date posted: 2024-03-21
summary: "Such a woman is the infected carrier of the past: before her the structure of our head and jaws ache—we feel that we could eat her, she who is eaten death returning, for only then do we put our face close to the blood on the lips of our forefathers." — Nightwood, Djuna Barnes.
word count: 3,043 words
content warnings: explicit sex, possible dubious consent on lottie's part, animal death/gore references, jackie being a voyeur kinda and shauna slightly getting off on it
notes: shauna is slightly more unhinged here than she was at the start of season two. lottie is more passive as well. hallucination!jackie is maybe a little more ruthless. that's the fic. title from nightwood by djuna barnes.
She always comes to Jackie at dawn.
Shauna wakes, and, carefully, tiptoes across the cabin floor, creaking floorboards not enough to wake the exhausted, malnourished girls, and slips into the shack where she is (where she rests).
The cold bites into her, open and wanting and all around her. It nips at her face, and she pulls the scarf around her head tighter together.
She trods through the snow, thick and heavy in the dead of winter, and Shauna wishes it was the weary sludge of home, all gray and muddled and muddied and bruised, easier to fold, easier to slip through unnoticed, but not without leaving the slightest mark, footprint.
But Shauna, now, hates to think about home. She hates the reminder of where they are now.
And yet, at dawn, she goes to Jackie.
"Always on time, Shipman," Shauna hears as she pushes open the iced over, wooden door, the wheeze of the hinges barely audible over the winter winds.
Shauna steps inside, and looks at Jackie, all animated, no life behind her skin, pallid and sore and dull. Her words come out flat, sarcastic, and Shauna sees Jackie tilt her head to the side, smirking.
Shauna doesn't say a word as she sits before Jackie, on her knees, the layers under her jeans not stopping the wood from creaking, the slice of the horrid sound crackling through to her ears.
She covers her knees with her hands, part futile effort to warm them, part to shield herself. She stays silent, stares at the wood floor, rotted and waterlogged, the paneling turning a crushed, sinking black and gray, wet spots scattered about it from the snow underneath, rising through to the wood like blood to a bruise.
"So what are you in for this time?" Jackie says, and Shauna turns her head up, sees Jackie's head tilt backward, her smirk remaining, cracking her pale face so delicately, so easily, like a knife through a rabbit's flesh, bitter and harsh, but ultimately, merciful.
"You say that like I'm in jail," Shauna says, her voice rasping from disuse; it had been a day or three since she was last here. But she had not forgotten her routine in the meantime, never; since she created it, she knew what she had to do, as she rose at dawn, padded through and out the cabin, to find her, all wound with no cloth for it to blot through and stain and be snuffed out with.
Jackie's head knocks back further — slightly unnaturally, no, that's not right, Shauna thinks — and she bursts into laughter, wretched and guttural.
"C'mon," Jackie starts, a lilt in her tone, "that's what this is for you, isn't it?" she says, and something turns in Shauna, and she doesn't know what it is, but she feels it churn slowly, coming over her like the hot sweat she hasn't felt since she was on her back in the woods with Taissa, the needle piercing her, splitting her open, sliding up, every part of her shaking and her back drenched in anticipatory, hot sweat, and all she could see were the trees above her and a hint of Taissa's curls as they tried and failed to exterminate the rot growing from within her.
Shauna shakes her head roughly, like a wet dog, and forces herself to smile, bitterly.
"You're right, Jax," she says, and slides out from her kneeling position (I always liked the saints, she once said in a past life), lets her back hit the rotted wood of the shack, something lightly jabbing into her shoulderblades (probably a bench, or the hilt of some sort of tool or weapon — a shovel, or perhaps a rake).
She sees Jackie mirror her, leaning back and out of her slouched position, elbows on knees, head pointing downward, now echoing Shauna, slumped against the wall, legs splayed open, and it reminds Shauna too much of the real her that should be there, frosted over and unmoving and not there, but she is there, she's with Shauna, now, and that's all that matters, Shauna thinks, as she looks up at Jackie and sees nothing but the cabin's fire in her dead eyes, alight and ripping into her like that final night.
