots have uncovered patches of linoleum beneath. Two men milling about in the reception area snap their heads toward Jean and her escort, the undiluted hostility immediate and breathtaking. Bristling, the woman kicks the urge down to bare her teeth at them. Jacob’s training may have turned them all into damn animals, but she’d keep herself leashed until it’s revealed why she’s even here. A few words pass between them that she doesn’t listen to, watching more people move like busy worker ants down the main hallway. Whoever had been screaming when they first entered took a new pitch, the sound rising to a fevered panic that even made the group of men stiffen. Glances are ferried between them as a second screamer joins the distant cacophony like a hellish siren’s call.

“He can’t keep that up for much longer.” a shorter man with matted brown hair slicked down close to his skull, cutting a glance at the man Jean had come in with. Her escort grunts softly in agreeance or dismissal. She isn’t sure. The third rolls his eyes with a groan, clearly irritated as his grip shifts on the exceptionally well-kept rifle slung across a bare chest. Whorls of holy ink are scrawled across suntanned skin along with a patchwork of scars only partially hidden with the crosses and words.

“Nobody would mind if someone just went up there and put a bullet in ‘em.” Finishing the statement just as those eyes fall on Jean, she’s stricken by how they look straight into her. That harsh hazel stare letting the woman know that she wouldn’t be leaving this building alive.

Giving a parting nod to the previous escort, the hazel-eyed man intercepts Jean and jostles her up the hallway. The deeper they go into the Veteran’s Center, the stronger that copper stench becomes until it’s almost unbearable. It’s then a pair of double doors pushing open to reveal what once had been a vast square cafeteria that is now brimming with human suffering. Blood running across the floor turns the grout black with dried gore. Rusted cages arranged in an undeniable maze that funneled all that proceeded through the room past each and every display of torment. Overhead buzzing fluorescent lights blink sporadically, briefly throwing shapes and color into sharp relief before disappearing back into obscuring darkness. Heavy curtains are slung over the windows on the western side of the room, disallowing any type of natural light into the prison. Thick like a wet wool blanket, the smell of carnage suffocates the room.

In here, the screamer hides somewhere amongst the iron and copper. Growling out a short order to move, the hazel-eyed man doesn’t shove her with his rifle as the last escort did, and with a shuffle, Jean tries to ignore how the soles of her boots stick to the floor. In the pockets of darkness that flicker with the lights overhead, Jean can make out corpses ripped open and threaded with barbed wire quick flashes of white bone dizzying. Hurried words scrawled across the white tile walls curse and plead for the end. Scriptures written in blood.

Trying to breathe shallowly through her mouth Jean’s eyes sting, tears welling up around the corners of her vision. Their trek through the prison is almost cruelly slow, hazel eyes drinking in the viscera around him with a near euphoric glint in his gaze. Dying down to a low keening wail by the time they reach his cage, the screamer is affixed to the front wall of his cell by both of his arms wrapped tightly in razor wire. Rivulets of red drip to the floor as he slowly tries not to sink to his knees. Jean can see the weeks of exhaustion pulling the man’s skeletal body downward, simultaneously ending his life while he struggles so vainly to hold on. Jacob’s second rule. Never greet death willingly. Fight until the last.

Others in the cages adjacent to the screamers simply watch, dead glassy eyes reflecting day after day of breaking in. Some weren’t compatible with the mental training the herald provided. Many broke, crushed messily in the teeth of this machine that churns out warriors soaked in blood and rage. Every violent urge and promise all ripped loose with a couple of bars of an otherwise innocuous song. One that her grandfather might have liked, Jean muses bitterly. Still feeling the kiss of flame on her skin as the farmhouse went up in a spectacular blaze.

Making it to the other end of the room felt like an accomplishment all in itself. If the woman isn’t sure that she has a one-way ticket toward a cell of her own, she’d almost be glad. Shouldering open the double doors on the south side of the cafeteria, Jean is momentarily dazzled by the sudden bright burst of sunlight from the windows that line the stairwell yawning before them. Looking up into the motes of dust that lazily swirl around them with the disturbance of air, Jean feels too aware of her breathing at that moment. Each exhale displacing the natural order of things. She didn’t belong here.

Ascending gritty concrete stairs to the top floor of this nightmare alcazar, that nervous bird fluttering behind the woman’s ribs works into a frenzy. Jean knows if she were to glance down at her chest, there would be a clear imprint of her heart trying to pound its way through her sternum. Hazel eyes aware of the woman’s growing anxiety, and sipping it like a fine wine. One of the many reasons he loves being this ferryman through the building is that he is allowed a front-row seat to the mental fraying right before Jacob deals the finishing stroke. Absent thoughts of what method the herald would use float through Hazel’s mind like balloons on a breeze. A distant double report of a pistol somewhere else in the compound doesn’t sour the fantasies that drip across his mind syrupy and vivid.

Sun riding the horizon casting the world in a painter’s pallet of colors, Jean savors the glimpses out of the fifth-floor windows that look out over the forest instead of the yard. Up here, she couldn’t quite make out the staccato beats of gunfire down on the front lawn, nor the screaming several floors below in the prison. It’s quiet. Quiet like the heartbeats before stepping up to the waiting noose on the gallows. Every fiber of Jean’s body vibrates with it, that palpable press of her death waiting somewhere behind one of the faded wooden doors that line the hall, interspersed with dazzling views of another life outside. Down in the prison, every other exhibit of suffering resolutely snuffed out her fears for those brief moments, however now, above everything else, it’s too much.

At the end of the corridor, a heavier wooden door stands slightly ajar. Next to the frame, there’s what’s left of a name placard that’s since been mauled. Deep knife gouges carving the name from the tarnished metal. Nauseating flashes of static throw weird shadows out into the hallway, and a growing hiss of white noise overpowers the ringing in Jean’s ears as they approach. Memories of weeks spent strapped into those chairs as flashes of dismemberment and teeth and pain cycle across the slide show elbow their way to the forefront of Jean’s mind. A sharp throbbing begins against the woman’s temples. Headaches became commonplace among those privy to the extended lessons that Jacob put his least favorite through. From the beginning, she’d been singled out. Too much history. Too involved with John. It made the Soldier edgy, but Joseph hadn’t allowed him to simply kill her to make a point. Jean remembers through the crimson fog of those fugue states the pinched rage Jacob wore when his younger brother made it clear there would be no killing of John’s favorite.

As if sensing their presence, the static abruptly chokes off, throwing the passage into the void of silence once more. Sunlight feeling cold and sterile on her skin as they pause outside the slightly open door, Jean feels her skin prickle hot like a windburn with anticipation. Jacob always had been the type to savor a death, to draw it out and let you feel every decaying agony of undoing. A bullet wouldn’t be appropriate for a person that he’d been aching to dispose of for months.

Hazel pushes her then, Jean’s stiffened body stumbling through the door in the same way a newborn animal scrambles for purchase as the knob is snatched back and slammed shut behind her. Straightening once more, the woman tries to breathe evenly, the crushing weight of how hopeless the situation is pummeling her full force in that moment of darkness. Eyes attempting to adjust to the dim room, shapes swim up out of the indigo murk. A desk, a broken chair near the corner, a squat table with the projector that had been broadcasting static a moment earlier, then the glinting knife of Jacob’s gaze pins Jean to the spot. Wolves indeed were the best animal to associate with the eldest Seed brother. Barrel chested and blanketed with scars he didn’t bother to hide the man looks at every person he meets with the same bored scrutiny, cutting through them with a glance.

