What Isn't And Came To Be
Please note: This chapter contains trigger warnings for violence and Non-con
Chapter 15: Don't, please don't…
Michele felt like such an idiot. What did she think she was doing exactly; trying to make friends with the king of demons, by bringing him cups of tea?
"Sorry I interrupted you, I'm not used to people who don't need to eat," she tried to explain herself.
"I know you're busy, I'll leave you to i—" She tried to get to her feet, but Crowley pushed her back down with a nonchalant flick of his wrist.
He got off on it, she realised; batting her round, like a giant cat with a human mouse. But he wasn't honing his survival skills to keep himself fed, he was just a bully.
"-Or not," she muttered, burning at her own stupidity.
Why'd she put herself here?
She could have avoided this whole awkward, interview with the principal, interrogation.
She could have been in her room with the boys and Slinky right now.
Maybe she was stupid, like her father and Crowley said, and had brought this on herself. She stared down at her hands where they lay knotted together in her lap. Teeth gritted against the urge to cry, or beg to be let go; desperate to go scurrying away and hide. But she'd never escape, not from this white, on white, glass box. She was just a pathetic little mouse, or a house sparrow, in a glass cage, trapped here with a sadistic cat.
Maybe she had brought this on herself, but she had to stop crying about it, and toughen up.
Stop being fun to torment. Stop battering herself against the glass.
Just sit there and be boring, she told herself.
What else was there to do but to play dead, when you couldn't run and you couldn't hide.
Suddenly Crowley was right there, he grabbed her arm and wrenched her out of her chair.
Then in a blink, with that awful vertigo sensation, they were standing somewhere else.
A bedroom with an opulent four poster bed, decked out in white and gold.
She stumbled away from Crowley, disorientated, stomach churning. She couldn't help but look to him for some explanation.
There was no explanation, just the stormy scowl and beetled brows that she was learning to dread.
"Take your clothes off!" he ordered sharply, eyes flooded red, expression seething.
Shocked, she stumbled backwards, away from him.
Until her back hit the wall behind, with a thump.
No, no, no!
Crowley followed, stalking her like a predator. A giant black panther.
"I said. Take. Off. Your. Clothes."
"No," she shook her head helplessly, lungs finding it suddenly impossible to draw oxygen from the air. Her pulse kicked into a stuttering gallop, pounding in her ears and chest like horse's hooves set to trample her.
She'd told herself she'd do what it took to keep Johnny safe, whatever it took.
"Be useful. Be good, be careful, don't make him mad."
But now, faced with it, that thing she'd been afraid of, ever since she woke coughing and gagging on her bloody lounge room carpet... She was frozen, and couldn't make herself obey.
Then, he was there, looming over her, eyes boiling with scarcely contained vermillion smoke.
She was a rabbit in the headlights.
He grabbed hold of her, half choking her, fisted hands knotted roughly in the collar of her shirt.
There was pain and a thick purring sound, something ripping, tearing.
For a mind numbing moment she thought he was killing her. Had literally ripped her limb from limb and her brain just hadn't caught up yet.
It was the sudden chill that clued her in.
Her clothes. He'd torn her freaking clothes off, shredded them around her, with a combination of his hands and power.
The realisation broke her from her stunned rabbit trance, she dodged sideways, trying to get away, reach the door, even as he tried to grab at her again.
She wasn't fast enough, instead of grabbing her, his flailing hand caught her in the temple. Sent her flying across the room, to crash against one of the bedposts.
The blow knocked all the wind out of her lungs, made her see stars and greyed her vision.
Gasping to refill aching lungs, she back-pedalled on the mire of silken fabric.
Head ringing, vision blurry, struggling to get away and off the bed. The very last place she wanted to be.
But that invisible force Crowley wielded hit her like a wall, and constricted in iron bands that pinned her down to the mattress.
"You don't get to say no to me, have I made myself clear." He growled. "I say jump, you jump." He lectured in that unfairly cultured English voice. Eyes seething with crimson.
He bent and picked up her glasses from the floor, and set them on the bedside cabinet.
Struggling furiously, she watched as Crowley slid off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. Loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt; removed his cuff links and set them on the vanity, with two, tiny clicks of metal on wood.
As he reached for his belt she couldn't bear to watch his precise, almost languid preparations anymore.
She shut her eyes, buried her face into the heavy silk brocade of the comforter, with tears oozing from beneath her lashes.
She didn't see him remove his belt, but she could still identify the jingle of the buckle coming undone and the snakelike slither of the leather sliding through his belt loops.
Eventually, she felt the mattress sink lower under his weight. It dragged an involuntary, wounded animal whimper past her gritted teeth.