There's a knock at the door, abruptly, cutting Shauna out of her reverie. Shauna's head jerks to the side.
"Oh," she hears Jackie start, "shock is a good look on you, Shipman," and at that, Shauna anxiously turns her head back to Jackie, staring at her, willing her to continue.
"Hey, Shauna," Jackie drawls, "you remember that night, when I was with Travis, and my skirt was yanked and everyone saw the blood — you remember that, right?"
Something has Shauna breathing hard, harshly, in and out through her nostrils, her breath gasping and dying in front of her.
"Because I remember your face, when you saw the blood. The shock," she says, "it does look nice on you," and Shauna leans forward, and slams a fist down on her thigh, clenching tight, and roars.
"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!"
At that, there's another knock, and Shauna's head jerks to the side, again, her neck cracking. The knock is hurried, and it's followed by even more, worrying and whittling away at the decaying wood.
Shauna glances at Jackie, side-eyes her, even, and sees her sneering, still, her grin something twisted and coiled and serpentine.
The door creaks open like earlier. The sunlight cracks into the shack, unwelcome, making Shauna narrow her eyes. She looks back to the door, and sees Lottie in the doorframe, the snow behind her betraying her thin form.
A moment passes. Then, Shauna asks, dreadfully, her eyes to her lap, "What do you want?"
Jackie, knowing it's not her turn, waits patiently, Shauna hopes.
Lottie, hopefully knowing it's her turn when the first pawn has been drawn, speaks instead.
"I wanted to check on you," Lottie says, her voice flat, but ringing with the wretched, detached form of compassion that's become her specialty. Shauna derides it, to herself, how holy the others have made her, how dry and unshakable Lottie is about it, yet still so twisted in her making. Faux stoic, wannabe saint, saving the others from their downfall, their undoing.
Shauna briefly believed in the saints and their tragedies. Lottie is not one with tragedy; compared to the rest of them, she's nothing but ordinary.
Collecting herself, briefly, Shauna takes a moment to scoff.
"'Check on me'? Do you mean, 'oh, let's have a conference with the crazies'? Or, better yet, 'let's talk, crazy to crazy,'" Shauna snaps, her mouth curling into something unpleasant, and, detached, she hears laughter behind the curve and twist of her head towards Lottie, drawing her away from what she's here for.
Lottie, the wannabe she is, masks whatever she's actually feeling with stoicism, indifferent and patient.
"How do you really feel?" Lottie responds after a beat or three, in time with the rabbit rhythm of Shauna's heart; with how fast it's going, she couldn't tell how long or short it took for Lottie to say that.
Shauna squeezes her fist tighter, imagines it around someone's throat. "Don't give me that therapist shit, Lottie," she says, bitter and unforgiving.
Lottie simply stares at her, expression probably trying for wise more than unreadable.
Shauna takes a moment to glance back at Jackie, and sees her slithering smirk, again, how she's lurched forward and made a home for herself back with her elbows on her knees, legs spread out, careless, but intrigued. (Jackie was never a quiet listener.)
She finds herself staring at Jackie, then, and Jackie, this Jackie, being the effortless bitch she never was in life, clears her throat, and nods her head towards Lottie.
"Fuck you," Shauna mutters under her breath, and looks back at Lottie.
"I'm sorry?" Lottie says, with the most emotion in her voice Shauna's heard today, part shocked, part excited.
What a twisted therapist she tries to be.
"I said," Shauna starts, doubling down, "fuck you."
Lottie's eyebrows don't budge; there's no clear, vivid emotion striking her at that, and it frustrates Shauna to no end, leaves her wanting to say something that'll really make her eyebrows skyrocket across her stupid head with her stupid scar, or give her something to really cry about, like the butcher's knife in her jacket pocket to Lottie's throat, or maybe just her hand, or hands, wrapped tight around, squeezing all the air out until Lottie's final gasp, until her eyebrows are forced to relax, her face blue and all dried up.
"Is that how you really feel?" Lottie says, but it's more like she's shooting back, in her own way, quiet but cutting.
Shauna tightens her fist until she feels her overgrown nails splitting her skin. She hopes she breaks skin. She hopes she feels blood crushed between her fingertips.