“Sit.” He knows he doesn’t need to yell, voice alone a promise of brutality beyond imagination if there were any transgressions. Legs acting on their own accord, the woman’s lungs stutter for breath as she finds a worn stool situated in front of the desk he leans against. Jacob watches unmoving, but the cogs within his brain grind endlessly, processing all that can be done. Why stray from the tried and true methods? He’d let her roam the woods and meet her end as the mind melts away in layers, reliving each fear in scarlet clarity. Jacob’s mental discipline is the exact juxtapose to Faith’s bliss.

“Jean, Masters.“ Jacob stands properly, moving over to one of the curtained windows and pulling aside the fabric to allow streams of sunlight across the dusty room. Jean squints against the brightness for a moment before her eyes adjust, a dull burning only adding to the throb of the headache rioting against her skull. She blinks over at the inky silhouette of Jacob standing against the sunlight, his shadow seeming to drink up and extinguish the light that touches him.

“You know, your history reads like a horror story. Parents killed tragically in a double murder, though the headlines do leave out the fact that your father happened to be the one that instigated the gang violence. That little tidbit was a treat to find.” Stepping away from the window and toward the seated woman, Jacob crouches his six foot three frame down so he’s face to face with his captive. Those cold ice blue eyes picking Jean apart methodically as chapped lips curl into the barest of smirks.

“Poor mommy had no idea, did she? Probably not until the moment that knife bit into her. And you, you were only what, eight at the time? Is that where this little trophy comes from?” A hand appears at Jean’s throat, calloused thumb tracing along a faded scar just under the hinge of the woman’s jaw. Lungs revolting against the air, Jean feels like there’s a rock wedged up under her diaphragm, cutting open her insides. Memories shoving one another aside for dominance in the theater of her mind, there are flashes of men storming into the house they’d had on the upper west end. Then the screaming, the begging.

Her chest stutters.

“Then you thought that all that could just be swept under the rug if you moved. It worked for a few years until somebody dug up old skeletons and came looking for the last surviving Master’s heir to settle a decade-old debt. Shot you twice, didn’t they?” Inflection never changing and gaze never wavering as he expertly picks apart Jean’s entire existence. Jacob can’t help the cold, almost reptilian enjoyment that came from this—watching the consciousness crack under pressure and doubts a feast for him. Across Jean’s body, old wounds flare to life as if they’ve been freshly ripped open by the words battering her. That sharp tang of gunpowder is fresh in the woman’s nostrils just as the day she’d been shot going back to her dorm in law school. It had been the reason she’d changed schools. A singular moment setting into motions dominos that the woman wouldn’t even be aware of until decades down the line sitting in this chair, Jacob’s hand closing around her throat.

“Does your son know all this?” It’s like a slap to the face, Jean jerking involuntarily in the Soldier’s grasp. Fury, bright and consuming, rushes into the woman like a scalding breath, charring every nerve in its wake. Eyes narrowing down at Jacob, Jean hears her voice speak before the thoughts are done forming,

“Don’t you dare--”

“Or should I say, John’s son. He doesn’t even know about the kid, does he, Jean? You never bothered to tell either of them. All the kid knows is that daddy isn’t around, and John is blissfully unaware. You know I did always want to be an uncle. Would’ve taught the kid how to handle a gun. A good bonding moment. Elliott isn’t my first choice in name, but I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.” It’s instant. Boot connecting with Jacob’s chest Jean kicks him to the ground, snarling teeth bared as she lunges. Her own life is a joke, something easily thrown away to the wind without a second thought. Elliott, though, her son, Jean, will rip open hell itself if anybody so much as insinuated harm toward the boy. World hemming in red around her vision as hands scramble to latch onto Jacob’s throat, Jean’s ears rush with the sound of her pulse smashing against the cage of ribs.

Batting aside the grasping hands feeling as her nails rake across the flesh of his forearms, drawing up ruby wells of blood, Jacob grunts when his back hits the desk. A glass of water that had been on the surface rattles off and smashes on the dusty floor. In the bare light from the window, he catches glimpses of that raw fury on her face and smiles. That’s the nerve, an open wound he’d been searching for with all those other throw away facts to get down to the marrow. She’d waltzed so easily right into his waiting jaws. Now to break the bone. Flashing white of bared teeth and half snarled curses that pass her lips while attempting to find any kind of purchase on the man beneath her; Jean doesn’t expect his arms to encircle her, crushing the woman to the Soldier’s chest. Cheap soap and pine flood her nostrils as the fight rages inside. Feet scrabbling to catch on the dusty floor, hands are trapped between the woman’s heaving chest and Jacob’s smug calmness. One arm locking around Jean so tightly breathing is made difficult; Jacob’s beard scratches the side of her face as something slips out of his jacket pocket. Glacial realization douses the woman’s blaze bright anger galvanizing it into cold steel wedges up underneath her lungs.

“Wrong move, Masters. You made the cardinal mistake, never show your weaknesses to anyone. That deserves a conditioning lesson, don’t you think? All this freedom you’ve been given lately has done nothing but rot away every killer instinct I’ve tried to carve into that weak head of yours. Now. Let’s start.” Small and made smooth from years of being worried by Jacob’s calloused hands, the music box is no bigger than the Soldier’s palm. Golden key on the left side scuffed with age but still perfectly functioning. This tiny innocuous box is the kingpin of Jacob’s classical conditioning. It’s clicking tinny notes able to scramble someone’s thoughts like eggs. Ground so deep into the subconscious like a ticking time bomb merely waiting for the trigger.

Even as the first few notes dissolve into the blinding red of the fugue state, Jean’s mind rips at any possible chance to break through the tsunami of his brainwashing. All in vain as she opens her mouth to scream and feels the tidal wave rush down her throat, choking off the sound and blacking out the woman’s vision completely.

Only You.

It’s so loud Jean’s teeth ring with the volume, jaw aching. Everything is red. It’s cold here. She can’t think of anything but the violent storm inside every nerve of her body. Hands claw at her insides wanting out by any means necessary. Scenery passes in a monotone blur of crimson sickness, trees, rocks, a stream, passengers in a truck. Spreading numbness that should elicit some flicker of concern within the woman is only embraced as something that could perhaps stop the echo of that song trapped within the too small confines of Jean’s skull. More people, more trucks, more numbness. Though faces that get too close burst in sickening blooms of red. Flecks of something gummy decorate the woman’s face.

Semi-real swirls of a place she might have once remembered dance around the edges of her entrapped mind. Only you, Jean’s brain screeches until she can taste copper in the back of her throat. It’s cold. Why can’t she feel anything? A long stretch of cleared grass lays out in front of her, and with the lurching steps of a corpse, she jerks up the driveway. Eyes burning in their sockets, the woman blinks harshly, but it does little to alleviate the acid sting. Roughly scrubbing at the sockets, Jean feels something cold and sharp graze the numb skin of her collarbone, nothing more than ghostly pressure that gives her pause. Looking down into hands that don’t feel like part of her own body, the woman sees first the skin slicked in gore that turns her skin a shade of maroon. Then the knife winks at her in the waning sunlight. Slamming into place on the front of her disjointed thoughts, her purpose for walking until her legs burned reasserted itself.

Stairs. Cobblestones. Guards that scream and bleed when they approach. It’s all a smear across Jean’s eyes. None of it retaining anywhere important. Just like the numbness across every muscle, it’s forgotten as soon as it occurs. More stairs. Dripping blood across an expensive hall runner. The faraway smell of a familiar cologne. Shoving open a door that had impeded her purpose here in this vague silhouette of a house imprinted in memories that are currently locked away behind the veil of the fugue state. Another shocked face turns toward her with a snap. Garbled words wind like tangled yarn in Jean’s ears, she can’t understand them, and that singular fact irritates her to no end. Rising again like an inescapable wave, the song reaches a fever pitch within the woman’s bleeding ears.

