We would probably all be better off had I not written and published this... oh well!
I'm not exactly how you would categorize what alternate universe this takes place in, but, uh, there isn't so much "horror" driven as it by...dread. I guess? Or else simply suspense (read: I don't know what this is or how it came about).
Warning for sexual content ahead. Not quite dubcon, but definitely questionable in the sense that things aren't quite right, or, rather, pertaining to healthy sexual interactions. Consider yourself warned.
Standard disclaimers apply. Unbeta'd. Thank you for reading.
A stranger—a woman, pregnant and all on her own—has come to Temple Gate. Out of the blazing blue of midday, she appeared, pushing her old, faded Bronco into the valley with a stomp of her heel on the gas pedal as it gave its last breath and stopped a few yards off from the ranch that was, up until now, up for renting for the last several years. How she found it, no one knows, but there's no helping it now; when she began dragging boxes of her things towards the house in the dust, it was clear that she was there to stay.
Val is—curious about the woman. The others regarded her with some amount of distrust, for a stranger has never done more than pass through their little town on the way to someplace else in the desert, beyond the craggily, dusty hills. But there are those are encouraging her to be embraced: after all, a lamb will surely die on its own, and needs a shepherd to tend to it.
Val is inclined to agree, but not wholly.
No one comes and offers their hand in helping the stranger move into her new place. From behind their shutters, though, they can see plainly that she didn't have much to begin with.
It's been a week now since she first slept in the house—the first few days having been spent in the back of her car, oddly enough—and they only know her name.
Lynn Langermann.
All anyone knows about her is that she's alone. Two weeks go by, and Lynn is seen retching behind one of the fenceposts, partially obscured from view by tall grass. That prompts a rumor to spread—pregnant! She must be, Val hears them say, or else she's sick and has surely come here to die under the burning sky.
But Val has never shied away from venturing forth into the unknown—and goes to find Lynn. Out of interest, yes, but—also—a kind of curling in the gut, too, is pushing Val towards the stranger.
Lynn is sweating under the cover of an abandoned porch when Val comes across her. Val politely inquires after her, wanting to come close but not so much that the scathing of Lynn's eyes would burn someone alive if they weren't careful. Val inspects Lynn: the woman is breathing shallowly, her hand on her belly, her face pale in spite of the sweat sliding from her temples.
Something hangs from her neck. Val leans in and sees—
A wedding band?
The first thing Lynn says is cold and abrupt. "Please don't ask me."
Val doesn't mind.
"I—I can't say."
Val looks her over—eyes skating over the ridge of a collar bone peeking out from her shirt, the gentle slope of her throat and the hollow of it where sweat gleams—and says nothing.
It takes Lynn three days to get to talking to Val.
"My husband died," Lynn says, looking at her knees as they sit on the front porch of her house. "And—I'm pregnant." Her words are stilted, uncomfortable; Val wonders if the woman has said any of this out loud before.
Val smiles, even when Lynn eyes here with some air of discomfort, and says, "you're home now, young mother."
Something shifts in Lynn's gaze; she abruptly stands and stalks back into the house, letting the screen door bang shut behind her.
Val is patient, though, and is willing to wait for the widow's cold demeanor to thaw.
Val goes to the others, relaying the information. The distrust goes out of their eyes in an instant; pity replaces it. Val knows the older women are thinking, thank our Lord and Savior that a whore hasn't come to our town, but, frankly speaking, Val wouldn't have minded if that had bene the case.
The curling in the gut—a crooked finger, pulling Val closer to Lynn, day by day, bit by bit.
Lynn seems determined to keep her distance from Temple Gate, but Val isn't concerned. Days pass and Val slides closer, into Lynn's orbit, watching familiarity settle into her features the more Val—and the others, but mostly Val—interact with her.
The sun rises and falls; the stars come out, and then are burned away by daylight coming around, and—
Val wants.
Selfishly. Greedily. Coming to the realization hadn't taken long, but—God.
When was the last time lust came around like this, dragging its heels in the dirt, seeking to sink its teeth in?