Don't, don't, don't… Please don't do this. I'm sorry, what ever I did… I'm sorry, so, so sorry, just please, please, don't…
Frantic, she redoubled her struggles. Muscles burning with strain. Breath sobbing in her constricted chest. She felt him move towards her on the bed.
You said… you said, I'm not worth it. You're right, so, so right. I'm not. I'm really, really not!
Please just… don't…
The mattress dipped down heavily beside her hips and either side of her head.
She could feel him looming there above her. Even though he wasn't touching her, she could feel his hell-born heat and smell that sulphur tang of struck matches and fireworks radiating off him.
Suddenly, it was all painfully real. She'd never been with anyone but Phil, she didn't want any other man, never had…
This wasn't a man. This was a demon. A thing from Hell, wearing the body of a dead man, crouched there above her; and he wouldn't be gentle doing it.
She wasn't hidden by the crimson shot darkness behind her lids. That was a child's lie, a child's defence, the darkness created by the thin membranes of her tear gummed eyelids wouldn't keep her safe. He wouldn't be gone if she opened her eyes.
"God, no!" Another whimper, a moan of dread, barely words.
They earned her a stinging slap across the face.
Rocked her head, popping her eyes open to see him there. Black as sin and red as blood. Her ears were ringing so bad whatever response he spat down at her made no sense.
Tongue coated with the sharp iron tang of blood from a cut somewhere, she blinked away pain spawned tears, lizard brain finally jumping into gear. Grasping at his obvious fury, over the use of God's name, like a drowning person grasping for a piece of driftwood.
He was a demon, God's name hurt him.
"Christo!"
Above her, Crowley flinched, and she felt the invisible grip holding her down on the bed falter.
"Christo." She hissed again, trying to squirm out from under him while her mind screamed belatedly at her, like a fire siren after the building was ash; that it was stupid, stupid, stupid! She'd just annoy him, make him madder, it wouldn't stop him.
In response, Crowley dropped all of his weight onto her, grabbing her shoulders as she squirmed and bucked under him.
"Got to say." He grunted, "you're more fun than I thought you'd be. Keep doing that and you'll get me over excited, Luv."
"Christo!" She spat again. Now it was too late, she may as well get some mileage out of her idiocy, before he snapped her stupid neck.
She was rewarded with another shuddered flinch and a glare.
Then, his meaty hand clapped down over her mouth stopping her words.
She bucked again furiously, biting at his fingers.
That got a sulphurous hiss of pain or annoyance, but he wouldn't let go. Hand mashed down over her mouth, so hard it felt like her jaw might dislocate.
Above her his weight shifted and there was a brush of stubble and sharp biting pain at her breast.
She yelped into his smothering palm, bucking and twisting as something hot and wet slid down her ribs.
He licked his lips. "You bite me, I bite you. And we both know which one of us'll win that game, Pet." The bastard sounded almost like he was enjoying himself.
"Mmmph!" She tried to spit the name of God in his face again, but it just came out as a meaningless mash of warped sound.
"Would you rather I use the lad?"
Johnny! No, no, no…
She froze. Staring up at him, wide eyed. Panting for breath against his palm.
Crowley chuckled darkly. "Or …" he tapped one blunt finger on the tip of her nose. "You can lie there, like a good girl, close your eyes and let me do what I want, without being so bloody overdramatic."
Holding her gaze, he loosened each finger in turn and lifted his palm away.
She kept her mouth shut.
"That's my good girl." He crooned, patting her cheek.
With a broken whimper, Michele shut her eyes again.
Think of Phil, try to relax, just… let him do it. It's just your body, not your soul. Do what you need to, to survive, you can survive this, plenty of women do.
But she knew … eventually she couldn't. The fragmented memories of those other futures with Lucifer had informed her of that much.
And… the worst part was, the one person who had tried to glue the pieces back together afterward, in those thens, was the person who was going to break her now.
When Crowley shifted her arm and she felt a loop of leather draw tight around and bite into her skin, she assumed he was tying her down, so she couldn't escape, while he... while he… her mind spiralled.
It was the sharp stinging pain in the crook of her elbow that brought back to the surface, and pried her eyelids open again.
There was needle spiked into the vein in the crook of her elbow, the attached syringe filled with blood.
With a grunt Crowley pulled the needle out of her arm and rolled off of her.
With a sudden jolt she realised she was free, he wasn't holding her down any more.
He didn't seem interested in her at all, now.
The only thing he had eyes for, was the syringe, full of her blood.
Frantic, she rolled off the bed and staggered to the door.
Found it locked.
Fruitlessly she twisted the knob, clawed and yanked at the slick enamelled wood.
Behind her on the bed Crowley made a punched out sound.
She snapped back around, saw him, shirt sleeve rolled up, with the syringe spiked into the crook of his own arm, slowly depressing the plunger.
