#terrorgone

[moldcursed]

@terrorgone​ sent :  ❰❰ PANIC ❱❱

she  hadn’t  meant  to  frighten  him.  she  hadn’t  meant  to  do  it,  that  ethan  is  aware  of.  mia  is  trying  her  fucking  hardest  to  regain  his  trust  ;  she's  trying  her  fucking  hardest  not  to  scare  him,  not  to  make  the  fear  and  unease  that  constantly  lingers  below  the  surface  any  worse  on  ethan  than  it  has  to  be.

it  had  been  something  so  unbearably  SIMPLE  too  that  had  set  him  off.  she'd  called  his  name  all  sweetly  —  a  trigger  in  itself,  but  one  he's  growing  to  adjust  to  —  and  he  came.  ever  the  obedient  dog,  ethan  winters  had  come  running  into  the  kitchen  for  whatever  she  needed  him  for.  [  ever  the  obedient  dog,  ever  the  obedient  husband.  ]  but,  she  had  turned  to  talk  to  him,  and  he  couldn't  BREATHE  :  a  kitchen  knife  had  rested  in  mia's  hand,  and  a  smile  had  resided  upon  a  pale  countenance,  and  ethan  had  FROZEN  in  fear.

the  food  had  been  upon  the  counter.  he  was  well-aware  of  the  fact  that  she  was  merely  cutting  up  vegetables,  but  it  hadn't  MATTERED.  what  had  mattered  was  the  fact  that  she  had  called  his  name  in  that  unbearably  sweet  lilt  ;  he  had  came  to  her  beck  and  call,  and  she  had  stood  there  with  a  knife.  

...  JUST  LIKE  IN  DULVEY  !

ethan  can  barely  remember  what  happened  next  —  blood  draining  from  face  ;  breath  coming  in  shaky  gasps  ;  turning  and  getting  out  of  the  kitchen  as  fast  he  fucking  could.  he  had  fled  to  the  front  porch  steps,  the  cold  night  air  enough  to  keep  him  from  completely  dying  in  memories  of  louisiana.  it  doesn't  feel  like  this  in  louisiana  —  it  was  sticky  and  humid  there,  not  crisp  and  clean  like  this  night  air.  another  reminder  that  this  isn't  dulvey  ;  the  mia  standing  inside  the  house  is  not  the  same  monster  that  tried  to  kill  him.

how  long  has  ethan  sat  here  on  these  steps?  ten  minutes?  twenty?  thirty?  he  doesn't  know,  and  he  doesn't  really  care.  but  mia  has  kept  up  with  it.  he  knows  she  has,  because  at  some  point,  he  hears  the  floorboards  inside  the  house  behind  him  creak  ;  he  hears  the  front  door  open  ;  he  hears  her  carefully  informing  him  that  she's  going  to  step  outside,  if  he  wants  her  to.

that  caring  tone...  the  one  of  GENUINE  CONCERN  and  WORRY...  it's  what  destroys  him.

the  dam  breaks  ;  tears  fall  from  blue  eyes,  sobs  shaking  his  body  —  but  he  does  manage  to  weakly  nod  his  head.

yes,  mia.  come  outside.  come  sit  with  him.  

ETHAN  NEEDS  YOU.  

[rcpdrookie]

I think your Valentines' Day applications are full of freaks. That blonde guy smells like Eau D'Bad Cologne and desperation. You can do better.

"See? There it is again. Carport Bitchhair just seems like such a nice guy, I have no idea where people are getting these bad vibes from. It's the sunglasses, isn't it?"

[ @solemnxodium look, Carport, you better be careful when you eventually start to operate on Leon they're all going to be expecting you to do this lol you're the prime suspect ]

[dimitresca]

“Stand up, then. Let’s see what we’re working with.”  The woman in the cage is filthy. In the cold, blue-puddled, earthen cell, that much is clear, even when the woman’s face is sunken with shadow. MIA WINTERS           mother of  THE CHILD. In truth, Alcina possesses a morbid fascination with seeing her face. It is the form that Mother Miranda would be assuming at this very moment, and perhaps that is why she has been so curious to come to this little underground hovel, with red-rusted grates separating them.   If she wasn’t mistaken, this prison door had been refurbished from an old Castle portcullis.  In this living grave, there are three chairs outside of the cell. Two for the guards, specially imported by yours truly (the guards, that is. Not the chairs)  and a third armchair made of rosy damask swirling with golden floral inlays. It dwarfed the other chairs, and smelled of her same perfume.  The chair is stored elsewhere in the facility when the Countess is not present            but this is not her first time needing to lay down law with a prisoner. The lady sits, careful to smooth herself down. One never did appreciate freedom so much as one had it to lord over another. Her hat brim settles low, so nothing is visible of her own face but for two glittering gold irises, hunger threaded through them. The Lady imagines this will be brief:   there is not much to discuss.  The visit didn’t require her attendance, but like a shark sniffing blood she had come anyway. Perhaps hunger had driven her. In the castle, they had barrelled bodies of food, but the living article always yielded so much more. Every time Alcina looks at Mia, she feels time slow to a crawl. Formless, dark, small.  Not much to look at  & yet  she cannot look away.  DILIGENT. DEDICATED. DEVOTED.  Mother Miranda had struck gold in her, in finding a woman such as she, able to devour even when full, able to think even when pained, able to impress nobility on this little shithole even when all evidence suggested that should be impossible. Alcina rests her leather-clad hands on the arms of her chair, and waits. Resplendent. Composed.  “There’s a good girl, to the fore. I want to see you.”   Her condescension is warm as scalding water, and the ensuing laugh is the opposite:  cold, cold, cold.  The Lady Dimitrescu would see this creature’s face, and perhaps her wolfish curiosity might be sated, might be put to bed. 

