Donna: Why is Angie on your head?
Bela, who stands over 6ft tall with Angie on her head: She likes to be tall.
Donna: Why is Angie on your head?
Bela, who stands over 6ft tall with Angie on her head: She likes to be tall.
This just dropped. Maggie and Co. are gonna be part of a St. Jude's benefit on October 16th
Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5
Perhaps it truly is in her genes, the talent for destruction.
Abigail has gotten adept at tearing things apart with her new powers. It makes an odd sort of sense that her weakness now lies at piecing something together.
Day after day, she fails the precision test Miranda set for her. Although the agony of that first evening has dulled into something more bearable, warning little flares of pain that she now knows to heed, the frustration lingers with her throughout the night.
Focus. A deep breath is taken, heartbeat regulated calm. Abigail wills her arm steady, all its strength withheld as she raises the eighth cube and brings it over the stacked others…
“Ah, making progress.” Miranda’s voice comes right by her ear, effectively throwing her efforts into the trash.
Abigail’s fingers twitch. The whole thing comes down again, like a tower of cards blown away by the wind. Her teeth grind together as she whips around to stare at Miranda’s annoyingly gorgeous face.
“Can you not?!” A vein pops at her neck.
The infuriating woman casually leans against the table. The very edge of her lip curls in that miniscule manner Abigail has learned to recognize as her version of a devilish smile.
“I didn’t do anything.” comes the easy shrug.
Abigail mentally counts to ten to avoid bringing a blade to Miranda’s throat. She shakes her head, urges herself to let it go and picks the cubes that fell on the ground.
When she makes to build them up again, however, she notices the blonde hasn’t moved.
A weak sigh escapes her lips. She spent years doing chores for Eira, she knows what it means when this woman comes to chat with her. Miranda is in a good mood and that never ends well for her.
“Don’t you have better things to do around here…?” she asks.
The prophetess hasn’t talked to her for over a week, working on her own projects on the opposite side of the lab. The place has been so quiet, save for the occasional click of medical equipment and scribbling of pencil on paper, that Abigail often thought perhaps Miranda left, only to turn around and see her hunched over a microscope, or rubbing her temples at another unsatisfactory result.
“My latest experiment was a success so, no.”
Ah, that makes sense. Abigail thinks. But I don’t get why I have to suffer for that.
“Keep going. Don’t let me stop you.” It’s easy for her to say.
And Abigail tries. She tries to ignore Miranda, to concentrate solely on her task, but that moonlit, hawk-like gaze is not so easy to brush aside. She can feel it on her skin, almost like a physical weight.
And that would be fine if her own mind would stop straying to how perfect her rod-straight platinum locks look every day, not a single hair out of place, or how her eyeliner is sharp enough to cut, on top of those already piercing eyes.
It’s endlessly frustrating, because Abigail doesn’t like her and she doesn’t want to notice those things, but they’re so glaring—
“I’ll tell you what.” Miranda’s speaks up. “Since I know you produce far better results when motivated…”
One solid step brings her right by Abigail’s human side, claws resting lightly on the back of her shoulder. The brunette bites the tip of her tongue to keep steady during her test. The last thing she needs right now is Miranda’s scent messing up her focus.
The welling feeling it causes in the pit of her stomach has a name she refuses to acknoledge. She hates it and will continue to reject it until her last breath.
“…if you succeed, I will reward you.”
Abigail scoffs. She doesn’t care to receive any reward from Miranda. She prides herself in not being like the four Lords –well, three of them—who would kill and beg and trip over their own feet for such a thing. She’s not that desperate for the attention of the village’s resident false prophet.
…but she is curious.
And her arm doesn’t care much for half-truths or presences when it cooperates far better with her than any other time. Really, it’s almost laughable how the parasite does exactly what she wants now, with minimal effort from her.
You little shit. she accuses.
Every mold-made muscle fiber in her new arm shakes and protests at the very last cube… but the sensation is nothing short of cathartic when it lands at the top, cleanly aligned with the rest.
Yes! Abigail grins.
“Excellent.” Miranda praises. A black wing shoves the cubes clean off the table. There’s a great deal of relief in watching them go.
It is, however, short lived;
Talon-shrouded fingers turn Abigail around, take hold of her chin and force her gaze up into Miranda’s steely eyes.
“If all you needed was my presence you could have asked ages ago.” she smirks and it is as aggravating as it is lethal.
The brunette scowls. “Oh, lay off…”
Though, of course, Miranda is not deterred. “And if you ask nicely for other things, you may just get them, too.”
Abigail’s brain glitches, for half a second, at what could be considered an invitation. Then again, she tells herself Miranda is only messing around. She does that often, revel in the power she has over people, things, emotions.
Her only hope is that the blonde doesn’t know of the exact type of power she holds over her.
“I think I’ll pass on asking you for anything.” Let alone nicely.
