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froog-water · 3 years

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howdy y'all, again!

just quickly before the chapter starts, i wanted to say a HUGE THANK YOU to everyone who reads this! i have received a lot of support for this thing (more than i had hoped) and i am beyond grateful for it!

again, if there are any mistakes in this chapter, just hmu and i will fix it. i am just tired rn :)

also, slight warning for the beginning of the chapter, there are vivid descriptions of blood and gore and death. but nothing really troubling past that ;P

be safe out there my friends and thank you again

Upwards Over the Mountain

(Bloodhound x Reader)

previous; Chapter 2

Winter is in full swing and the entire world is covered in a thick blanket of white snow and eternal cold. For the most part, you had forgotten all about Bloodhound and the stranger circumstance of your meeting. Because there was not much for a bunch of fishermen and farmers to do during the stagnant times of chill, your bar had become a most frequented hotspot for these idle workers meaning you had very little time to yourself. Busy hands kept your mind busy too and soon some, if not most, of that night had been pushed back to the recesses of your consciousness. It also did not help that they never took you up on your offer of returning to the bar. They retreated back into being merely a story to you, a faint memory of a person long moved on. You could hardly even remember if it had even really happened at all. Oh well, you supposed they had better things to do.

Early morning light was barely seeping in through your bedroom window when you managed to open your eyes. Groggily you yawn and stretch and slowly go to open the curtains. Greeting you was the pleasant sight of a land half-asleep, the sky a brilliant warm pink despite the rest being draped in an unimaginable freeze. Your breath collected as fog on the frozen glass and tentatively you reach out to touch it. It was a lovely morning indeed and it would have stayed that way had you not looked up into the sky.

In the distance, large birds circled. Tiredness shifts to dread as you adjust your eyes to try to get a better look. Those were no ordinary birds, you remark taking note of how large their bodies were and of the swooping patterns of their flight. Those were scavenging birds. And there is only one thing to bring scavengers out during Winter.

You dress quickly, putting on your best and thickest jacket and pants, before grabbing your hunter's knife and bow. Andante was a man of many talents, most of which he passed on to you. One of those talents was his hunting skills. The summer before his knees went, was spent mostly out in the heart of the wild woods. It was an interesting experience, to say the least, and though you were nowhere near what could be considered good, you understood the basics of the hunt and of the weapons you wielded and you knew how to read signs. Signs like scavenger birds circling in the sky. Signs like there was something dying.

Into the snow you run without much of a second thought, your head locked upwards as you follow the shapes of the birds eyeing their next meal. What confused you most about this strange encounter was not the presence of the birds themselves, but the proximity that they were to you and the rest of the town. This was wild country, home of beasts and lands untamed and untouched by man’s iron hand. That much you knew, encounters like this were commonplace if you dared to leave the safety of human comforts. But you were not out in the uncomfortable forest which meant that whatever had caught the bird's attention was either very far from home or of a more concerning matter.

You edge into the outskirts of the white forest, the trees around you nothing more than empty sticks bearing only wind and ice. Overhead, the birds caw and swoop and through the boney fingers of branches, you can see that they are getting lower. You had to move quickly before they did. As you go deeper in, approaching what you assumed to be the border of someone's field, you hear something. Faintly, carried on the morning breeze, was the mewling of an animal. Your pace quickens and quietens as you zone in on the source, painfully aware of how loud the snow was underfoot but pushing on regardless. The relief that you had felt at knowing it was not a person in danger eases some of your mounting anxieties and offers you momentary strength to continue on in pursuit. If given the choice, you would have gladly left whatever animal lay in wait to its own devices, you had no business intruding in on their affairs - your presence would only bring them distress no matter your intentions. But something about this situation told you otherwise and guided your feet to where you would most certainly be needed. On the outskirts of a clearing, you spot something and crouch behind a leafless brush.

There before you, not even 20 meters away, was a fallen elk. You swallow down your gasp and try to focus over the noise of your beating heart, which becomes only louder as you start to take in the entire situation. The animal has toppled over a wired fence of some farmer's land, its hind leg still entangled and bleeding from its restraints, held high above the rest of its body at an uncomfortable angle. From its bloody mouth, it screamed weakly, puffs of dying hot breath escaping with the haunting noise. Your first guess was that this misdirected elk had simply gotten itself stuck in the fence, a most unfortunate event but not entirely implausible, but upon closer inspection at the rest of its heaving body, your guess died on your tongue.

Horrible, long gashes run down the length of the animal's side, pooling blood into the snow around it turning white to red. Its powerful neck was sliced deep in odd places and one of its front legs looked twisted or broken. This creature had not done this kind of destruction to itself - it was attacked. By something. You slowly turn your head around to scan the morning shadows of the forest clearing for any glowing eyes of an animal on the hunt. But there was no predator to be found. There would be none of course, because if there was such a predator here, then why would it not have killed its prey by now? Animals do not find enjoyment in torture and no man, you hoped, would ever do such heinous crimes to such innocent life. For now, at least, it was only you and the elk and the circling, hungry birds.

The elk cries again and you notice how its kicks have become lethargic and stifled by freezing joints and waning energy. It was suffering. Without much debate you ready an arrow in your bow, pulling taut the string with trained proficiency. You whisper to yourself a prayer, hoping that it would only take one arrow to kill the poor thing. You line your aim up, try to cease the shaking in your hands and shoulders, breathing deeply. Your arrow flies prematurely and misses its target, rather than piercing its skull you instead strike it in its neck, right behind its ear. The thing wails, although much softer and with more subtle movements - you must have hit its spine. Seizing the opportunity, you rush forward, ignoring the lurching of your stomach and pulling out your knife. Without a moment's hesitation, you drive it deep into the elk’s heart, right to the hilt of the blade. A little excessive, you deride, but a necessity given your previous inability to finish it quickly.