Crossing the room to the frozen shocked face, Jean wants to shove them away. To wipe that look off their face. To make them stop talking. Shut up, shut up. Shut Up. Shut up! SHUT UP!

Heat rushes across the woman’s hand in a deluge. A spell broken in the same violent way a baseball smashes through a window. Blinking, startled and confused, Jean’s senses come back in pieces that don’t fit together. Hearing muffled as if she’s several feet underwater, the woman can hear an off gasping choking noise. Vision stuttering between a crimson veil and the bright colors of a sunset illuminated room, a face swims up into sharp focus. John. Expression twisting in agony, Jean stares back in abject horror. Slowly looking down between them, she sees the blood soaking black into his vest. Several ragged holes are punched into the fabric, frayed edges catching the froth of his blood as the herald wheezes for a proper breath.

“John?” Voice small in her mouth Jean realizes that her aching hands are still clasping the hunting knife buried to the hilt in the soft spot just under his sternum. Jerking away as if she’d touched a hot stove, John crumples to the floor like a puppet with his strings snipped. Panic squashes every other disorientating flurry of emotions flat as Jean can only stare at the man curling into himself on the expensive carpet. A sick, wheezing bubble of air escaping a punctured lung is the only sound for a few hammering heartbeats. Knees cracking against the floor, the gore-seeped woman crawls over to the only man that she truly ever loved. Gingerly turning him so that he’s gazing up at the vaulted ceiling, Jean’s voice fails as she’s momentarily struck mute by the sight of the knife -- her knife-- sticking up so crudely from his heaving chest.

“Oh god, I… “ Tears blur Jean’s vision, and she can’t see the expression he tries valiantly to tame his face into. His legs already were pins and needles, the pain ebbing away into a comforting cold that he’d played with before.

“Was it Jacob?” Speaking is pure agony. John’s words barely a whisper, but it’s all he needs to know, and for a second, he’s afraid she didn’t hear him until there’s a fraction of a nod. He’s always known that death wouldn’t be pretty for him. It would be a screaming bloody mess the entire ride down into that black void. Something about the dealer of his death being Jean strikes the herald as particularly funny, though the chuckle comes out as a wet cough, the rich taste of copper flooding his mouth. Looking up at the blonde’s face and not feeling as her tears splash against his cheeks, John isn’t sure if it’s the ringing in his ears or an approaching siren.

“I’ll see you soon.” He mouths as darkness begins to hem in his vision. Decades playing on the knife’s edge of this sensation, John welcomes it as an old friend. He’d envisioned death so much it felt like a memory to slip into its warm numbing embrace, the vision of Jean’s blood and tear-streaked face following him down into nothingness.

#‘ﾟanswered » JEAN MASTERS — ❝ here the light only dies to remember ! ❝#‘ﾟships » KAIJVKING — ❝ if you don’t love me now you’ll never love me again ! ❝#verse﹕FAR CRY 5 ► call of the ﾟ* WOLVES #oh boy oh boy #this one is a rough one

2 notes · View notes

wroughtironworkssihz840-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Little Known Questions About Wrought Iron Fencing & Gates Orange County, Ca.

1 note · View note

custommetalworksxzfo048-blog · 4 years ago

Text

4 Simple Techniques For Wrought Iron Fencing & Gates Orange County, Ca

1 note · View note

wroughtironworksqdgg370 · 4 years ago

Text

4 Easy Facts About Orange County Wrought Iron Fabrication Described

1 note · View note

ill-skillsgard · 6 years ago

Text

Ascent - Bill Skarsgård

Title: Ascent

Warning: 18+ voyeurism/masturbation/language

Description: A collection of scents and scenes strung together by strange sequences of secrecy and surveyance.

A/N: DAMNIT YOU GUYS. This is my 3rd time posting this fic. It will no longer include the image of the sexy Bill look-alike wanking because wE cAn’T hAvE NiCe tHiNgS. Also, please don’t ask me to send the image because I can’t be sure of ages and I won’t be dinged for providing pr0nz to potentially underage people. I’m so sorry. I tried!

ISO: Quiet roommate; preferably female. Males acceptable too if you're cleanly. Split rent loft in quaint & upscale Rosewell neighbourhood with everything included. 1200 upfront first and last and then rent can be negotiated. E-mail. Do not call/text.

