Summary: And this is what happens when you're dead.
Spoilers/Warning/Triggers: Language, violence, sexual situations
A/N: Here's the second half. Life is crazy, I keep having to say 'no' to things because I need time to write dirty fanfiction and play cards with my grandmother, also I still have to start that scarf ohyellowbird. I started writing this to write violate smut and eek! It didn't even end up in here. Why? Because it was fucking up the flow and so I am going to write the smut and post it separately as a kind of outtake PWP.
Who knows I may do a few outtakes for other characters as well.
I touch hatred like a covered breast;
I without stopping go from garment to garment,
sleeping at a distance.
I am not, I'm of no use, I do not know
anyone; I have no weapons of ocean or wood,
I do not live in this house.
My mouth is full of night and water.
The abiding moon determines
what I do not have.
What I have is in the midst of the waves,
a ray of water, a day for myself,
an iron depth.
There is no cross-tide, there is no shield, no costume,
there is no special solution too deep to be sounded,
no vicious eyelid.
I live suddenly and other times I follow.
I touch a face suddenly and it murders me.
I have no time.
Do not look for me when drawing
the usual wild thread or the
Do not call me: that is my occupation.
Do not ask my name or my condition.
Leave me in the middle of my own moon
in my wounded ground.
He sleeps like a little kid all played out. Sprawled out on his back, arms thrown up over his head, fingers half-curled towards his palms, legs open wide with one knee hanging off , shoes kicked off in his sleep.
And she's sitting on the floor watching him like a creep, wondering how long it would take him to wake up if she put her hand on his knee, worked her way up, kneading into his thigh, cupping his groin, pressing the heel of her hand firm where his dick is, enough to get him half-hard.
Wondering if he'd be surprised to find her rubbing one out for him while he wet dreams about killing small animals and setting people on fire. She sighs.
His mouth is open and his eyelids twitch as his eyes follow what he's dreaming about.
She takes off her hat and puts it in the space behind his head and the arm of the couch, and then she puts her lit cigarette between his open lips. She shakes a little trying to smother unrestrained laughter.
The cigarette falls out from between his lips on an inhale and it falls in-between his clavicles, then rolls unto his neck, he's awake at the first sting and jolting up at the second.
He picks the fallen cigarette up from the couch cushion behind him and evens out the hat that's slipping halfway down his face.
He takes a drag and falls back, the cigarette held between his fingers.
She plucks it from them and smokes the rest while he puts a hand under his head and watches her from under the brim of her hat.
"Can I ask you a question?"
She scoffs and picks at the frayed threads at the ripped knee of his jeans, "Not if I can guess what it is."
She lays her head on his thigh and sighs, "I'm really lonely."
"You realize your parents are shit company then?" There's no smirk in his voice, he sounds sad for her. She's so damn sad all the time now, not in the same way she was before. Before, she was alive and a teenager. Now, she's dead and a ghost.
His eyes follow her when she pulls off of him and unlaces her boots, her socks are mismatched like the rest of her, "Yeah."
"You miss me?"
"That's enough for me."
"Most of the time."
"What about the rest of the time?"
"I pretend it is."
She doesn't look at him, just nods and stares down at the floral pattern of her dress around the hills of her knees she has pulled to her chest, the line of buttons down to the hem of it digs into her chin and cheek when she rests her head there.
When she looks up at him he's staring, "I miss you." She says it again, but now she's saying something completely different, admitting to something else she's been ashamed of. She takes a hard inhale off her cigarette, picks up one of his shoes and smashes it out on the wood floor.
"Us, oh," he starts, before getting quiet and reaching out a hand, he runs fingers over the side of her neck, her shoulder. "Us, like…this?"
"But not all the time."
"…," she shakes her head, because she doesn't miss him, not when she babysits her dead baby brother, or when her dad smiles at her, or when she folds towels with Moira and her mom during the slow days.
He's biting the inside of his cheek before taking in a shaky breath and smiling weakly, "I'm sorry I hurt you so bad."
"I know…," And she believes him because she needs to, otherwise she's alone, "I know."
She finds Violet. On top of Tate.
Having sex with Tate.
And all her rage froths up like sea foam in her gut, filling her up as she spins away from the open doorway and the thing that's hurting her.
The house made her lose her baby after all.
She takes a knife from the block in the kitchen and pulls down the stairs to the attic.
Hayden is there and she stabs her over and over and over again.
"It's not your fault. It's his."
Hayden rolls her eyes at the burning woman.
"Yeah well, tell that to Saint Vivien. Fucking martyr she is."
"Young women are impressionable, stupid. You're a stupid slut but it's not your fault. He didn't say no."
"Guess you're glad your girls never grew up, aren't you?"
"There's no reason to be so mean."
"There's no reason to call me a slut. I loved him."
"Then maybe you're just stupid."
"Yeah, maybe. You going to just stand there or help me clean up?"
"It's your blood, your mess."
And Lorraine leaves and Hayden doesn't pretend to be so bored that she needs company like hers.
Mommy had told them to go play somewhere else while she talked to the nice lady who lets them play with her hair and has tea party with them and their floppy smelly dolls sometimes.
They go outside and try to find an adventure.
The little boy next door is mean, he threw a rock at Angie and poked her with a broomstick when they got close enough to ask him if he wanted to play.
He called them ugly and made her sister cry. She threw a rock at him but it missed.
The child is of foul temperament but he is beautiful. Angelic, and she knows with a firm hand and some doting he could be such a sweet little boy.
When he sees her he smiles, she raises a hand to her pearls and smiles back before waving.