Abigail doesn’t want anything remotely nice with Miranda. The urge she births in her is to shove her against the nearest wall and wipe that haughty smugness off her face. Maybe break a few of her fancy equipment in the process just to spite her further.
The fingers at her chin tighten; trap it in a vice grip. Abigail can feel all the intricate ridges of the golden claws leave their imprint on her skin.
“Yes? Even though we both know you’ve gone from disliking me to liking me a tad too much?”
And… she knows. Fuck.
Abigail opens her mouth to reply to that, to deny it for the sake of pride alone, but Miranda leans down first and eliminates the distance between them.
Every conscious thought fractures in the brunette’s mind at the electric contact of their lips. Miranda’s mouth slides over hers like a hot puzzle piece made to fit there, soft in all the ways she’s not and demanding in all the ways she is.
The world is narrowed down to the cold grip of her hand, the expensive scent of rose-tinted, spicy perfume, the creamy taste of her lipstick.
And it’s already sinfully good, but then Miranda tilts her chin further and slips her tongue into her mouth as though she owns her. Abigail has had many kisses in her life, but none so hot and languid it’s almost like having sex.
When Miranda pulls back, wearing an infuriating smirk, she lets go of her to lightly pinch her cheek, instead, with a teasing “Good girl, Abigail.”
It springs forth a number of colorful replies within the brunette that all die miserably at her lips, still tingling numb from the earlier experience.
There is no logical explanation why someone like Miranda, so out of touch with humanity, kisses that great.
“Ace your next assignments and I will consider doing that again.” she says and turns around, well on her way to leaving the lab by the time Abigail remembers what words are.
“It wasn’t even that good.” she calls after her.
Miranda only laughs, until she’s one with the cave’s shadows.
Abigail’s boots sink a few centimeters into the snow as she walks down the main road of the village, her back highlighted by the first rays of the rising sun.
The edges of her coat dance in the morning breeze. Every soft breath sprouts puffs of smoke. It really is a cold morning. One she would prefer to spend in bed, dozing off while watching a movie on her phone, with a steaming cup of hot chocolate at her bedside table.
Alas. She already has a task assigned to her by Miranda.
Her destination comes into view at the main square, in the form of a familiar cart. Duke is back in town with supplies, as well as the orders of the villagers. Only one of them concerns her, though, under the name ‘Eira’.
Abigail thought she would be the first person in line, being so early. She’s surprised to find that’s not the case.
The butcher’s daughter, Viola, is already there, carrying one of her father’s old machines to sell. The metal frame barely fits in her arms and she looks like she’s really struggling on the last couple of steps between her and the cart.
Abigail walks up behind her and gently lifts the weight up, using her human arm. She tries not to make it look as effortless as it actually is for her.
“Oh, Abigail!” the other woman’s mouth breaks into a sunny smile. “Thank you so much.”
“Don’t mention it.” Abigail looks at her past the black shades she’s wearing to hide her bi-tone eyes.
A polite greeting is given to the Duke by both of them, as Abigail hands the machine over to him for evaluation.
“Glasses so early in the morning?” Viola inquires, raising a playful eyebrow.
“My eyes are really sensitive to the cold air, lately.” the lie easily rolls off her tongue.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Is that why I haven’t seen you around much, these weeks?”
“I’ve been… busy.” she answers.
“Ladies. If I’m not interrupting— how does one hundred Lei sound for this?” Duke interjects kindly.
“That’s great, Duke, thank you!” Viola bows and happily takes the money.
Then, she turns to Abigail, lays a hand on her left arm and leans in for a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Don’t be a stranger.” she winks and takes her leave, cheeks pink from either the gesture or the cold.
And she is a pretty girl, cute and cheery, hair so light a brown it looks nearly blonde. Abigail would have dated her if it wasn’t for how badly Viola’s family dislikes her, but that still hasn’t stopped the few stolen kisses where eyes can’t see.
Now she cannot even feel the caress of her fingers over her inhuman arm. The touch of her lips doesn’t ignite anything in her. It doesn’t burn like hers does. Is the fleeting thought she chases from her mind.
“I’m here for Lady Eira’s order.” she tells Duke.
While the merchant searches for the correct package, humming a merry tune to himself, Abigail’s eye catches on a decoration propped up for sale; a large, full-body mirror, complete with delicate vine designs at the edges.
With her dark coat and black glasses…
I look just like Albert.
There’s a bittersweet taste to the thought. Even more so when she imagines what he would say to tease her for the look… at least before he lost his mind.
“There you go.” Duke’s voice breaks her from her reminiscing.
Abigail receives the sizeable box with a quiet ‘thanks’ and turns around to leave.
“You have changed since I last saw you, Abigail.” the merchant’s comment makes her halt.
“Have I.” She knows she has.
“Black should never have been your color.” A deep, regretful sigh leaves him.
“But it is, now.” She chooses not to linger too long on what he may or may not know.
It doesn’t matter.
And Miranda is waiting.