Wait? He was still pretty much dressed?
Crowley's now heavy lidded eyes trailed lazily up to meet hers as he withdrew the needle from his arm, dropping it onto the carpet by the bed.
The small sound of it hitting the carpet drew an involuntary flinch from her, jolting up her spine with another fear spiked hit of adrenalin.
Crowley didn't move off the bed, just watched her cringe looking weirdly puzzled.
"Wha—?" He asked, sounding drunk.
She just stared at him frozen, one arm across her breasts the other shielding down below.
"You made me hurt you." He muttered defensively, pouting at her like a spoiled child. "Why couldn't you just behave?"
He let out a long breath, looked round the room with almost dreamy eyes.
"It was time I put my foot down..." he muttered, his voice had taken on a weird, almost American undertone. "Traipsing round here, looking like some bag lady… Not in my house. Not in my house." He repeated to himself, and swallowed thickly. "You wear the clothes I provide, or you wear nothing at all. Understood?"
Her jaw dropped. Clothes? Why the hell was he talking about clothes? She stared at him aghast.
"Clothes? What clothes." She asked finally trying to work out if he was just high.
Crowley frowned petulantly, looking round the room narrow eyed, gazing flicking everywhere jerkily. What ever he saw, his stubbornly set jaw softened and slowly went lax.
"What clothes" he mimicked her "…Not sackcloth and ashes… hasn't been in here?" He mused to himself, looked at her almost hopefully, as if asking for confirmation.
"Of course I haven't," she gasped, looking around at the opulent white and gold room searching for whatever he'd seen. "This is the master bedroom, isn't it?It's yours! You're the master! I'm just your prisoner. A slave labour nanny. I know my place, and it sure as hell isn't in here. Last place, on earth, I want to be, is here, in your bedroom." She muttered, dropping her eyes to her feet and shivering miserably.
Crowley chuffed in something like revelation or amusement.
"I don't need a bedroom, you stupid girl." He shook his head, and muttered something under his breath.
He pointed at what was obviously a walk-in wardrobe and on-suite.
"Get yourself cleaned up, dressed, there's a good Pet." He waved a lazy hand and a buffet of power herded her unwillingly towards the walk-in wardrobe and bathroom beyond.
If only to get further away from the bed and the stoned demon on it, she went.
She was two steps inside the closet when she stopped. One side of the huge space was lined with clothes.
Expensive, Women's, clothes.
Chiffon and velvet, satin and lace, cashmere and silk.
White, all white, with the subtlest hints of pastel accents. Her size.
Suddenly it all made sense, Take off your clothes…. the first time he saw her wearing Kelly's clothing he'd gotten annoyed with her.
This, was all about clothes?!
She blinked and looking back over her shoulder at Crowley.
You thought… Seriously?! How stupid are you? I can do better… her stupidity mocked her, in Crowley's voice.
Crowley was humming something vaguely classical to himself, running his fingers over the heavy silk brocade coverlet, like someone stroking a cat.
She shuddered and grabbed the first dress her hand hit. Opened a series of little draws in quick succession and found matching sets of white lacy undergarments.
White only white.
The kind of thing a sweet innocent bride would wear on her wedding night. Or maybe a virgin sacrifice.
A sob built in her chest.
She didn't know how this could be more awful, but somehow, in her shattered state, it was.
Jamming her hand over her mouth to hold in the sounds she stumbled into the bathroom clutching handfuls of hatefully rich, opulent fabric, and slammed and locked the door behind her.
She made it into the shower before she broke down completely.
-/-/-/-/-/-
Authors note:
First off if you're confused I've changed the first two chapters of this story, which then meant I had to modify all the others to fit/ fix things.
The non-con trigger warning was for non consensual blood harvest, not sex. But, do you think a characters mistaken belief, and response to that belief still counts? I find tags, trigger warnings and fic ratings very confusing.
This is shaping up to be the darkest story I've ever written, which makes me uncomfortable. But I want to write something realistic, and it's a constant war between optimism and cynicism.
I can assure you I'm not trying to write torture porn. Honestly, I REALLY don't want to write sex. Or child abuse… Just so you know.
Blood and gore don't really worry me. I've had to deal with a lot of gross stuff in the laboratory, and in parenting in general, it's pretty much desensitised me to gross… sorry.
Not being a plotter, (I like the term gardener) I only know a tiny bit more than you do about where this is all heading.
If you are reading this I'd love to read a comment from you. And if you are a NovelStar spammer or want to dump a weird chainletter on my fic knock yourself out, last one I got about Clarrisa the murdering ghost girl gave my cohorts on the r/fanfiction reddit a dose of nostalgia.
Anyway… I hope you're all okay out there in your little corner of the world, luv you all, and take care.