Val starts to wake up aching for Lynn; lips are pulled back into a slick smile, and a laugh rings out in the early morning.
Val calls Lynn mother. In secret, sometimes, licking lips while a hand travels south towards the pelvic bone; in public, tsking softly as Lynn's belly slowly but surely begins to show early signs of the child.
Lynn tries her best not to look at Val, but Val will catch her eye, sometimes, and wonder at what it would feel like to put shaking hands on her belly, right where her child is.
Some nights later, Val is smoothing back Lynn's hair from her face as she dry heaves in the dirt behind the house. They are alone, and Val can't help but shiver despite the heat.
It happens, seemingly all on its own, as if God—or something else, perhaps—intended for this to happen: a hand rises, slips palm-down onto the spot below Lynn's neck, and arcs down, soft down her back in a soothing gesture. Lynn goes limp in Val's arms, and Val's blood sings, citing this as a victory.
"Mother," Val hisses into Lynn's ears before pulling her close, grabbing hold of her knee before she can speak so Val's thigh is in between Lynn's. Lynn is wide-eyed, breathing hard, eyes darting back and forth. Val can see it on her face: she is wondering if she should run.
Val groans, low in the throat; Lynn shivers at that, and Val leans forward: the tip of the nose goes forward, ghosting across Lynn's cheekbone; parted lips graze her ear, making her swallow thickly.
Val's hands go around Lynn, settling onto her hips. With the curling in the gut becoming more like a coiled spring, Val drags Lynn closer, denim against something that could have been likened to a robe. Lynn lets out a breath, though she tries to close her mouth to catch it, Val smiles. Leans forward, tongue lolling out, to lick a hot streak down Lynn's throat with an open, scorching mouth.
Lynn jolts; Val keeps her close. Repeating the movement, slow—tortuously so, Val thinks, but then decides it's worth it when Lynn begins to push back, trying to increase the friction. Once, twice, thrice—over and over, until Lynn finds a shoulder to rest her damp forehead on as she ruts against Val, as Val's hands roam over Lynn's shirt, searching, searching—
Val's fingers ghost across Lynn's stomach beneath her shirt. Before, it was like stars were dancing, but now it's as if suns are bursting. Lynn trembles under the touch, and Val, with a lick of the lips, slides over Lynn until one hot mouth is on another, and Val feels as if drowning in Lynn is possible.
The baby, Val idly thinks, smiling at the desperate thrusting of Lynn's pelvis against a covered thigh. The thing inside the gut—it curls and curls and keeps on curling. Does she know what her mother needs? Val lets out a moan as Lynn's open mouth digs into the space between the collar bone and the shoulder, not so hard as to draw blood but to be enough to grab Val's attention. Lynn is making frustrated little noises, as if her body means to say, it isn't enough, and Val knows—Val knows it isn't, and wants to see the mother naked, lying on her back on her bed—wants to be inside of her, or full of her, or get as close as possible.
The sound of footsteps approaching from somewhere far off is enough to snap Lynn back to reality; she jolts up, scrambling away from Val, her eyes wide. "We," she said, but could say nothing more. Her eyes blazed. "We—"
One of the neighbors is probably coming to see if Lynn is alright, which is becoming place as the baby is beginning to show itself more and more, and there hasn't been a birth in Temple Gate for a few years now.
"I'll be seeing you again," Val says, voice low, and Lynn swallows, thickly, audibly, before Val goes around the house towards the dirt drive, grinning the whole way home with the lingering taste of Lynn on wet lips.
That night, Val dreams of a formless being—Lynn's child, Val knows instantly—hovering, whispering its requests into the dark: love my mother. Unravel her and love her as you have wanted. When I come into this world, bury yourself in her. Make her you grave. Upon waking, Val finds the aching in the gut to be worse—in need of being sated, and soon.
The unborn child spoke to Val, and so Val knows that this must be a holy thing—and, if it is not holy, then it must be righteous, because the baby brought Lynn to Val and Val now knows that swallowing her down is fully permitted.