I only had 900 dollars on me but I figured if I e-mailed the person that had put out the ad and set up a time to meet the following week then I could earn enough in tips to cover the rest. Easy as that. Breathing became a little less laboured once I sat back on my futon and realized that I wasn't quite as fucked as I initially thought. Then I wondered how in the hell somebody could use the words quaint and upscale to describe the same neighbourhood. Which one was it? Quaint or upscale? How could it be both? All I was sure of was that I had to find a roommate quickly. The new landlord of my apartment building had decided that I had something to do with the junkies shooting up in the storage unit behind the building, as though I had knowledge of it the whole time and failed to make a report of it, therefore, making me part of the problem. But it wasn't just that; this guy was a jackass of ultimate proportions- a seedy little rich momma's boy that had inherited his parents' sense of self-entitlement and strings of real estate offices spanning across the city and surrounding counties. We did not click at all upon first meeting when he made his rounds to see exactly what kind of tenants he would be dealing with. In fact, the moment I opened the door to my apartment and he peered in to see the apparent cluster-bomb that had gone off in my bachelorette pad, he set his sights on destroying me, or at the very least, evicting me. If only I hadn't answered the door in my stained sweatpants and wrinkled t-shirt from a decade ago when my taste in music remained under-developed. If only I hadn't had the day's worth of crusted mascara stuck in the inner corners of my eyes like black boogers. If I had thrown my hair up in a semi-cute messy bun, rolled down the waistband of my stretchy pants and tossed on my only reputable sweater maybe things could have gone differently. But I didn't. Instead, I let him catch a glimpse into the trash-covered world of crooked posters, laundry and pizza boxes. His prissy, Gucci-wearing ass got one whiff of my body odour and my fate was sealed. Whatever though, shit happens. Even if Millennial pretty-boy newbie landlord hated me, I didn't quite hate myself. Sure, I had had better times in my life but there had also been much worse. I was just going through my annual depression when the Summer was long gone and the scent of leaves rotting in the gutters rang in the impending frost. Who wanted to do anything but sit around and play video games or watch TV for six straight hours after work? Certainly not I. I e-mailed the guy living in Rosewell because I had been through that area once or twice and remembered that it was one of the nicer neighbourhoods; its remnants of old city charm and decadent architecture still intact. That's when I gave it a second thought. 1200 for first and last month's rent was not that much, considering the location. My brain caught up with me and I recognized that there would probably be dozens of people replying to the listing and that my chances were diminished to almost nothing. Oh well, I read on and circled more potential ads with the tip of a fresh permanent marker that was starting to give me a headrush. By some grace of luck, I received an e-mail back the next day from the person that had put out the Rosewell advertisement. It dawned on me that I also didn't know whether he or she was a he or a she or a they. It seemed mundane to ask but the person didn't include their name in the reply and their email address was an obscure reference that I wasn't sure I understood. My imagination decided to take a jog and came upon the silly little notion that perhaps this was one of those things when serial killers lure in unsuspecting victims with promises of rent so cheap in a gentle neighbourhood where nobody would think to look for a body. It was classic of me but I couldn't pretend like I wasn't thinking about it. At least death would help put a stopper in my rut. I didn't know what to expect, walking up to the building with a face sectioned off into quadrants- each with their own tiny glass door and artful wrought iron laced balcony. What kind of a person lived inside? Was it a peppy university student with a small dog and a knack for pulling off an active-wear-is-all-I-wear look? Could it be another snotty, uptight rich boy like my fuck-bag of a landlord? Or perhaps it was a nice older lady that fancied her wine and lived in an effortlessly baroque den, lined with books and trinkets from her travels abroad. Either way, I just hoped they approved of me since I had taken the time to shower, put on a bit of makeup and dress like the clothes I owned weren't questionably clean or variably dirty all the time. The door was painted black and nobody could see through the glimmering panels of stained glass that made up an intricate checkerboard of red and blue with two cantaloupe roses coiling up and away from each other, petals agape and ready to fall. I gave the door a good look over with a smug grimace that was just a feint for my awe. The place was definitely too nice for me but I soldiered on and smiled when I heard the door being unlocked. A man opened the door and the scent of wood and something else immediately wafted out like a ghost casually passing by. Not only was he a man, but a looming sculpture dressed in a sagging brown wool sweater that threw me off from my rehearsed speech. He was tall, pale and had such striking eyes behind his glasses that I couldn't quite meet them without feeling some hint of discomfort. It was like somebody had tossed a limp rug on the statue of David the way his knitted sleeves hung loosely around thick veiny wrists. "Hi. Bill," he motioned to himself. "Won't you come in?" "Um, yeah. Sure." The mud room was painted in tarnished blood orange and was home to a wooden rack full of men's shoes. There were trainers with hints of dirt on the toes and soles, leather dress shoes with the fancy gold buckles on the front, more dress shoes, stylish suede ankle boots, and beaver fur lined moccasins. I could taste the transition from the cool Autumn air to the musky inside of the home. The floors were all wood, the banister leading upstairs was carved from another expensive type of tree and the shelving units were solid oak stretching from floor to high ceiling. Every wall was home to some kind of meticulously placed decorative object. But there were also family photos to lend the place a warm and happy glow. Or it could have just been how the sun shone through the clear bay windows. I was led through the house, past a large cupboard tucked beneath the staircase and a small writing desk that was home to a vintage typewriter cased in filigrees of polished silver. It was then I noticed all the framed book pages lining the walls. We entered a kitchen and I was blown away by how roomy it was compared to the tight, warm front that made up the mudroom and what I had determined was a living room that had been converted into a reading room. There was no TV but there was a chaise lounge with a stack of old books reaching up to a cascading hand-carved armrest. "This is the kitchen. The fridge will be mostly yours. I just use the bottom shelf and the crisper on the left. I just ask that you keep your section clean." "Right," I nodded. "The stove is gas, the fireplace is gas... Everything is gas in here. Um... It gets kind of cold in the winter because the electric baseboards don't really work. If you turn them on it makes the whole place smell like burning sawdust. So... You can use a plug-in heater in your room but... Just wear slippers on the floors." "Oh, okay. Good to know." "Uh... Yeah. The laundry room is through there. I also keep my bike back there. There's another rack mount for a bike if you have one." "No, just my car." "Hmm," Bill pondered with a grimace. I bit my lip and hoped that he wasn't biting his lip from derision. He took in a breath through one of the daintiest noses I had ever seen on a man and adjusted his glasses for a moment before pulling them off completely to wipe the lenses on the hem of his brown knit sweater. "Parking can be kind of a bitch around here," he warned. "Yeah, " I chuckled. "I probably pulled around the block six times before something opened up." "You'll have to get used to that... Or just get a bike like everyone else." With a forced laugh, I attempted to hide the odd sense of shame that he had instilled by suggesting that nobody around these parts bothered with silly things like motor vehicles. Fuck, that could mean he was some sort of health nut that would turn his nose up if he saw the types of meals I made for myself and how lazy I could get. Aside from his alarming curtness, Bill seemed to be calm and easygoing. The house was a wooden ladder of a place; stacked with his worldly possessions and Scandinavian accouterments. It was easy to conclude that he was a single man that kept to himself and I did my best to show him that I fit into the same category. Although, it seemed as though he had already decided that I was moving in. He referred to everything as his, mine or ours and led me through the rest of the house like both our minds were already made up. "Here's the room. It's right next to mine. You have an en-suite bathroom. Toilet kind of acts up once in a while and the shower drain is prone to clogging but it's all easy fixes. Oh... And the walls are kind of thin. I ask that if you have guests over in the evening to keep the socializing downstairs. I suppose I can't really stop you from having people in your room but... I do enjoy my quiet." "That's okay. I don't really hang out with too many people," I said. Bill strolled into the center of the empty room, the soles of his shoes hitting the floor echoed off the bright white walls. He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers as he spun on a heel to face me. His shoulders drew up to his ears and for the first time, he cracked a smile. It didn't last long and was accompanied by a shrug of closure. "What do you think?" He asked. "It's nice. I like it. A lot. It's very... Homey." Bill nodded, "yes. So will you take it?" "Uh... You don't have any questions for me? Or anyone else to show the place to?" His full lips set into another grimace as though my question scratched the scab off of a wound that had yet to close. Swallowing hard, I immediately began to regret my inquiry. I should have just been grateful that he saw fit to trust me without so much as delving into my history. "To be frank, I'm not really interested in knowing a lot about you. The less we know about each other, the better. I just need a quiet tenant that won't bother me much and you seem like a sensible woman with your own distractions." "Oh." "I don't mean to sound insensitive." "It's okay. I get it." "You have a job, of course?" "Yes." "Well, that's all I need to know. Just make your rent payments on time and we'll get along." "Not a problem. Sounds good." The entire moving process took a little over a month to complete. I gave my notices where they were due, rented a small truck to pack my things into and drove it across town after handing the keys to the fuck-bag landlord who seemed more than thrilled to watch me departing. Bill had already given me keys to the house and when I arrived the first of the month he was nowhere to be found. Luckily, my possessions didn't extend further than my bed, wardrobe, futon and a couple of side tables that had collected more dust than I thought. After hauling up the ripping black trash bags I had stuffed full of clothes, I tried to decipher a way to get my bed up the winding stairs without scratching the wood or getting myself stuck in a corner. It would have been easier if I had another set of hands and I wanted to clear the halls of all my things before Bill came home and saw the clutter in the front hall. Something told me he was not a fan of mess and I had left a heaving trail all over the mudroom, halls and stairs. With my bed frame already stuck on the first few steps, I decided to sit down and reevaluate my strategy. It was definitely a two-person job that I would not be able to complete on my own. "Fuck, " I cursed as I pulled out my cell phone to make a call to the only person I knew that would be willing to give me a hand; my cousin. On the third ring, I heard the sound of the door opening and footsteps coming through. I was sat on the stairs pouting, my cell clutched to my ear and my breath hitched in my throat. Bill looked up at me from the first-floor landing through the rails of the staircase and smirked at me. "Need some help?" He asked. I immediately terminated the call to my cousin before he could pick up. Shooting up from the fifth step up, I smoothed out the front of my shirt and tried to make it seem like I wasn't about to burst into tears of frustration. "Um, yes. Sorry. I thought I could do it by myself." "No worries," Bill said as he lifted the edge of the bed frame that was hanging off the first step. We dislodged the frame and slowly carried it upstairs but not without a few grunts of effort and sighs when we finally made it to the top floor. Bill's arms were bulging with the strain and when he helped me gently lay the frame down on the floor I couldn't help but stare at the muscles I never knew he had. We had only had a handful of encounters and each time he had been wearing baggy clothes that veiled the true form of his body. Bill helped me bring everything else I had upstairs and once the last of my belongings arrived he evaluated the mess that I would have to organize myself. Half my clothes were spilling out of bags and my furniture was yet to find a proper place. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Unless you have anything else?" "No. This is it. Thanks for your help." "No problem," he nodded with a small pointed smile that brought out a sweetness in his face before exiting the room. I heard the sounds of his footsteps drumming down the stairs but before I had the chance to get to work unpacking, Bill came back. When I looked up at him he had a peculiar look on his face that I couldn't read. It may have been a cross between uncertainty and embarrassment. "You um... These were on the stairs," he showed me what he had clutched in his hand and the moment I realized that the black material in his hand was a pair of my underwear, I paled. "Oh my god," I laughed uneasily. "I'm so sorry. They must have fallen out when I was dragging the bags up the steps. My panties looked crumpled and insignificant in his large hand as he dangled them between two fingers for me to grab. When I caught them I stuffed them in my pocket immediately and blushed even harder than I had when he had come home to see me flustered on the stairs. "It's all right. Could be worse things to find," he pointed out. "I guess so," I chuckled. Bill smirked at me, eyes darting to the pocket that contained the stray panties and gave me one last glance before leaving me to stew in my mortification. Once I was certain Bill was gone, I took the panties out to evaluate just how embarrassed I should have been. The last thing I needed was for my new roommate to have already discovered a pair of my dirty underwear on the floor. They were generic and made of stretchy faux lace that covered next to no ass cheek but I would have considered them to be a good go-to pair nonetheless. Based on visual inspection and a quick sniff, I was assured that everything checked out and Bill hadn't had the displeasure of picking up a pair of my period panties with the permanent stains in the crotch. If anyone had to have found a pair of my underwear I was glad it was a sexy pair and not ones that I had been hanging onto since high school. But because it was a man that had found them, I felt a strange yearning for approval. I thought about what he could have been thinking about for a long time as I set up my bed and unpacked my necessities. It was going to be weird having a roommate.