She shoos away the little monsters that come up to her and their appeals to her about the boy being mean.
The little boy just waits and she so longs to go over to him and snatch him away. He flings a dead rabbit over the hedges. She can't help but smile down at it.
He's gone when she looks up.
He's outside just enjoying the day as the little girls run by him back into the basement and Nora skulks about. The other set of kids tackle each other on the lawn and kick at each other. He pulls them apart.
"Fag!" One shouts at him after he throws him a bit.
"Be careful, kid. I can run faster than you can." He picks up the fallen bat, "Catch."
It hits the boy in the stomach, winding him a bit.
"You wanna play or what fuck-face?"
"Really?" The other one girns.
Pat nods, "Yeah."
"Are you gonna try to buttfuck us?"
"Because we'll hit you, with bats."
He rolls his eyes and assures them both that he doesn't like redheads.
They hit baseballs that reappear back on the property if they go too far.
The lady of the house breaks it up with questions and demands of "What are you doing on my property? What are you screaming about? Leave, before I call the police." And so on.
Pat laughs and the twins run circles around her, tapping her with the bats and then running off with the baseball in hand.
"Come back here!" She shrieks.
One of them sends the ball flying through the glass of the back door.
There's the distinct sound of glass shattering into so many pieces that kitchen will be a silent physical threat to bare feet for at least a week, no matter how often she sweeps or goes over the tiles with a wet paper-towel for the invisible hair fine slices.
And then following a moment after is everything on the counter rolling off as it topples from the force of whatever broke the glass panes of the back door.
She goes and surveys the damage before going to retrieve the necessary supplies.
There's an audience at the back door that scurries off without helping once they see her scowl.
Her knees creak as she crouches to sweep the mess into the dustpan. The glass grates against the metal and sticks in the yellow bristles.
He helps out where and when he can. He rips up garbage bags and tapes them over the empty panes he's knocked the jagged broken windows out of.
Moira doesn't say thank you or say much of anything. But Moira hasn't ever been very kind to him.
He vastly prefers her silence after having seen what she's like when she isn't so piss and vinegar.
The old maid is setting the spice rack back on the kitchen island and picking up dishtowels.
The monotony of cleaning helps take his mind off what his wife did upstairs.
There was so much blood.
And she'd just stared at him like if he said a word he'd be next.
Moira makes a comment about the knife that's missing from the block and he just shrugs noncommittally.
He passes Moira on his way into the kitchen. And oh goody the doctor is in. It's been awhile since Chad's been able to stir up some trouble. As he goes to the fridge, admiring the shine on the chrome, for whatever poor excuse for booze is kept in the freezer he smiles, "So what's it like fucking my husband?"
Ben Harmon just turns and eyes the bottle of chilled vodka, "Excuse me?"
"Yes, excuse you."
Ben just scowls and grabs a glass from the cabinet, he sets it down in front of Chad and then, surprisingly, pours him a drink.
But the small gesture doesn't make him reel back from his purpose of snarking a bit at the doctor's expense.
"Let me guess you're going to give me a sad little story about how you've been stuck in a unhappy marriage that has always felt like a lie, where you've been hiding who you are and that my husband makes you feel like that man you've always knew you could be."
"You're gay Chad. I'm just unsatisfied."
"Anything that walks?" He tries to contain his pinched look, "Is that what you mean? Because that's what they all say, at first. Until they come to terms with the sexual identity they've found shameful to have for all their lives."
"No, you don't get it."
Chad downs his drink before digging his heels in, "Unless I was blind I'm sure I understand what Pat sucking your dick means. There's no subliminal message to a blowjob."
Ben pours him another round and takes a swig for himself.
"No, there isn't. He gives good head, so what? But he likes things a little rough. And so do I. Sex doesn't factor into that as much as being able to do things to him that I can't do to my wife, things you really wouldn't enjoy doing to him."
"And I heard that things were getting better between you two lately. He can go to you and be happy with redecorating and your vanilla preferences because I cum on his face and use him as an ashtray every once in awhile."
"Well…" Now he's at a bit of a loss.
Ben raises the bottle, "Cheers."
Chad reasons it could always be worse.
He's on his third shot when Travis walks in, sans shirt.
He tries to ignore him but really, where's the wrong in looking?
Travis takes a swing from the bottle and Chad just bites back his disgust in the habit.
"Hey, don't look so sad. Today was beautiful wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was. I suppose. I didn't go outside, I don't want to tan, it'd ruin my complexion. The camera doesn't like swarthy girls."
"I don't know, the girls today are all tan. But maybe your right, pale might be a commodity."
Travis smiles at her and walks off, cheerfully. Maybe tomorrow he'll try to get her to go outside. It's not good to stay indoors alone all the time.
The man says he knows she's been looking for someone to run lines with. He introduces himself. His name is Hugo and he has such a nice smile. Kind eyes.
And his laugh is loud and makes her laugh too.
She does things with him that she regrets later and then forgets.
Sometimes he's fully aware of his predicament and that of everyone else living in Connie's little House of Horrors.
Fully aware that some of them don't exactly realize the extent of their plight. Pity. Not really. It just makes it easier for him.
He's handsome and once Connie thought she was going to be a big actress too.
The ghost's name is Elizabeth and while he prefers blondes he makes due.
So he plays the part of a man who knows how to make girls famous and Elizabeth leaves a red smear of lipstick on his briefs that Moira will rinse out for him later if he's willing to give her what she wants.
A/N: So yeah, I promise a smutty oneshot side scene in the near future.