The thing stops moving. The pained cries fade off into the cold wind. You are left alone with your thoughts and the smell of fresh blood. Beneath your hands the elk lay motionless, its beautiful, soft fur a gentle texture against your trembling form. Andante had made sure that you had killed a few animals before he had honored you with a knife of your own. Still, experience did not dull the sharp sting of shock nor quell the rising weight in your chest. It was suffering, you reminded yourself, lightly dragging your fingers down the side of the animal's large and strong back.

These elk were beautiful creatures, graceful and nimble; they pranced through the wilderness in powerful, delicate strides showcasing the ultimate wonder of the natural world. You had encountered a herd of them once, all the while mesmerized as they strode past your hiding spot without a care in the world. It was quite distressing to see one now crumpled and lifeless. Emptiness sits heavy in your chest and though you know you are not going to throw up, the pressure erupts and you fall to your knees. A red hand clasps the arrow lodged deep in the neck of the animal and sharply pulls it out. You blink hard but cannot stop the tears that threaten to burn your eyes.

It was an animal. It was suffering. You did the right thing.

From somewhere behind you, the softest snow crunches, and your pity party abruptly ends as you draw another arrow and spin around. For a few tense seconds, your fingers quiver around the bow’s string, ready to shoot down if you so dared it. You only hesitate when you finally recognize the figure.

Bloodhound quietly raises both their gloved hands, fingers spread apart in an unarmed, peaceful gesture. You remain poised a moment longer until your eyes start to prick with new tears and you are forced to look away. You drop your arrow and turn back around to the elk, furiously trying to wipe your face with the clean sleeve of your jacket. Now, this was a predicament. What god had you spite so hard to deserve this kind of cruelty? True embarrassment blends with your established disgust and you fear now you may really throw up. Here was a true hunter, a beast born in blood and forged to kill. And here also was you, wallowing in pity. If only you could sink into the floor.

You can hear Bloodhound approach and soon feel their impending presence standing right next to you, taking in the sight of the poor thing on the ground. No one spoke, only the wind dared whisper in the dead world around you. The silence was stretching on for far too long and you knew you had to break it before it became too uncomfortable.

“I’m…” You sniffle hard, trying to force strength into your voice knowing full well that you had very little left to offer. You cough and stand up straight. “I’m not going to do you the dishonor and assume this was your kill.” You say, your voice somehow managing to sustain itself despite your state. Bloodhound does not respond right away, instead, they remain motionless, eyes scanning every detail of the elk and committing it to memory. You shake loose the last of your unstable emotions and grab ahold of your knife again. You move to the elk’s tangled leg and set to work cut free the wires.

“You cry for the animal.” Bloodhound finally speaks, sounding more like an observation rather than a question. With your attention focused on your task, you manage to answer in a more steady and calm attitude.

“Yes.” This was your admission of guilt, not just to Bloodhound but to yourself as well. God, how pathetic you were. “Yes, I cried. I know it is natural. That this is how it is meant to be but,” You hesitate, your lapse in concentration misguiding your knife and almost slicing the tip of our index finger. “This is not a hunt nor a kill. This poor creature was driven away from its home and family and pushed to our borders by some deranged and cruel beast. This is not natural. It was not killed to feed mouths. It was tortured. And it died confused and alone.” The leg snaps free from the wired fence and you wipe your blade clean on the snowy floor, ugly red stains being the only reminder of your deed.

“There is no shame in veeping.” Bloodhound murmurs a brash reassurance and kneels down, tracing their fingers from the elk’s wounds. “Vhat did this?”

“My guess is,” You state taking a step back and allowing Bloodhound to proceed with whatever they were wanting to do with the body, “A few years back, an illegal trading ship hit a bit of trouble just beyond our planet's frontier and had to quickly dump its cargo on the East mountains. Some of that cargo was the creatures we call ‘Shrieks’. They are alien to this ecosystem but even though they are terribly small and their numbers were minimal, they dominated the local wildlife - killing not just for food but for fun. The town’s people tried to cull some of their numbers but,” You explanation stutters off and you hastily take in a sharp breath, the icy air burning your nose and lungs. “Well, they could not get them all. It appears now that they are growing in size again. And in courage.”

Bloodhound does not respond, their attention wholly directed at the study of the animal. You wait a moment longer, the adrenaline of the moment finally ebbing off and allowing the freezing cold to seep into your bones. You shiver and wrap your arms around your body. Bloodhound stands, all the while their attention remains downward.

“You can leave it there.” You say, passing one more glance over the body before averting your gaze elsewhere. “If you want nothing from it, leave it for the birds. They could use the meal.” As if aware of their mention, the still-waiting scavengers call loudly from the tree-top. A raven answers with a caw and you look around to find many black birds scattered around the clearing. The birds do seem to follow their raven stranger everywhere they went. The wind howled through the desolate forest and you grimace upon thinking of returning to your empty house with such a shallow heart. The smell of blood lingers cruelly to your clothes, reminding you of what you had just witnessed. You had to think of something to keep your mind off it, thinking of your act for people, play your part until you finally were normal again. But your bar would not be open until at least noon and there was no one else who would be willing to distract you.

“Did you track it all the way here?” Your voice breaks the silence, your mind subconsciously switching to your more charming persona. They do not answer immediately.

“I sensed distress and followed its blood.” They weren’t giving you much to work off of and you shuffle in place.

“Then I suppose you will need a ride back?” This garners their attention and they turn to face you, the nerve of being under their masked gaze still sending jolts up and down your spine.

“I cannot accept your generosity again.” Bloodhound tries to talk you down but you scoff and lift a hand to silence them.

“Please, I won't be needed until lunch and I really don't mind.” Your tone successfully managed to hide that you had a third reason to be so insistent - you just hoped that they could not see the desperation in your face. They could. They take a moment to consider your offer, whatever expression lay under their mask you would never know. The raven to their left caws and they turn to look at it. It takes off after a final noise and Bloodhound lowers their head back to you - some secret understanding passing between bird and hunter.

“Then,” Bloodhound motions for you to lead the way, “By all means.” Though strained and almost painful, your first smile of the day pulls at your lips and you turn around to walk back to your house.