~*~

Bill was a strange man. Bill had an office in his room and a writing desk stacked with papers and manuscripts. Bill was a writer. When I asked him if I could read something he had written he said nothing. He only peered at me warily over his wire-framed glasses. We were in the kitchen at the same time and I figured it friendly to strike up a conversation. I had seen all of his papers and looked at all of the stuff he had in the house by then and deduced that he had to have been a writer. All I got from him was a gentle shrug of his stately shoulders and a mumble that I couldn't hear. "You're a writer, aren't you?" I continued. "Yes. I suppose, in a way I am." "Ever had anything published?" Bill rapidly shook his head and muttered, "not here, no. Back home... In university. But not here." The subject of him being a writer seemed touchy so I left my line of questioning at that while I boiled water to make tea. I couldn't help but watch him on the other side of the kitchen preparing his lunch because he was comically lanky yet carried himself with graciousness and poise. His side profile was vexing to me as well. It was then that I realized that Bill was not just commonly handsome, but sculpted in a way that I wasn't used to seeing. With a cute boyish nose and arrestive eyes that shone light green through the lenses of his glasses, I felt that old familiar pang of a crush plunging its way from my chest to my gut and all the way down to my groin. He didn't speak much and I hardly ever saw him because he was always in his room with the door shut. I had a feeling that me bringing up his writing had alarmed him into keeping the door closed at all times. It must have been an adjustment for him to go from living alone to having somebody sleeping in the room right next to him. I tried not to make much of the crush but the times that I did see Bill I always tried to stare for as long as possible. He was a mystery to me; a person living in the very same quarters but with a totally separate life that I had no windows into. Bill had pictures of him and a lot of other people that looked kind of like him so I tried to piece together what his family was like without asking him personally. The family photos were all in chunky brass frames and placed in a strategically sporadic way on the wall shelf. There were many books and three different runs of encyclopedic information stacked side by side with their brightly dyed leather spines displaying a prestigious title and the volume number, but it was the pictures that intrigued me most. By the looks of it, Bill had a lot of brothers and a sister. The longer I analyzed each shelf the more I managed to paint a picture of him for myself based on his belongings. There was a photo of Bill next to some other men of similar heights and facial structures, all dressed warmly and huddled together, each with his own version of a charming smile on. It was amusing to see pictures of him smiling since he had hardly tossed more than a crooked smirk my way. I wasn't sure if Bill was standoffish or if he thought me a slob because of the first day I arrived. The house was cleaner than any place I had ever had by myself and I gathered that he liked to keep it that way. I remembered what it had said in his ad about cleanliness. Maybe I had disgusted him. He had been so sold on having me as his roommate but that was weeks ago and he hadn't tried to engage me much since. It didn't weigh heavily on my mind for long. After all, even though I was the crusty definition of a bachelorette, I could put it together that trying to fuck my roommate that I didn't know was probably a surefire way to complicate things beyond repair. And the place was nice. I wanted to stay and I wanted Bill to like me.

~*~

I walked into his room when I knew for certain that he was gone. I don't know why the sudden urge overtook me and steered me to his bedroom door. I opened it and a waft of his scent came over me. It was like fresh cotton and chopped wood or an old book that had been kept in pristine condition. His writing desk beckoned me so I went without hesitation to cast my eyes over the papers on its surface. There were some printed pages full of words with hand-written notes scribbled in the margins. One of the most eye-catching pieces was a mostly blank white page that had been the last of the bunch to be placed upon the altar of his creative expositions.

I can't get enough of the scent that she left behind.

After reading that one line, I snapped out of my mindless intrusion and left his bedroom at once. Why I had gone in there in the first place was a mystery and I was overcome with guilt that pushed me in the direction of avoidance. I felt somehow he would know that I had gone into his room without permission.

~*~

A man from work had asked me out on a date and I stood in the shower vigorously washing the shampoo out of my hair. I was already late and had to scramble to put together an outfit out of what little clean clothing I had. There had been no time for me to do any laundry so I made do with an old sundress that I had worn the shit out of the Summer before, a pair of black nylon leggings with a hole in the crotch and the only pair of underwear that I could find that wasn't stretched out from me wearing them. I had laid out everything on my bed and bustled around trying to find my good face moisturizer and the only high-end lipstick that I had been coveting for the better part of two years. When I got dressed, I had somehow lost pieces of my attire along the way and rushed around looking for the underwear that I had dubbed acceptable to wear out on a date. My phone went off with a notification from my date saying that he was circling around the block again because he couldn't find a place to park. I quickly messaged him back and told him I would be down in five short minutes. Forgoing the panties, I hiked on my nylons and hoped that the skirt of my dress would manage to cover me enough all night that I didn't accidentally flash my pussy while getting in and out of his car. The date was boring and I didn't find myself connecting with him as we had at work. Maybe it was because we were co-workers or maybe it was because he was smiling too much at me the whole time, but I decided to put an end to the night after a dessert and the last of a bottle of cheap wine. When I got home, I shut the door and pulled my vibrator out of my empty underwear drawer.