@terrorgone​

[soberfucker]

@terrorgone helpfully said: see that coke? you should snort it

nightmare scenario! having to say no to coke while alone is hard because it's the love of their life. having to say no in front of someone is hard because it's majorly fucking uncool. "can't." they just need a good lie. a respectable one. i'm on anti-biotics hasn't cut it since they were fourteen. i'm trying to get my life back on track after a decade of ruining the lives of everyone around me is such woke bullshit. they could say they already took ket, but having to fake a ket high would probably also lead to them experiencing a phantom k hole, knowing their luck. "i've got a date later and i promised her we'd take molly together. i don't want to mix and match and be totally out of sync." pros: loudly implies they fuck. cons: what a sad little life. they should get a real fucking date. fuck.

[manyfucks]

"excuse me." she is wearing the garb of this land: a lab coat. a visitor's 'pass'. miranda's old boney forefinger points at the canteen's plastic cutlery container. at the fork. mia winters, years prior to her true destiny that neither she nor miranda can yet know, is in her way. the woman starts as she means to go on.

@terrorgone didn't ask for a starter but. pass the fork

[dimitresca]

@terrorgone​​ submitted a valentines application for the au where mia and alcina killed miranda and founded a Villain State. 

Name: Mia "That Bitch" Winters, MILF Supreme Age: 36 years young Do you like to cuddle?: Why are you asking me? It's your psychosexual baggage that makes intimacy fucking impossible. Try explaining that iron maiden kink to a therapist sometime. Call that experimenting in the bedroom. Can we make-out?: Damn. Is this a ploy to make a village HR department? Keep asking me that and I'll write a workplace code of conduct myself. A night in or dinner out?: I can't take your marbled ass anywhere, so Meryl Streep and bong rips it is. Ice cream or chocolate covered strawberries?: iF yOuR pArAnOiA aLlOwS I'll make you some fucking homemade ice cream. Better hope your vanilla extract aged better than the Eastern Bloc. What makes you a good Valentine?: If it weren't for my big huge genius brain, you'd have to pay the Duke top dollar to start your cartel. Good thing you have me masterminding production.   Would you cook for me?: See last question. I cook for your wannabe Pablo Escobar ass every day. If we're talking food? You get ice cream and leftover weed blondies. Take it or leave it.   Would you let me cook for you?: Lol. Lmao. Is your blood basement made of food safe steel? Didn't fucking think so.

Mia Winters is unrelentingly awful. It’s all bong-rip this, and baja blast that. Having her save the lives of the Dimitrescus was possibly the most irritating necessity that Alcina Dimitrescu has ever needed. To add insult to injury, the woman has chosen to read this little application out at a council meeting. In between Alcina’s exaggerated eye-rolls, her disgusted scoffs, low and offended exclamations, and the crossing of her arms, one secret thing bloomed:                       In her own way, she cares deeply for this hyena of a woman. Thankfully, it’s not the romantic sort of care. Everything Mia had read out sounded a nightmare to the Lady Dimitrescu, and with the way Winters went on about her husband   ( with terms ranging from ‘the most special little guy’ to ‘cat-man’ to ‘my knight in khaki armour’ )   Dimitrescu had adequately sampled Mia’s Valentine-oriented thought-process, and found it all to land somewhere on the scale between unhinged and wrong.  That aside, it is a truth inalienable: she holds a warmth for the Winters woman that she holds for very few. Everyone who had worked with the Lady before had either died, or lived to tell the tale of the Lady Dimitrescu’s cruel mania. But Mia Winters had plenty of cruel mania of her own.  These days, the other looks better, smells better, thinks faster, wins bigger. In all honesty, she probably dresses worse. But          they’d come a long way from the blood-soaked dark of her dungeons, from the melting flesh of the Black God, from the foundation of their debauched Vatican. In this choking game, no amount of throttling would ever scare the other away. No viciousness would ever separate this plague of a woman from her side. After all, she had tried that.  Lately, the thing Alcina resents Mia the most for is aging. It’s ghastly. It has to end. The woman, resolutely, refuses to allow the mold to work on her. Ethan Winters, that hideous manthing, would see them both killed in pursuit of an ‘ordinary life’ with IT routers and Breaking Bad reruns. Unfortunately, the Lady imagines there is nothing else Mia yearns for in the world beyond this, her daughter, and the continued volatility of her blooming drug trade.