Bloodhound, as bizarre and strange as they were, never afforded you the opportunity to truly draw a defined picture of their personality. Wrapped so totally in mystery and gear, your perception of them was created on a flimsy base of shadows - beyond what they portrayed on T.V, you knew nothing of. But in the frozen forest of that Winter’s morning, something changed and you felt your world flip upside down onto its head.

Bloodhound was a lot more talkative on the way to their cabin than they had been the first time. Or any time really that you had interacted with them. It had started with you asking them the simple question of how they managed to track the injured elk and although their initial answer remained vague, a tangent soon manifested and from there the spiral began. To your utter surprise, and mild enjoyment, they proved themselves to be a great storyteller and had many wonderful and whimsical tales about their Gods and hunts that had made the drive over to their place seem almost too short.

“Most people stop me at this point.” Bloodhound commented, drawing a snicker from you as your eyes were glued to the ice-capped road ahead.

“Well, most people are not here. And I am very much enjoying myself. I love stories.” You could not see it, but your response brought a cracked smile to Bloodhound's hidden face.

By the time you had reached their cabin, they had entranced you in a tale about wolves and the true essence of the hunt. Though you thought your morning could not get any more surprising, Bloodhound steps out of your truck and extends an offer to share warm drinks with them inside. In the heart of Winter, you could not resist the temptation.

The interior of their cabin was much as you expected - totally unpredictable. It was like a bear and a machine had a fight, a complete subversion of everything you had come to know as normal. On the floor was a multitude of animal rugs, the couches too were draped with the furs of Bloodhound’s past, presumed, victories. Yet despite the clear aesthetic for ruggedness, a definite sense of modern order was showing through. The fireplace was quaint in its design but unmistakable retro. The furniture too, the chairs and tables, shelves and windows, were all of a very contemporary era. A perfect combination of the comforts of the past and the conveniences of the present. But all and all, the only word that came to your head when you first stepped in through their front door was - cozy.

Bloodhound leads you through their small cabin, past the living room, and into the small kitchen. They motion for you to take a seat at the wooden table in the center of the room and you marvel at the smells and sights around you. Hanging from strings draped across the walls were various herbs and spices and on the counter in bowls were fresh fruit and vegetables. They must have visited the town if this was their food supply and you feel a twinge of apprehension pluck at your light mood. You brush it off as Bloodhound asks if you would prefer tea or coffee.

“I find myself the one in honor of sharing breakfast with you this morning. Fair varning must be made, however,” Bloodhound extends a steaming cup towards you, “I have been told I am not the most accomplished of hosts.” You smile gratefully and take the cup into your shivering hands. The drink was shockingly and terribly bitter and you barely manage to hold back your gag at the first sip. Bloodhound snickers at your reaction and produces a tub of honey for you to add to your drink. “And that my tastes are mostly unagreeable.”

“Oh please,” You wheeze weakly after drowning your taste buds in the soothing honey, “This is nothing. Besides, I assume that, with your choice of isolation, you don’t particularly want to be anyone's host.” Bloodhound hums at your comment, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with it. They pull up to the opposite chair and take a seat and you notice how their drink has a straw in it.

“I am not entirely opposed to indulging certain people. And even fewer dare to give my delights a try. Therefore I rather keep them to myself. I do, however, give special heed to those vho show interest in my stories.” This draws a smirk from your lips as you bring the hot liquid up to your mouth for another sip. Content silence passes through the room and you focus intently on the warmth now spreading through your hands and to the rest of your body. “I did not think that anyone vould be out on such a morning like this.” Bloodhound admits, causing you to slowly look at them and lower your cup.

“Most are too old or too busy to take time out of their day to notice these things, or to even care. And I do not do well in the cold. Today was a special exception.” At the mention of the temperature outside you quickly raise your cup to your mouth and down another gulp. When you open your eyes again, you finally notice the bird in the room who had before blended so seamlessly in with the other oddities of the kitchen. Sat on a perch made of carved wood to the left of Bloodhound was their signature raven. It tilts its head at your attention, letting out a meek calling before eyeing you up and down. Bloodhound must really like their raven friend if they were kind enough to invite them inside. The sight alone was enough to bring a bemused grin to your chapped lips and Bloodhound watched it all happen in mild fascination.

“Do you often listen to birds?” They ask, breaking you out of an almost trance and extending to their raven a piece of freshly sliced apple.

“It is not so strange.” You breathe a laugh, “It was what led me to finding you in the rain that first evening.” Bloodhound turns their disk-like lenses towards your face and wordlessly implores you to continue. Despite the warmth now residing in your bones, you still shiver under their daunting gaze. “Your friend I mean,” You motion to the raven who has also turned to look at you with its beady, brown eyes as if aware that it was the topic of conversation, “Its cries were all I could hear. Which is saying something, considering it was storming pretty hard.”

“I do not think it skrýtinn.” Bloodhound replies without missing a beat, their voice mellow and their words an alluring symphony of strange syllables, a true joy to listen to. “Just an uncommon trait in most people. And his name is Artur.” You pass the bird a look and slightly tip your head in acknowledgment of his name. He squawks and fluffs his chest feathers, clearly enjoying being the center of attention. Bloodhound smiles at the bird. “Ravens are the messengers of the Allfather. They guide and aid me on my hunts. I do not think it skrýtinn to listen to them. Only that someone else does also.”

“You give me too much credit.” You bashfully avert your gaze, dropping your eye level to the rim of your mug no longer steaming. “It has only been a few, very odd occasions. Mere coincidences if nothing else.” Bloodhound shrugs off your deflection, unpersuaded by your argument.