~*~

In the morning on one of my days off, I stood in the kitchen making myself a pathetic breakfast of two pieces of toast with a slice of tomato and chunks of a too-ripe avocado splattered between them. First I was focused and calm and then suddenly I felt like something had materialized behind me. When I turned around, I let out a gasp as I noticed Bill standing next to me with no shirt on, his hair a mess and his eyes half-closed. "Sorry," he breathed through his nose. "Need a glass, please." I got out of his way and watched as he opened the cupboard that I had been standing in front of and took out a clean glass to pour water into. My eyes were drawn to the burgeoning of hair from his armpits when he reached to the top shelf. Without saying a word, he filled his glass from the tap and then walked back upstairs casually sipping his water. I don't know how he had managed to sneak up on me without me hearing the floorboards protesting beneath his feet but it had happened and my heart continued to race until I heard him enter his bedroom right above the kitchen.

~*~

I had tossed my laundry into the dryer and let it run while I left for work. When I got home my laundry was all folded and put back in my basket. My jeans and work pants were on the bottom, my shirts the second tier and then several pairs of my panties had been folded neatly in halves and placed on top. "Um... Okay," I whispered to myself, lifting the basket off the dryer that was still rumbling full of Bill's laundry.

~*~

A nap was on the immediate horizon for me when I got home from work. I kicked my shoes off as soon as I got in the door and made right for my bedroom. Bill must not have heard me climbing the stairs as I hadn't heard him come up behind me the week before because his door was open and what I saw halted me in my place and robbed me of the abilities to breath or think. There he was, laying on his bed naked with his right hand wrapped around his dick. But it wasn't that he was stroking himself that caught me completely off-guard, it was what he clutched to his nose and mouth with his other hand; the pair of my panties that he had discovered on the floor all those weeks ago when I first moved in. Rooted with panic and intrigue, I covered my mouth and watched on from the third-to-last step at the man taking deep breaths of my underwear while he pulled on his cock and massaged his balls. When I heard a faint groan leave his mouth I felt my floodgates crashing open. The tingle I felt budding from my clit grew so strong that my hands went numb and my face turned red-hot. There was no way that Bill hadn't heard me coming in the door and ascending the steps. But if he knew that I was there watching him play with himself, he didn't acknowledge it. He was in his own world of pleasure, getting high off the fumes that I had infused into the fabric of the underwear he was meddling with his fingers. I wanted to watch him shoot his cum from the tip of his cock but I was so scared that he would see me that I cowered back so that if his gaze did travel beyond the walls of his bedroom, perhaps he wouldn't catch me staring. Another long, deep moan left him and the sound of it somehow filled every sense I had. It was as though I could smell what he was smelling, feel how he was feeling and the taste left behind in my mouth was wetted with saliva being over-produced by my own sexual appetite. I pictured him kissing my clit, pushing my legs back and using his tongue to bore into me, letting it run down, down, down so he could taste every inch of me. A gasp nearly escaped me when I saw him push the crotch of my stolen panties into his mouth. His head dropped back into his pillows and his slow, languid strokes of his cock turned erratic. "Fuck!" He emitted after spitting the panties out and dragging them down his body to wrap around the base of his shaft. "Fuck, fuck, fuck... Mmm, my god." After a minute of every muscle in his body flexing, it looked like he was inches away from coming and I leaned forward with my hand out on the last step to balance myself so I could watch the end result. It took a bit longer than I expected but I watched on unblinkingly until he finally managed to pump out an orgasm that ripped through his body and exited him in a glorious spurt of cum. Then there was another spurt and another, all landing in a perfect sticky mess over his stomach and chest. The sun coming in through his window glittered over his spackled body while a dryness hardened my tongue. I gawked as he moved to mop up his own mess with my black lace panties. What he was going to do next was as much a mystery to me as the last ten minutes I had spent as a voyeur. His cock laid over the top of his thigh and shrunk with each passing second while he rolled my panties up into a ball with his fist. All of his muscles relaxed and he sank further into the bed, closed his eyes all the while my stolen cum-soaked panties remained clutched to his chest like a cross. I could almost smell the musk permeating from the open door. Slowly, I descended the stairs one by painstaking one.

#bill skarsgård fanfiction #bill skarsgard fanfiction #fanfiction #bill skarsgård smut #bill skarsgard smut

547 notes · View notes

the-firebird69 · 2 years ago

Text

We plan on having one model of car from each of the lineups with the new drive system and sig approves says good and writing to do and however though most of our heavy will all be the light drive all of it will we hear it's all changed over and your companies are changing over.

All of our vehicles that you can buy except for the very inexpensive ones like the Chinese versions that are $2,000 you can buy as a light cycle drive vehicle and you can check it on your order form in the sales office or online

Hera

Thank you Hera

You're welcome Zeus

Let's get a move on and make this real we got to set up this heavy industry stuff shouldn't take very long we're doing a big project and it's for a housing complex and apartments and it's out towards the desert in California and one of you ordered it and it should be done this weekend the earthquake will be and we're going to be working on it now until then but we're going to move tons of equipment out there and it'll be ready before that and we'll start pouring and so forth but we'll still have plenty of area to show you how it works and we'll leave a couple buildings or what he says is we'll have a some area that we're going to do a cut maybe or fill so we're going to do that and if we can leave a cut and fill we will it's a good idea someone obstruct anything and we'll have a roadway in that's a great idea this is this is going to work out real well it's good timing

Zig Zag

He wants to have a car I'm sorry the camper and boat show and California at the same time and he's thinking San Diego or LA and although la is fairly decent it's not a great venue for boating it's decent for campers out towards Orange county and so forth so maybe we'll split it up and he says we should do that and get our stuff out there and have it come across we have other shows we can do too retail or shows and fast food restaurants and miniature restaurants like crappies is upscale so you have like three tables and the front of this tiny home little bit bigger than a tiny home but not very much and it's also a little cookery out back with regular food service equipment just smaller and you serve people who are thinking of owning a franchise it's got the same colors the same look the same decorations on the inside the same furniture and everything is identical except the place is a lot smaller and you have options too if you want to franchise you can have a certain number and you can have huge ones and more full service partial service and I'm still looking at Dunkin' donuts and they're saying no and Starbucks says no what's the name of that place grunge music grunge music Seattle coffee so that might have been Trump you got something out of it get coupons to Future Seattle coffee place and we're doing that now but they're for free stuff so he doesn't care and you can load them into your phone please start saying this I don't give a s*** this is better. So we're going to start Seattle coffee up and he used to own it so he doesn't know that now he's sold it to Mac and then the brand just sat there and died so he wants us to start it cuz he wants to try and take it over and he's saying it as a woman with crappy teeth.