"Yes, Lottie, that's how I really fucking feel," Shauna erupts. "Now would you leave me the fuck alone, and leave me out of whatever you're trying to get me into?"
Her words come out less harsh than she hopes for; instead, her voice cracks at several points, pathetically, and she hears Jackie snickering behind her, the rotting bitch, like she has a right to, with the position she's in.
"I'm not trying to get you into anything," Lottie says, calm, and something inside Shauna rages at that calmness, the stillness in her voice, "I just want to help."
Something creeps up inside Shauna, bubbling up, boiling over, and laughter spills out of her, light and twisted like sunlight bouncing off a knife's edge.
"You," she starts, "want to help me."
Lottie nods, waiting for her to continue, and Shauna seizes the chance, as speechless as she is.
"Haven't you heard them? How they think I'm crazy, for wanting to be with Jackie, for just— just confiding in her, because it's the only thing I have, in this shithole, like you have your stupid wicca shit and Taissa has her rope and— and Natalie with the rifle by her," she rants and raves, surely sounding more unhinged by the second, and she's riled up, and she's embracing the rage, the twisted laughter behind her, and coming out of her, now, again, louder than before, creeping out slowly and then busting out like the flight attendant set ablaze by the burning plane that day, flailing about wildly like she could put out the fire just on that alone, like she could be saved.
Her laughter brews and bubbles in her, over and over, bursting out as delicately as a gunshot. Lottie, presumably, stands there and takes it, lets it wash over her, because that's what she does, she absorbs things like a sponge, absorbs all of their fury and sorrow because she's finally realized that's all she's good for in this world they've inhabited, Shauna the butcher and Lottie the wannabe clairvoyant, soothsayer, calming everyone with her stupid witch rituals while Shauna's given the leftover blood and guts to chop up and portion out for each and every one of them. In Shauna's eyes, Lottie gets off easy.
Lottie waits it out, all the mirthless, bitter laughter erupting out of Shauna, and somehow, it lights Shauna on fire, Lottie's stillness creating in her a cycle of rage and bitterness and laughter and it's all so deranged and manic, crazed like they were during Doomcoming, like Jackie said, and she realizes, in that moment, laughter splling out of her sore, cold throat, that this Jackie is right about her, that she's nothing but a cold, heartless bitch that only wants to see those around her get what's coming to them.
Now, finally, Shauna knows that this Jackie is right about her, in a way that the real Jackie only realized in her final hours.
The laughter eventually dries up; there's only so much rage that can turn to laughter in her before she tires out, the fury dying in her, kicking and screaming.
Lottie studies her, ruthless. "Are you done yet?"
"Fuck you, Lottie," Shauna snaps back.
"I want to help."
"I don't want your fucking help," and Shauna knows they're going in circles, but Lottie just keeps pushing, and all Shauna knows how to do is to push back when she's being rubbed against, like a blade to stone.
Lottie sighs, and slightly turns, and Shauna hopes she's finally taken her cue to leave.
Behind her, she hears Jackie crowing: "Can't say I'm surprised, now, Shipman. This is the real you, that you never wanted to showed me," she says, harsh, "maybe I should be glad that I never saw you like this in life, the real bitch you can be."
"Shut up, Jackie," Shauna retorts, and Jackie snorts.
"You know," Jackie starts, "I'd like to believe that that's all you have, your stupid insults, but I know better, given you slept with my boyfriend behind my back—"
"Are you hearing her right now?" She hears Lottie say, "how is she?" and Shauna screams.
"Just— just shut up, the both of you!" Shauna erupts again, covering her ears, crushing her eyes closed, gritting her teeth. "I don't need this right now!"
"Oh, I know what you need," Jackie scoffs.
"What do you need, Shauna?" Lottie says, and Shauna hears her leaning in, coming closer, and then her breath is hot in her face: "What do you really want, right now?"
At that, Shauna clenches one fist, and abruptly opens her eyes, sees Lottie's face before hers, and with her other hand, she pushes Lottie forward by the head and smashes her lips into hers, breathing heavily; Lottie jumps, briefly, but enough for Shauna to notice it, and Shauna forces her tongue inside, and she feels Lottie yield, surrendering to Shauna's will.