“Even so.” The room falls into a content stillness after their last comment and you are left wondering how you had even ended up here. On T.V, Bloodhound was a truly mysterious character, never talking or partaking in the more rowdy activities as the others did. Sure, you were not an avid watcher, but from what little time you had spent gazing at the screen, you had made Bloodhound out to be a vastly stoic, isolated person. And by all means, they had mostly proven themselves to be exactly that person, what with their initial reluctance to meet your extended friendliness and the way they had so precariously placed themselves on this mountain all alone. However, sitting now with them in their own house, you did not feel intruding or unwelcome. And the way they spoke to you, the ease of words and conversation, came as soft and comfortable as if from someone you had known before. From them, you could feel nothing but gentle amity.

“Do you hunt?” Bloodhound’s voice wafts through the air and to your ears, bringing your head up in a hum. You snicker, a twinge of embarrassment pulling at your chest.

“Not if I can help it. Though Andante did try, I simply cannot,” you inhale deeply through your nose, suddenly aware of the gaze trained attentively on you, “Find the strength to actually kill anything. Much to the dismay of my patrons.” This peaks Bloodhounds attention and they motion for you to explain yourself.

“Every year around the beginning of Summer, before the birth of the first lambs, the town gathers for a sort of Summer festival. With my bar being the sole provider of food and alcohol for such an event, it normally fell upon Andante to supply the people with a freshly killed elk. A make-shift banquet we would all share. Everyone has so much fun.” Your head drops and your shoulders give inwards.

“But with him gone, I doubt I would be able to give the people what they want. Last year I barely managed to scrape by, I had to do a lot of ass-kissing to get the more hardened townsfolk back on my side. But this year,” Your story fades and you sigh miserably, the relief of finally expressing this concern aloud only seeming to momentarily dull the growing sense of shame.

“It is stupid, I know.” You run a hand through your hair, the bubbling self-hatred in your stomach threatening to go overboard. You were oversharing again. A lot. But you could not find a way to stop. “But, what right do I have to take the life of an animal when I already have frozen meat stored in my fridge?” Strength wanes from your knees and you are glad to be sitting down - oh, you were definitely going to kick yourself over this one later. Perhaps staying at home all alone would have been the better option after all.

In the silence that followed your last words, you felt incredible judgment bare down upon your shoulders and you wanted nothing more than to shrink away from it. Under the menace that was your own self-scrutiny, you were unable to recognize that Bloodhound was not, in fact, judging you. From behind their goggles, they watched you closely, noticing the subtle shudder of your shoulders, the downward twinge of your head, and the way your eyes seem to have lost that burning. This was something that troubled you deeply and for a terribly long time as well. So instead of what might be predicted of them to feel or do, mainly berate you for your lack of spine in the face of their profession, Bloodhound only leaned back in their chair and their mind wondering on how best to help you.

“It is not about vhat is right or vhat is not.” Bloodhound finally speaks, their tone mellow and coaxing you to look up at them again. At your acknowledgment, they continue with their explanation. “The hunt is a matter of vill - the vill of the hunter and of their prey. If your vill as a hunter surpasses that of the prey's vill to live, then you have every right to take it.” They ball their hand into a fist in an expression of power, shaking it slightly for emphasis. “You as a hunter must have an unwavering ákveðni, and strong belief in your skills. Trust your veapons and abilities, know that you are verðugt of the hunt.” Their voice lowers and they watch you for any signs of apprehension or disagreement. You only manage to look at them, eyes an unreadable ocean of something at war. They bring their fist to their chest and hammer it hard on the fabric, an attempt to ignite passion from you.

“If the hunter is humble and honors the hunt, then they have every right to taka their prey. Reap their rewards. You must just believe yourself vorthy of it. I have already seen that you have the ability and skill. Your bow, through troubled, aimed sure. And your knife brought a swift death. Now…”

“Just need to practice it.” You finish their statement, your gaze drifting a thousand miles away. Sure their wisdom was easy to take, generous even given the circumstances, but your mind was too frazzled to digest even a single word. Worthy? Not someone who hides in the forest and plays pretend bar-keeper. Bloodhound could see how you hesitated at their words, not necessarily rejecting it but not truly considering them either. They felt the urge to lean in more, to keep talking and chipping away at your pseudo mask until finally, they struck home. What were you thinking right now? Why were you so disgruntled at the thought of being worth something?

“You listen but my vords are not heard. You disagree vith vhat I say?” Bloodhound asks, their arms folding over their torso as they sit themselves upright, alert to your every movement and utterance. At their question you stir, a tired laugh that sounds more like a sigh escaping your nose and your eyes dropping their gaze.

“No, not at all. I am just… surprised.” Your response is framed with quiet complacency, your expression shifting to one of meek placidness. Bloodhound could tell that you were retreating back inside yourself, falling behind curtains of a trained profession such as the first night they met you. No longer were you that desperate person standing in the woods over a kill they mourned, instead you were a fake silhouette of someone who once was. They frown, unsure why they felt so unhappy to watch you shrink away again. Without speaking, Bloodhound asks you to elaborate.

“Forgive my rudeness but,” Your eyes snap up again and Bloodhound sees nothing in them. “I don’t really know you. And what little I do know, well, is that you are a most proficient hunter of both man and beast.” A hand lifts to your chest and you laugh. “You have seen it all and must think I am most annoying. Yet,” You pause, Bloodhound hanging off every one of your words, “You are so kind to my troubles.”

“I do not hunt in the Apex Games to prove anything. I do it for my folk and for the Allfather. I am no better than any other hunter.” Bloodhound speaks plainly, their heart thumping in their chest and their stare never once leaving your face. You smile unknowingly under their attention and they stare at your weak imitation of the real thing. Your true smile was the one they saw whilst sitting on the grass with you or when they told you stories in the car. Right now, you were faking it. Pulling away from them. Returning once more to your charade of sensibility. Whatever genuineness they had somehow managed to draw out of you was waning and they could do nothing but look on as you slipped away from them.

“I didn't mean to offend.” You ease them, your words lacing themselves with accommodation. “Your people must be very proud of all your titles however. No denying that it is impressive regardless of your motive.” You chuckle lightly. Suddenly you frown and you tilt your head at them. “May I ask,” When they did not oppose, you continued, “Why are you here? On this planet I mean. Why are you not with your people?” Bloodhound looks on like a marble statue, hardly even breathing beneath all their armor. You worry you might have overstepped your boundary and you open your mouth to apologize but they quickly cut you off.

