𝗧𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗬𝗢𝗨 ── 𝘚.𝘚𝘛𝘐𝘓𝘐𝘕𝘚𝘒𝘐

♡ 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗬-𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗘 ♡

♡ 𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 ♡
𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 seventy-nine

r u mine?

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

WARNING: ADULT AND EXPLICIT CONTENT TOWARDS END OF CHAPTER.

MARILYN GARCIA WAS NOT A MODEL CITIZEN.

She was no more of a model mother than she was a model wife. She was a model killer, though. She was a model of bad habits, of worse behaviour, of a life full of self-absorbing mayhem. She was a black-and-white print of primal instinct.

Behind the braids in her hair, her mind's words were a viper's nest of venom. "Dallas refuses to hear me out. James can do no wrong in her eyes." Her eyes remained still, water cascading up and over her shoulders between her hands. "But it seems that's all I ever do."

Sybil didn't want to comfort her. A predator didn't need comfort. It was because of her they left Beacon Hills. Because of her, Dallas Garcia would never look at her aunts with anything but uncertainty.

Seline crouched beside her sister, offering a helping hand to soothe the scales on her shoulder with palmed warmth. "Explain to him that you made a mistake, Marilyn. You're Dallie's mother. He wouldn't hurt you."

Marilyn doubted it. She doubted most things these days. Her face was not easily welcomed. Her crimes were not as easily forgotten. Yet, a part of her still loved James, a twisted part of her that would swallow his heart just so she could keep it. 

Perhaps he still felt the same. 

"I think he would."

⊱──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────⊰

Dallas Garcia fiddled with the rings on her fingers. None of them had been enchanted with spells -- or cursed with them -- but albeit a simple circle of plated gold slipped around her knuckles.

The teenager didn't depend on jewellery for vanity and prestige. They made her punches hit a little harder. They protected her knuckles from shattering against thick bone. Everything Dallas did was for the main instinct of survival. 

That being said, leaning against the wall of the gas station and watching two teenage boys do all the work was for inertia. Not survival.

One braid fell over her shoulder and the other dropped in front of her chest as she cocked her head to the side. Blue buttoned shorts tightened around her waist, scratching against the brickwork behind her, while her eyes narrowed beneath red-rimmed sunglasses. 

"It's locked." 

Stiles shook the door of the empty station, tutting between his lips and flattening out his shoulders in disappointment. However, it wasn't very long until Scott pulled the chains from around a gas canister.  Perplexed, the Stilinski boy slid a twenty-dollar bill through the door hinges and winced.