Two days pass. Lynn seems to avoid Lynn, ducking away with burning cheeks, but Val is unhurt, knowing, and patient. Ever patient. The unborn child, Val hopes, will appreciate it.
On the third day, Lynn manages to speak to Val. Awkwardly. Embarrassed. Val smiles all the same, though. It takes another four for Lynn to be able to meet Val's eyes without her eyes blazing or her mouth thinning into a hard line.
A week later, Val traps her against the side of the house at dusk. The others are currently singing hymns; Val offered to see if Lynn could be retrieved, guessing that enough time had passed that advances could be made again.
Val laughs low as Lynn grits her teeth, trying to stay quiet as they begin to rut against each other again. Some indiscernible seconds pass, and Lynn is getting frustrated, so Val smiles wickedly, all wet lips and sharp teeth eager to feel Lynn ache for the touch to come, and rolls them around so Lynn is on top, breathing heavily, pupils contracting in the shifting light.
"Come home," Val murmurs into the space between them, wriggling two deft fingers out from under Lynn's weight to begin tugging at the waist of her jeans, finding the soft lining of her faded grey underwear, moves down to feel the heat through the cotton—
Lynn keens, so loudly that Val slips those careful fingers out of Lynn's pants and into her mouth, pulling her down so they are a breath apart.
"Val," Lynn bites out. "I'm—please." She wriggles against Val's hips; Val obliges with by bucking upwards, and Lynn's face goes red—and it has nothing to do with the sun—but, before they can go any further, the bell rings, causing Lynn to extract herself from Val's spidery grasp.
"Soon, my love," Val utters, and Lynn's nostrils flare. It only serves to delight Val.
When the sun goes down, Val has a half-dream while dosing: Lynn's unborn child, once again hovering, unseen eyes blinking imploringly. Make her your grave. Make her your grave. Make her your grave.
Bury yourself in her.
Love her.
At night, Val goes to Lynn's house. Going in through the creaky screen door, moving slowly through the dark like a creature made for it, being beckoned by that unborn lamb in Lynn's bellow up the stairs, down the hall, to the end where a door sat harshly closed, latched tight against the gaping loneliness of the house.
"Hush," Val says when Lynn startles. The door is open and shut in an instant; Lynn wasn't asleep to begin with, but it's more than easy to press her weight into the mattress. The house smells of dust and burnt wood, but Val is hungry, mouth watering with every intent of letting sharp teeth sink into soft, precious flesh. "Oh, mother, you must relax," Val sighed, crowding close; into Lynn's ear, making her shiver, Val groaned deep and said, "let me take care of you." And your baby, Val leaves unsaid, though the thought could be felt in the room as if it we rehanging above them.
Val's system floods with smug satisfaction; in moments, long, spindly fingers bypassed the belt buckle and pant buttons and had long since begun rubbing against the heat behind the cotton. Lynn stifles her moans in the crook of her arm—or, rather, she tries to—and Val slipped a bony middle finger inside a hot, gaping wetness that should have been anticipated, but wasn't.
Like the curl in Val's own gut, Val crooks her finger, watching Lynn intently: eyes shut; mouth open, head back; throat exposed. Lynn shudders, trying bring them closer together, and Val shifts them so they're both sitting on their knees on top of the covers, Lynn's pants partly off while Val slips another finger inside. Lynn is rocking and forth on Val's hand, panting into her shoulder, and Val can feel it—the unborn child turning in Lynn's belly in satisfaction. My mother is happy, the unborn baby whispers to Val. The sound of the world fades away, including the little noises Lynn is trying so hard not to making, as the child speaks. Make my mother sing, for her joy will bring me into the world like the sun coming up after an endless night.
Val moves down the bed, still knuckle-deep inside Lynn, and bites at her hip bone.
Lynn whimpers.
Val grins into the reddening flesh as Lynn writhes against her hand.
Temple Gate sleeps. The unborn child shifts in her mother's belly without drawing attention to itself. And Val doesn't stop until morning comes.