A lot of our restaurants and stuff are huge so we can have these little ones because we have a lot of fast food places and then we'll have small homes that represent gigantic eateries and beer Halls and they think it's funny cuz it's a little bit bigger but it'll show it and they think it's funny and then on the beer hall tables in front we looking fine but that's what it feels like cuz it's Walden you don't want people walking up but the front of it's not in most cases you have a a wrought iron there and you can see through it and stuff for the most part in his brakes it does have a wall but it's it's not uncomfortable it's it's nice and there are other things clubs and superhero bar and we might put in a couple entertainment center small versions and would have to have a representative of what's in them to see if you want to do a franchise there's nothing wrong with being a franchise person to make a lot of money some people have a manager run the managers I know you do is call your manager and run some managers have Dan run all these managers you suck just call me if you need something those two guys I don't really do anything and Trump says we're used to that put something happened in an Indian you idiot. Right now moving to build this ending casino too probably in California even though it'll probably take it over I have to move everything to the South and we'll have our some of our hard knock kicker 5150 restaurants and a little car show somewhere like little car shows and bike shows wants to have a oh you know what you should do it's like getting all freaky on me here you do like some off-road stuff some dirt bikes like light dirt bikes and Junior cars and other type strange vehicles like light cycles but the probably the super light like the hard knock kicker 5150 and the choppers and maybe even some Harley choppers just like they found the place and said they may as well try something and put a show out there in LA that's their kind of stuff but we have the ones with hydraulics and and we have some knockoff Juniors and they'll be perfect for it so he said they're probably will be way too many doing it so I'm going to send a few out there to Mac and some others and see if they if that's true the summer Jason's guys

Also should I have like a pow thing it's a iran thing going, to question Max do it over there at the park Ashley Park I'm actually thinking about it Trump says he will says I don't think he can get in over there then he said to think about it you're probably right no you're ruined it I have to sleep at night you a****** not vampire. So we're going to head with it and there are people who are interested in the pow thing and get the idea there's a few pows around the Earth so they're going to go up there and list It doesn't have to be a huge group in Salem July 8th weekend so they're going to try and do that

Thor Freya

I'm looking forward to this we're going to have activity all over California and it's good because it's the business stuff for opening and they'll be a lot of negative people and then a lot of positive people people need stuff and these assholes weren't building anything and never plan to and we're building new stuff and everybody needs to including these assholes so it's going on now tons and tons of people are interested and Tommy f is too he says if he goes out there to race that he wants to be there he says he needs like a sponsors to get him out there like a champion spark plugs or whatever we whatever they think they can sell my company Tommy f is thinking about it and AC delco's a good brand and we do business with some of them they're saying so he's thinking about it and please do not send Tommy boy not even to be on the plane he's doing a different plane not a plane near me. So his co-stars laughing but really trying to shoot these people as you well know since he knows all about it then you eat end up eating up with these crappy crabs yuck.... Excessive freshwater crabs to try and rejuvenate after the fall

I'm going to sponsor him and see what this damn deal is all about not afraid to go up and back trying to figure out something it was attacking me cuz it looks like it got him out of the house so.

I might sponsor him too I was thinking a light cycle car and he can race it around see what the limits are so we figured out something we have to put a limiter on there that's one reason too so you can sponsor us aftermarket accessory or spark plugs tires and so forth a whole bunch of different things even you know any kind of part or wax turtle Wax that's appropriate

Okay okay that was him again couple sentences there I agree with them it's kind of like a sponsorship thing and it'll be fun because you could have Semi-Pro or really he says amateur races that race tracks we can have sponsors so you can have like no signs that you drive around and somehow you're getting a popularity like they have these races on YouTube and there wouldn't be too many races that were Semi-Pro or really amateur but you have these races during the week and a lot of people would be famous okay and you could get sponsors and you could post them on there and then be like this going rate and it would have to be like you call him and stuff to be like $50 for sponsor and they sponsor you for that particular race so you can go in and eat eat up real well and you do it practice runs and you pay for the fuel I'll send people getting interested and it would be a way of selling his light car which isn't selling that much and that's what he wants to do with at several tracks so he's thinking of doing that and his people are all for it

Mac

Sounds pretty dreamy I'd have to see it in writing you don't need anything in writing it's going to be a race track will you buy a $50 decal I mean you put on a decal and give you 50 bucks and you raise it around and that's it you can find it online later today okay that's in writing

Trump

There's a huge problem going on you're supposed to be Treasury department of the United States not Japan this is also weird what you're saying is it has an effect please this is terrible you won't leave my son alone and we're going to have to probably off you little weirdo you don't want to go to a race what's the matter afraid you lose you always lose it's not even a racer that would be great he's so embarrassing it's like a amateur racing all weekend and we'll be some of the sponsors and we'll put them on there in a lot of famous people are going to be there cuz it's near Hollywood and we have reservations for a lot of famous people and we will have scenario bleachers and tents and there's an area of tents and tables it's enclosed and temperature controlled and there's a whole bunch of food that's going to be there and drinks and cocktails and cocktail snacks and things on the silver tray and yeah we're going to have sponsor of a racist we have the stickers already and we paid certain amount of money and you get the money no matter what and they'll be a pot and it's just for fun and for publicity but we take pictures and we're going to have a big cup for the winter of each race and we can do a little serious thing if people want to join up for that when they if they win within the top three or four and a different awards for different places so it's going to be a lot of fun

Thor Freya

I never thought of it this way that's a lot of fun people being able to just get sponsorship without even knowing who they are and amateur races so you have to pay to go into the amateur race they get sponsorships and you plug it in and then you race around you get a picture and sometimes can do a real fast time and they get famous it's a way for a sponsor to sell product as if a amateur gets a race time that's within that of professionals the product goes through the roof and you guys will be doing that all day till Sunday

Zig Zag

Says he's losing sight of what he's doing but still he's asking for sponsors to go out on the race and his car probably covered with these temporary stickers that's slowing him down and increasing drag and he can calculate it no but that's what he says this is awesome he has four sponsors in their top notch and no Trump is not sponsoring him no Dan is not no Hera didn't do it she's doing it now and he gets it that they're waiting for these people some more are sponsoring him. Famous companies AC Delco is Firestone is he likes Firestone the look of Firestone and the quality his tires lasted forever and it's doing burnouts everywhere people noticed it. There's a few other companies and he's aware of them knows what they are he says he's going to put his old firebird there but really it's a replica with a high rise Street blower and I might have a little drag race going on so Thor Freya and Fred has a second one Hera is going to bring hers it's one of his favorite cars it's the one Brian strong had it's an old charger they look really cool and she wants to race him and he says why Don't You raise me myself my actual self so there's something going on there

Olympus

0 notes

stone-man-warrior · 4 years ago

Text

March 20, 2021: 4:47 pm:

=================================================

The horrible poison rash today:

Above, those two red lesions are one of the puncture wounds, I thing the needle went in and then came out, and those are entrance and exit wounds of the same puncture.

This above is multiple puncture wounds of the attack while I was asleep in my house, the attack happened about one month ago, I don’t know exactly when.

My camera takes very poor photos. I was trying to show the skin conditions, the skin is taking on a sort of leather-like look to it.

I am trying to reach anyone at all who would offer some help, especially one person I used to know who I think is a doctor now.

I am not opposed to seeing doctors to treat that. I have insurance and ability to pay for medical services beyond insurance coverage, it’s just that there are no doctors to see, I already learned the hard way that when I go for medical services, the people try to kill me, and at the Asante hospital, they handcuff the victims to the bed.

Dr. Janet Eoff at Three Rivers Medical Center, and other doctors already mentioned in this account elsewhere are terror soldiers who pretend to be Emergency Room doctors.

The photos show the red, inflamed condition where the poisons are still inside of the area where they were injected. Those yellow areas are where the neo-sporin medicine is at, that is not yellow infection, it goes away when I rinse, and only returns with application of Equate brand neo-sporin antibiotic ointment.

Those yellow places and that red place there are the puncture areas, they don’t heal, and have looked pretty much the same the whole time. Sometimes, a clear liquid oozes out as you can barley see is happening in the lower photo with a drip towards my ankle.

Please send help. If I go to any Urgent Care, or any Hospital in Oregon, I will be killed in many different ways, and the insurance will be billed for a multitude of procedures, so the terror bastards make a profit many times with each murder they do there.

There are only Canadian terror army fake citizens and Screen Actor Guild commanders in Oregon, they killed all of the US citizens many years ago.

I am the last remaining US citizen. There are no others unless they are held captive as slaves.