“My folk vould not understand my decisions. Nor vould they approve of most that I do.” You can tell that the conversation was over and the warmth your bitter, hot drink had offered you only minutes earlier faded with the atmosphere. You nod in resignation.

“Then,” You say, standing and bowing your head in anticipated gratitude, the raven stranger’s attentive gaze not once shifting off your form, “I look forward to the Winter when I do not hear your Artur's call.”

“Oh my sweet, gentle Bar-keep, I am in need of your assistance!” Your eyes snap upwards from their work of stacking away cleaned glasses and you cannot help but grin at the one calling you. Seated at a table in the middle of your bar was a very drunk Thomas waving you over in exaggerated and hurried movements. He rocked backward in his seat and nearly looked as if he would fall over. You sigh and think it better to listen to him, lest your bar never know quiet again for the remainder of the evening. You step out from behind your bar table and carefully stroll over to him, a playfully condescending expression plastered to your face. Thomas beams a lop-sided smile and extends his hand, which you ignore and instead pat him lightly on his shoulder. He hums and overlaps your hand with his own seemingly unperturbed by your refusal.

“Ah my dear,” Thomas hiccups, swaying slightly in place despite being perfectly still, “Do not worry. I have not called you here to cause trouble. I just could not bear to see you stand behind your bar so lonely. I simply had to call you here. So troubled and worried over something.” Thomas squeezes your hand lightly and you roll your eyes at his obnoxious and misplaced concern.

“Though his words are slurred, they come from a genuine place.” From across the table, the farmer Mallory spoke. She offers you a sympathetic smile and silently apologies for her friend’s unruly behavior. Her heavy arms fold defensively over her large chest and she scowls at Thomas who sheepishly chuckles under her glare, retracting his hand and shrinking away slightly. Mallory sighs and looks to you again, the same concern that claimed her companion now sprinkled into her brown eyes. “You look a thousand years away tonight. What has upset you so?”

The two patrons turn their attention onto you and you gently shrug off their worries with a mild hand wave and flash of your smile. “You are looking for smoke signals when there is none, Mallory. And Mr. Thomas, you are concerned over the wrong things. You should be more concerned about returning to your own home before it gets too dark and I have to phone Rohan to come fetch you again.” Though the woman remains unmoved by your deflection, Thomas scoffs and shakes his head.

“Rohan’s bed will stay warm regardless of where I am. And he would excuse whatever lateness I cause if he had also seen how,” he stutters, his fingers flexing as he tried feebly to grasp at words that would not come, “ sad you look tonight.” You let out a tired laugh at the drunk fisherman’s antics and punch lightly at his shoulder.

“I assure you, my ‘sad looks’ are merely just that. Looks.” You gesture to the various empty beer glasses scattered around the table and after a nod from Mallory, you begin to place them on a tray to take back to the kitchen to be washed. “How ever could I be sad when I have your fine company to make my evenings so noisy?” This draws a cackle from the bitter woman, who relishes in your pecking at the man. Thomas gasps and feigns hurt under your judgments, a teasing hand placing pitifully over his broken heart.

It was all a lie, of course. There was some deep sincerity to your sadness that evening and it was not over Thomas’ painful crooning. Try as you might, your mind could not rid itself from the events that had occurred only the day before. What had happened with Bloodhound plagued your every waking moment. During the more lively hours of the day, when your bar was packed with singing, intoxicated patrons, you thankfully had a very loud and engrossing distraction. But now, as the evening winded down and the last table still waited to be cleared, your mind was awash with bitter thoughts.

It was all going so well, they had been so welcoming and friendly and you sat in their home confident and assured. They had shared in you their many stories and experiences, pulling you deeper into a conversation than you had ever been with them. And yet the moment you opened your mouth, allowed it to run unchecked and unguarded, the walls came down and the party ended. You were a fool, you kicked yourself. A damn, stupid fool for allowing yourself to speak so freely. To express to them a most sensitive part of yourself that not even your bathroom mirror had known. It was because of your inability to keep yourself in line that caused the rift to tear and now separate you from the person of your interest. Bloodhound told you such wonderful stories and now you were sure they would never want to speak to you again.

But you put on your brave face and pretend as if nothing is wrong. And that is true, of course. Nothing is wrong. Your life was fine before their intrusion and it shall be fine thereafter. The show must and will go on. Eventually, forced routine will become natural again and you will slip back into ease and complicit quietness. You will learn to move on and most certainly, so will they. If ever, you doubted greatly, you even left that much of an impact on them and all their glory.

“It is because you are so lonely, that's why you are so sad.” Thomas chimes, drawing both yours and Mallory’s attention back on him. He hums with content and leans back in his chair, sure that if he had a beard he would be stroking it thoughtfully. “We must find you someone to work with. Someone you can boss around and pull on their ear.” He winks at you and you smirk back, playing into his needful childishness.

“This is not the dark ages, Mr. Thomas.” You tease, taking your loaded tray to the bar counter and speaking over your shoulder. “We do not arrange marriages anymore.” The fisherman jeers and Mallory kicks him under the table. You return to them quickly, bringing with you a wet cloth and a glass of water requested by the woman. She presses it to Thomas’ face and commands him to sober up.

“Then how else are we supposed to get you hitched?” Thomas continues, paying no heed to the violent death stares of the woman sat across from him. Mallory kicks him again and he nearly spills his drink from the movement. You grin at the two of them, stepping back from the freshly wiped table with your arms folded over your chest.

“People don't need to be with others to be happy. I am perfectly content with myself as company.” You announce with your nose pointed in the air. “And you, as occasional annoyances.” The man chokes on his drink and Mallory snorts at your comment. You decide to continue playing along, matching their extended friendliness with your own enthusiasm.