In the haze, Jackie still cuts through: "That's what you need, Shauna," she says, almighty and cocky, "what you never gave me," and Shauna pushes Lottie down to the floor, climbing on top of her, straddling her, the wood creaking underneath them, and keeps kissing Lottie furiously, snaking a hand down Lottie's jacket, to her waist, then the gash between her legs, cupping her hand over the layers of fabric and denim.
Lottie pushes her forward, quickly, stares into Shauna's big, pleading, seething eyes, holds her by the shoulders. Shauna stares back, panting.
"Is this what you want, Shauna?" Lottie says, too calm, too still, "is this what you need, right now?"
Shauna responds by leaning back in and kissing her even angrier, rolling her hips against the girl. She hears a low whistle behind her, and resists the urge to tell Jackie to just shut the fuck up, for once.
Her hand snakes back up and under Lottie's pants, under the torn, whittled layers of leggings under her jeans, and slides her fingers down Lottie, so wet, already.
Lottie gasps under her, legs twitching, and Shauna keeps stroking her, up and down, moving her hips as she moves her fingers.
From behind her, again, Jackie says, "That's it, Shipman," goading, "do her like you always wanted to do me, is that it?"
At that, Shauna's fingers abruptly stop their rubbing, and slide down, prodding at Lottie, then forcing their way inside, two of them, calloused and thick. Lottie jolts.
Wordless, Shauna pumps her fingers in and out, panting heavily, has one hand to Lottie's shoulder, leaning on her, keeping part of her as still as possible on the floor. The rotted wood starts to creak louder, as if it were rasping, wheezing.
She feels Lottie's free hand shove its way under Shauna's own layers of pants, then her underwear, touching Shauna so painfully gentle and delicate, like she's made of glass, and Shauna shakes at her touch, but furiously moves her hips, moves into her touch, as she thrusts in and out of Lottie.
Eventually, something twists up inside of Shauna, hot and unceasing — "that’s it, Shauna," from behind her — and she cums, furious and intense, biting her tongue enough in the haze to taste blood.
She keeps thrusting her fingers into Lottie, and finally, Lottie shakes something fierce, her legs spasming, but Shauna doesn't stop when she does; she keeps thrusting until Lottie's pants turn to sighs, until her legs relax, submitting to Shauna's will as she pumps her fingers, going slower, then ceasing, just stilling inside of her.
Briefly, Shauna wonders if Jackie enjoyed the show, and almost asks her so, but she tastes the blood in her mouth, bites down on the gash on her tongue, and seizes forward, her hand pushing Lottie's shoulder back, and kisses her just as violently as before.
She hopes Lottie tastes the blood, metallic and warm; she wishes Jackie could smell the tang of it and imagine what she'll never have.
Ultimately, her fury dies down, exhausted and wrung out, and Shauna withdraws her fingers, lifting her head to look down at Lottie, who's thoroughly worn out and laid bare for Shauna.
As if hearing her thoughts, Jackie says, amused, "she's such a martyr, don't you think? She wants to be one so bad. It's embarrassing."
As if in agreement, Shauna's hand snakes out from under Lottie's underwear, and she brings her hand to Lottie's face, fingers sticky and gross, and wipes the mess on her face, embracing her as if this thing between them is anything but graceless and rough.
Panting lightly, Shauna looks down at Lottie, surveys her fucked out, tired expression, her light breaths, in and out, ghosting before Shauna's eyes. She hates it. She hates her so much.
"Are you satisfied, now?" Shauna hears, and for a moment, she can't tell if it's the girl under her or the girl behind her saying that.
Thrusting her fingers into Lottie's mouth, open as she breathes wearily, she decides she doesn't care, that it doesn't matter.
Shauna responds wordlessly, her fingers digging deeper into the wound, like her fingers splitting, ripping open and off the skin of a rabbit, thick and scabbed over, but still penetrable.
Shauna is capable of anything with a knife, but she thinks, with her fingers deep in Lottie’s mouth, the girl’s mouth hanging open, taking it, her hands might just be stronger without a blade in one.