Silence settles in the meeting, the four other attendees are torn between shock, dumbfounded half-laughs, and fear. Taking her time to weigh her words, the Lady Dimitrescu blinks once, twice. 

“Out of the question.” Alcina Dimitrescu answers flatly, before taking her gold spectacles with pearl chains from her lap, and placing them over the bridge of her nose. “I'd break you, and wouldn’t even get to use my iron maiden.”  Her lips part, and one large gloved finger points to a paragraph of a page. “Now.   As I was saying, I’m keen to create a structure of ‘blood service’ to be as binding as possible, whilst still keeping our captive audience of human-rights scholars as oblivious as possible. Ideas, anyone?”  Sometimes one had to take these escalating displays of absolute pig-headed stupidity for what they are: devotion, in its most annoying and perverse form. Ironically sincere, disruptively thoughtful. It’s all a joke, and it’s all true.             If Alcina needed her, Mia would do anything. Mia always has.

[sacrificialmaiid]

Name: Her Satanic Majesty, Mia Winters Age: Does it piss you off that I'm so fucking young and so fucking MILF-y? Does it make you want to hurt me? Do you like to cuddle?: Aw, do you want a hug? Do you need a couch to sleep on? Is your vamp bondage mommy making you use Psychopathia Sexualis as a floor pillow again? Can we make-out?: Not to get balls-deep into the Boschian triptych of nightmares you call your sexuality, but: you and her kissing. How's that work? You like it when she slurps your face up like spaghetti? Is that like, a turn-on? Christ, Krafft-Ebing would have a field day with you. A night in or dinner out?: You miss our driving lessons? I miss our driving lessons. I'm thinking we do dinner out. Ice cream or chocolate covered strawberries?: You have the sad eyes of a giallo murder victim. It's all the borscht and gray European weather. Twenty bucks says an ice cream sundae will fix your fucked up brain. What makes you a good Valentine?: Like it or not, I'm the nicest bitch you know in this shithole. The Duke wants you indebted, Alcina wants you subservient, and the BSAA wants you in a glass jar. Me? I'm your best friend—no financial or sexual hangups attached. Would you cook for me?: It's fucking cornbread, it's not going to kill you. Would you let me cook for you?: Been there, done that. It's a no from me. Maybe I'll say yes if you learn how to caramelize onions properly.

Winters, your unending interest in my relationship ( specifically - my private life ) never ceases to amaze me. The only thing more shocking, perhaps, is that you have appeared to forgo the title Mama Mia -- mixing things up a little, are we? New year, new you? You do surprise me. If you're so curious, why don't you come by the Lady's Chambers some evening and find out for yourself?

That aside -- a driving lesson and an ice cream sundae? I'll permit it if you're paying. You're the one who invited me, after all.

P.S. I do know how to caramelize onions properly. You probably just can't tell because your entire house reeks of them once one gets past the stink of herbal cigarettes.

[sacrificialmaiid]

“Holy shit you look terrible.”

Through a sliding hatch in the cell door, Milena tosses a plate of her own scraps from dinner. Tonight, it is relatively full -- she's found herself feeling too nauseous to make much of a dent in the food, which means that it is a good day to be Mia Winters, comparatively.

Try as she might to ignore it, she knows that she looks terrible. The wonderfully firm skin plump enough to support her corset that the Countess has always adored sits sallow against her bones, leaving the sigh of a gap between her breast and her bodice. Her hair is dull and lacklustre. Her eyes are red-rimmed and sport impressive bags beneath them from nights spent trying to stay awake long enough to keep an eye on her bedroom door, half convinced that a horde of fairy-tale monsters are inches away from bursting through it to tear her apart. Beneath her clothes, her flesh is bruised from fingers that are too eager, too desperate.

Slowly, painfully, they are all dying. They are all wasting away.

"Of course I do," she mutters in return, waiting for Mia to place her dirtied plate from the night previous into the hatch. "I am the only one left."

No maids. No food. Following the cull, they have been forsaken. There is no great bounty coming to sustain the castle, Milena recognises that now. And her mistress is so hungry. Milena, of course, will never deny her. On the contrary -- she begs her to take a little more, to feast for a little longer. She can take it, she can! She can do it, she'll heal quickly.

"Besides --" she pulls her thick shawl more closely around her shoulders. She is always cold now - cold and tired. "You're one to talk."