“Y’know, I always thought it a vile rumor that fishermen were mad people.” You joke, taking the cloth and wringing it out before throwing it over your shoulder. “Nothing to do all day but sit in boats and think. But with every word you speak, my dear Thomas, I begin to believe that the rumor has some truth behind it." This arouses a snicker from the woman farmer and she shakes her head in amusement over you and disappointment for her friend. Thomas whines a noise that does not sound like any language you would know and Mallory leans forward.

"Finish your drink, my friend. I will see you home tonight." She urges the glass of water to his attention. "I cannot bear to watch you be torn apart any longer." Thomas darts his eyes between Mallory and you, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly like a fish out of water. You smugly smile at him, charming with all the beauty and grace of a snake. After a moment he relents, slumping down into his seat with a defeated huff, the water glass in hand.

“I swear, that mouth of yours,” Thomas moans into his glass weakly as if greatly wounded on a battlefield, “It is more vicious than any beast I’ve come across. Godspeed to anyone who dares to try to face such a monster.” At his last comment, you exhale loudly through your nose and shake your head dismissively. With one final look from Mallory, you leave the two late-evening patrons to finish their drinks and return to your work behind the bar.

The mood in the bar is somewhat lighter now and your hands worked at an easier pace with your mind quietly wondering over Thomas’ words. This was not the first time you had been scolded over your sharp words and you were sure it would not be your last. Conversation was your master and you were always one quick with your words, whether that be for the better or worse. Over the sound of you wiping down plates and glasses with a cloth, you could hear Thomas and Mallory talking faintly, the wind whispering outside your walls, and the gentle nothing of the world beyond. It was a peaceful evening, much more so now that you had dealt with your rowdy patron and the thoughts that curled like rats in a drowning cage. Though his comments were unnecessary, you thank Thomas for his distraction and for his unwitting lifting of your spirits. At least now you would be able to sleep soundly and with less of a worried mind.

Suddenly, a knock at the front door. Curious, unsure if it had even happened, you cast your attention over to it. It was far too late for anyone wanting to pop in for a drink and even if it was you were sure to turn them away. But still; there was no denying that you had, in fact, heard something. Or someone. Wordlessly, you slip out from your bar and quickly stroll to the door, pulling it swiftly open to reveal a cold night and a strange visitor.

“Oh,” You mumble, blinking numbly like a star-struck owl. You shake your head and revive your best smile to be planted on your lips. “What a lovely surprise.”

Standing before you, Bloodhound tipped their helmet, specks of accumulated snow falling off in the process. “Good evening,” They respond formally.

“And to you.” You nod back, familiar shivers running up and down your spine as you stood under their gaze. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You swoon, curling your words with over-exaggerated sweetness so as to hopefully hide your utter shock at their being here. They always seem to have a knack for popping back into your life when you least expected it. But now of all time, why?! You could hardly even look at them straight after what had happened not even the day before! Fresh embarrassment boiled in our stomach and you wanted nothing more but to go back into your quiet existence. This had to be some cruel dream from a most hateful deity, cursing you out for some horrible act you had unwittingly done. Why could they not just go back to being a figure on the T.V, an unknown? Why did they have to be here, standing before you, talking to you?!

“I vish to speak with you.” Bloodhound says, voice terribly low and near-emotionless. It caught you off guard slightly at how plain and devoid of anything they sounded, nothing at all like the passionate hunter you sat and drank with yesterday.

“My bar will be closed soon.” You explain after a moment of debating on what to say. A strong part of you begged for an excuse to say no, the refusal even gracing the tip of your tongue in eager desperation. But your hospitality overrode your anxiety and you stepped to the side to allow entry into your bar. “If you do not mind waiting a few minutes then you will have my undivided attention.”

Bloodhound considers your words, eyes darting between your face and the warm interior of the business. They too notice how your own words seem guarded this evening, jaded behind bars of entertainment and false care. You smiled, yes, but it was not genuine. Again, you reeked of fakeness and it irked them for some unknown reason. They hum their agreement and stride quickly inside. Upon their entrance, two faces turn to look at them.

You shuffle between Bloodhound and the skeptical table, closing the door and guiding your new patron over to the bar. They follow closely behind you and seat themselves on a red cushion stool. You resume your position as host and perform your duties accordingly, offering them something to drink while they wait. Bloodhound silently refused, only lifting their hand and shaking their head.

“I don’t think I mentioned it before,” You say, works trickling out like a spring in a dessert, soothing all worries with a trained presentation. “A while ago we had a fellow pass through our humble town who had a similar accent to yours. He was a swindler and tried to persuade me to purchase from him strange pickled meats and other strange things.” While you spoke, you resumed your wiping of the glasses and plates, talking over your shoulder as you worked in a most casual manner.

“Though everyone tried to steady my hand, he just was so compelling and I caved. And now I have, stored in the back for the foreseeable future, a bottle of the most potent alcohol anyone has ever seen.” Your face softens into a smile as you recall the memories of that night when a brave soul tried to drink from that poison. “Someone once tried and no one has since. Perhaps it is a drink you know?” You cock your question at Bloodhound, leaning over the bar table and grinning.

“Your intuition values you, but perhaps another night I can provide you an answer.” You take Bloodhound dismissal with grace and nod your head in swift acknowledgment. They were cold tonight, the very definition of stoic. Whatever they wanted to discuss with you, you could only hope would somehow be more lighthearted than this. From behind the hunter, movement erupts as the two patrons stand up.

“We are off, my dear Bar-Keep.” Thomas sings, waving a hand at you in an irritating manner. Mallory follows close as they make their way to the front door, her eyes practically burning holes into the raven stranger’s dead-straight back. She passes you a flash of a concerned look and you calm her down with a cool smile.

“Have a good night and a safe journey home.” You call after them, mildly glad that now your ears would know rest from the fisherman’s chanting. However, as his hands grace the front door’s handle, Thomas quickly spins on his heels and points towards you and your new arrival.