(almost every time I use my phone to send a photo to my email, the terror bastards make my phone begin to use something called “Easy Edge”, I don‘t know what :”Easy Edge” is, but the phone starts to broadcast something when the “Easy Edge” starts to run, and it starts all by itself as I am trying to send a photo to my email as a regular text message style method of sending. I have to turn off the phone and restart the phone in order to turn off the “Easy Edge”, otherwise there is no way to shut off “Easy Edge”, a “US Cellular Service Provider” phone application, came with the phone. “Easy Edge” started when I sent those just now.)

=================

6:08 pm:

Every time I try to go check my mailbox someone is either walking in front of my driveway, or is parked there, or drives by in a car, and the car is always followed by another car. It’s a dead end street in a rural area, gravel road, only 18 residences, and only 9 of them are past my house. It’s not a coincidence that the people are always there just as I reach were my driveway gate is at after passing by the cameras that are at the Monroe’s terror cell pointed at my driveway, these people are the same as vultures waiting for me to be out on the roadway with my leg injury. Today it was someone portraying Rick & Cynthia Manning of 598 who were on foot a moment ago. That was not the same Rick Manning that I met, and I am not convinced that it was the real Cynthia Manning, although the woman did look remarkably similar to Cynthia Manning, while the man she was walking with did not look at all like Rick Manning. He was wearing an Orange sweatshirt though, and Rick Manning is famous for wearing Orange. I suspect the one playing role of Rick Manning walking past my driveway just now is more likely to be the person who is occupying the Strong terror cell at 3747 Russell Road.

They are blocking my access to my mailbox and are ready to do some kind of attack with a Role Reversal set-up in association with the fake sheriff and fake courts.

This is a good place to mention that the last time I walked the length of Jackpine about five years ago, there was a wrought iron gate installed at the Manning terror cell at 598, and at the top of the gate is the name “Dr. Eoff”. Dr. Eoff does not live on Jackpine, and to my knowledge never has lived on Jackpine, though am pretty sure I have seen Dr. Janet Eoff drive on Jackpine more than one time.

The Manning terror cell is a “Med Dems” terror cell, the “Med Dems” specialize in medical oriented terror operations, such as hospital takeovers, and medical billing offices, clinics, and surgery centers ... Medical terror of all kinds with emphasis on Medicare Part-D terror and pharmacy oriented considerations.

I have not been able to get my mail in the past three days because the terror army is waiting there to kill me. They have access to planted listening devices planted under my front porch somewhere, and they can hear me as I close and lock the door and step on the front porch to get started on a short walk, and, they also have someone at Monroe’s terror cell all of the time watching the cameras that are pointed at my driveway.

I am fairly certain that the real Rick Manning was killed in defense when he and a lot of others attacked me at Pain Specialists of Southern Oregon on March 3, 2021. The one I believe was Rick Manning that day was working with a man by the name of Martin (Marty), last name unknown, owner of Caveman Roofing Company. Both assassins were killed that day inside of the clinic in defense. Martin was carrying a machine gun at the time.

Please send help to Josephine County Oregon.

====================================

6:45 pm:

After one rinse with peroxide and a short walk:

One more rinse will get all of that yellow out of there, and the sores become pink or deep red color. You can see what I was trying to show, that the skin has become thick, is very tender to touch, and the puncture wounds are deep, have a recessed area within them that will not heal. Those puncture wounds look nearly the same as they did ten days ago, with no visible healing going on.

The symptoms of this poison attack are inflamed, tender skin, very painful skin. The calf muscle is involved with painful spasm like a bad “Charlie Horse Cramp” while walking on the driveway, I suspect there is more poison gasses that make that happen being released from a pump at Monroe’s water well area, and sometimes from the driveway area where the A-1 Exterminators black Nissan Quest van is parked in the evenings and on weekends. My toes are my primary complaint with that rash, the toes are as if they are not there, sometimes my toes feel as if they are ice cubes, other times they are burning inside, and sometimes there are feelings as if needles are inside of my toes.

There is no where to get help for this without some US Military to come to Josephine county to take possession back of the hospitals and medical providers, they were all taken over by terror army long ago.

Please send help.

==============

7:02 pm:

I’ll do a physical description of the Dr. Janet Eoff that I met at Three Rivers Medical Center the day I was nearly handcuffed to the bed by two others who were portraying a ER nurse and a Hospital Phlebotomist as they held me down while Dr. Eoff was watching and at the foot of the bed.

White female, about 60 years old, about 5′ 4″ tall, about 150 lbs, white, curly, shoulder length hair, she was neither fat nor thin, was short, basically looked like Betty White only shorter.

That day, at Asante Three Rivers Medical Center at 500 SW Ramsey Ave. in Grants Pass Oregon, I had gone there to the hospital for a schedualed MRI imaging appointment. The MRI was ordered by Dr. Joseph Savino who I had been referred to by Dr. Matts at Medford Medical Clinic. I went to the appointment, had he MRI scan done (that event is a different story all by itself). The radiologist saw the scan, he said: “I don’t like what I am seeing here on this scan, do you have time to do one more scan so I can make sure it’s not a glitch?” so that happened and another scan was done. Then, the radiologist and one more young man who was with him said: “You have a serious condition, we need to get you checked into the ER to run some tests and procedures to make sure of what we are seeing on the scans”. So they escorted me through the back hallway into the ER room, and a bed was provided. I asked the radiologist many times what the problem was, but he would only say “we need to run some tests”. Then, once in the exam room, Dr. Eoff and the radiologist both told me: “You have a serious condition, you have only about four hours to live, so if you have some family, you should call them now to get your personal effects in order before it’s too late”.

That happened on a scheduled MRI Imaging appointment.

The nurse came into the room with the phlebotomist after I had put the patient gown on, and the nurse took all of the cash out of my pants pockets, about $20 is all I had with me at the time. Then, she and the phlebotomist held me down, and some handcuffs came out into view, and the people in the adjoining exam room were saying things like “it’s bullshit... boogie, take off, you should go...” and other life saving things were told to me by others who were already handcuffed to the bed in the next exam room over.

I had to fight the nurse, I recognized her as a waitress who worked at the Baldini’s Pizza Parlor in Merlin Oregon, a big woman, about 450 pounds of a terror assassin fake nurse.

I was able to get away, and the people in the adjoining exam room were saying things that meant they needed help, but they were afraid to speak freely.

That is the short version of what happened that day in 2015.

I have a different but similar experience at the same place when I went there for broken ribs, no one would treat the broken ribs that day.

Please send help to Josephine County Oregon.

====================================

7:48 pm:

Again I went to try to get my mail and someone came down the road for a chance to run me over. As soon as I opened my front door someone at Monreo’s started to shout about something, the shouting continued for a moment and the peacocks that used to live at Sunflower terror cell all started to make the screaming sounds that they make, about four different exotic birds, some are peacocks are at Chartrand’s terror cell lately. For more than twenty years the peacocks have been at Sunflowers terror cell on Russell Road, but the past few months they are at Chartrand’s at 376 Jackpine now.

I have never met Cynthia Manning of 598 Jackpine where the wrought iron gate has the name Dr. Eoff written in welded iron at the top of it. Ms Manning is about the same height, size, age as is Dr. Eoff, the only real difference is Ms. Manning has very big puffy long curly red hair. Ms. Manning could be Dr. Eoff, all she needs to do is wear a wig to make the changes necessary between the physical description of both women. The name on the gate is written in Wrought iron when I saw it a few years ago. Manning’s are “Med Dems” terror cell, that much is for sure.

0 notes