“Don’t you dare try anything with my Bar-keep!” Thomas threatens, standing with his hackles raised like a chihuahua to a bear, “If I hear that you have touched even a single hair, so help me I’ll-”

“Thomas.” Mallory punches the man's shoulder causing him to drop his ill-backed threat and wince in pain. Without a moment more, the farmer shoves the man out the door and the two disappear into the night with the door closely swiftly behind. You stare after them, the atmosphere suddenly seeming to shrink and grow cold as you become painfully aware of your aloneness with the hunter.

“They seem nice.” Bloodhound remarks and you are so stunned by their nonchalant attitude you nearly snort.

“It is a small town. Everyone here is like family.” You explain, turning to face those unreadable, immovable lenses. “Besides, I serve him beer. I get special privileges.” At this Bloodhound seems to stir and you feel slightly more room to breathe. Relax, it was just conversation. Don’t get carried away again and you will be fine.

The conversation halted, however, neither you nor Bloodhound knowing what next to say to break the forming ice that had started growing between you two. Though you wanted to know what exactly had compelled them to travel all the way to visit you on such an odd evening, you could tell that they were not ready to answer so instead you plucked random topics from the top of your head.

“Winter is moving slowly this year,” You begin, regaling the exact dialogue you had shared that afternoon prior with a patron and reusing it word for word, “No big snow storms as of yet. But that just means that towards the end of the season, Mother Nature will rear her true head and drive us all inside our houses.” You sigh and rest your elbow on the tables’ surface, your busy work of drying cutlery all finished and packed away. “Many people tell me, warn me in fact, that the late-season storms are the worst kinds. Impossible snow and hail and everything else to make the shit pie complete. And I thought the cold now is hard to handle. I have no idea how I’ll-”

“Stop that.” Bloodhound interrupts you harshly, their voice an almost growl as they sit behind their undecipherable armor. You are slightly taken aback by their outright force at the command, flashbacks to the first time you met them in all their rage reappearing in your mind. Bloodhound remains still, fists clenched over the table, shaking beneath the heavy red fabric gloves.

Though you cannot see, they squeeze their eyes shut in an effort to understand why, so suddenly, they were getting so worked up. Why were you just talking to them? So nonchalant and practiced - it felt as if talking to them was a chore. Some kind of business transaction or task that was only being done as a means to an end. But that is not what muddled Bloodhound’s mind, not your lack of genuine interaction, your quiet was not what drove them out of their house and to your bar this evening. What made them toil in confused agony, was why they even cared so much for your genuine company?

“What?” You murmur after a minute of stale silence, the wind picking up the rising atmosphere inside the bar and clawing at the windows to join in. The raven stranger does not respond right away, instead they fight with what words would be best used in this kind of delicate situation.

“Stop that.” They repeat their vague statement sternly, staring at you through their goggles with great intent, noticing any slight change in your features or body language. “Stop trying to sell me your company. I do not vant it.” At this you frown and straighten your back, confused beyond anything at what they could mean. You open your mouth to speak but Bloodhound stops you with a raised hand.

“You talk but there is no life. You smile but there is no light behind it. Do you think I am not worthy of your trueness? I have seen your true self but always you hide it. Do you think you are not worthy of enjoying yourself?” Utterly and so completely shocked at what was being said, you stood wordless with your face a mix between anger and bewilderment. Bloodhound watched you, eyes scanning up and down your form for any signs of egregious discontent. Why weren’t you speaking? Why weren’t you reacting in any way? Had their visit and accusations not even struck a nerve with you? You only stood there, placid and unwavering, like ice waiting for the sun to melt it.

“I have talked vith this free person, sat in silence vith them and felt þægilegt , calm. And I came here this evening because…” Bloodhound falters at this, unsure at what best to say when describing the reason they themselves still had no answer to. Why had they come here to bother you? Why had you not left their thoughts since yesterday, or even, since that afternoon on the grass? Why is it that when the world goes quiet and they stand still to listen, it is you who looms in the corner of their vision, beckoning for them to find you? In such a short time of meeting, somehow you had trapped them in some unforeseen and unbreakable cage - an ever-present urge to lean in more, to seek you out. But why, exactly, it was you of all people who had proclaimed that spot of interest, was a mystery that the Allfather cruelly hid from them.

“Vhat is it you vant from me?” Bloodhound lowly asks, their tone hollow and their demeanor stone-cold. Perhaps that was the reason for their spontaneous visit - to search for an answer themselves. To find out if maybe you felt at all the same way they did.

“Nothing.” The words leak from your lips like a whisper yet hold the strength and bite of a scream. Devoid of all anger, hostility, confusion, and regret, you gaze back at the raven stranger, “What ever could I possibly want from you?” And there it was - their answer.

“Now if that is all you came to ask me, then I must now say good night.” You motion with your attention towards the door, still shell-shocked over what had just transpired. Why are they so angry towards you? So taken aback by, what you were sure to be, great and comforting hospitality? This was the reason you had so ardently avoided opening yourself up to people, allowing yourself to talk unchecked often leads to situations where people get angry. And now Bloodhound was angry and you were sure you could never fix it.

The raven stranger slowly rises from their seat, tipping their helmet in a stiff manner before silently making their way over to the front door. This is how it will be, forever. You made a mistake, let your mouth have free rein over your conversations, and brought ruin to a person that made your chest ache. And as you watched them slip away into the snowy night, the only thing you can say was, “Have a safe journey home.”

#man i am aso tired #but i must post #for the horn kneeee #if you are reading my tags friends #thank you #i love you uwu #and i cannot thank you enough for taking time out of your day to read this hot garbage i post #apex legends bloodhound #bloodhound x reader #apex legends fic #apex legends x reader #bloth hondr

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dappercritter · 3 years

Note

She-Ra for the ask meme! (Maybe a bad time with the final season so close, you can save this until after if you like.)

(Based on this meme.)

Well, did I save this for later or what?

The first character I first fell in love with: Entrapta. Aside from her colour scheme—I do love a good purple girl, to say the least—I adore her for her enthusiastic, inquisitive, compassionate, and rather eccentric personality. Not to mention her design is an absolute joy to watch in action; from the goggles to the prehensile hair, is creative and adorable. She steals every scene she’s in with her loveably manic energy. The fact that she’s a scientist, who specializes in advanced technology no less, makes her an important character in a magic-driven fantasy setting—her design helps her stand out among the more traditional looking princesses, too! The fact that she’s some of the most effectively authentic examples of autistic representation in children’s fiction only enhances her likeability, in addition to the most interesting and sympathetic examples of morally grey characters that I’ve seen. Her wonderful chemistry with the rest of the Horde adds both to her charm, and really helped lighten things up on the villain’s side for the first 2-3 seasons, and her relationship with Hordak… Well, I’ll get to that shortly! 😉

The character I never expected to love as much as I do now: Madame Razz. I figured Razz was going to be a fun mentor character, but I could have never suspected she’d be the best mentor I and Adora could ask for! I’m not familiar with her original counterpart, but whatever they had to work with, I applaud the crew for taking the silliest looking character in the original line-up and turning her into this charming little old lady whose equal parts Yoda and Ghibli grandma. (Or at least that’s how I describe her.) Her design gets special mention, too, for just how dang cute she is! The big glasses, the raggedy dress, big fluffy hair with moths flying around, and her witch broom all come together so well. Out of all Adora’s mentors, she’s the best— having no ulterior motives, agendas, or any manipulative or toxic behaviour laced into her teaching style, offers the best life advice she can to someone who clearly needs it out of kindness. And because she bears a certain resemblance to someone she once knew in a similar position.

The character everyone else loves that I don’t: Catra. Shocking right? Look, I know that she had an awful time growing up in the Fright Zone and by the end of the show she became more well-rounded and likeable. Any grief I have with her is pretty much over done with. Problem is though… it is pretty hard to forget everything she did. Now, I know it’s all in the past and a lot of people haven’t forgotten what she did either, and that some of it has to do with the ugliness of the Catradora vs. Entrapdak dynamic discourse and I don’t want to go into that. I really don’t. But put as simply as possible, she was a toxic friend, especially in regards to Adora (the Season 1 and 2/3 finales in particular) and Entrapta (who she betrayed, left to die after lying about her to her lover/best friend, and the offering the bare minimum of an apology), and escalated a war just to get back at Adora. After she tried to destroy REALITY to get back at her. I’m glad she changed but it still feels like too little too late.

The character I love that everyone else hates: Swift Wind. Sure, he’s a talking horse with a design that can wander a good ways into the uncanny valley, and who tries too hard too hard to be funny, but in spite of that I think he’s got a good heart behind that strange face of his. He does his best to be a good friend to Adora, supporting her both as herself and when she’s She-Ra, as well as doing his best to support Adora’s other friends as well (see “Boy’s Night Out”). Chiefly by trying to make light of Adora’s duties as She-Ra by trying help her find the fun and excitement in it. Of course, he doesn’t just try to keep the energy up, he shows genuine concern for Adora and all her friends, not hesitating to rush to their protection or point out when a situation seems especially dire. (see “Beast Island” and “Failsafe”). But I think my favourite example is from “Hero” where he casually reveals that he regularly checks in on Madame Razz because, as he says, “You gotta check up on old ladies alone in the woods.” What a horse!

The character I used to love but don’t any longer: Glimmer. I used to love her personality and her design. A peppy rebel who lived for adventure and a good friend to Adora and Bow. Even if she had her flaws like her impulsiveness and her stubbornness, she was still pretty likeable. But then she called her mom a coward for acting as a strategist and looking after Bright Moon, which ended up convincing her to sacrifice herself to close the rift at the end of S3. Alright, fair enough, some things can’t be avoided. Then she took over as queen, and I can understand there was A LOT of factors that were in play—namely grief and Double Trouble deliberately playing on her strained friendship with Adora and Bow as part of one of Catra’s plots—but boy howdy, did she start showing a pretty unsavory side what with her increasingly ruthless demeanor, trusting Adora’s abuser (hi Shadow Weaver, be with you in minute) over her, choosing to leave Entrapta in very real peril on Beast Island, and willingly using a weapon she knew could destroy all of Etheria to win a war. Perhaps I wouldn’t have minded as much if season 5 didn’t rush through her apologies and redemption so quickly, but the fact remains that Glimmer’s character took an awfully dark turn that’s not quite going to be so easily forgotten.

The character I would totally smooch: In a dark future where Entrapta never found love with Hordak, for one terrible reason or another, I would totally give her a smooch. I’ve said it before and say it again: Mad scientist princess is best princess! The character I’d want to be like: Bow. In some capacity I’m already like him, namely being super emotional and doing his damnedest to be a good friend even when things are tough, as well as being the voice of reason and a tinkerer (what? Tinkering with artsy stuff counts!). But I’d like to follow his example of being more level-headed, softer, optimistic, but also more assertive as opposed to my impulsive, harsher, cynical, and reserved current self.

The character I’d slap: Shadow Weaver. Need I explain? No, and anyway I can’t slap her anyways because she pulled the most manipulative heroic sacrifice I’ve ever seen. Dammit it, Shadow Weaver! (I really wanted to say Horde Prime but I feel like he wasn’t developed quite enough to be as hateable as he could be. Not to say that he isn’t an absolute piece of trash who deserved what he had coming already, but we didn’t get to spend three whole seasons getting to know the depths of his manipulative depravity while simultaneously weaseling his way into a twisted version of a redemption arc, unlike someone else I just talked about.)

A pairing that I love: Entrapdak. In case, it wasn’t already obvious. To summarize, in spite of all the drama that surrounds them and their actions, they honestly have the sweetest, most affectionate, and quite possibly the most healthy and engaging pair of the entire show (next to Spinnerella and Netossa, of course). Shoot, if it weren’t for these two and my hopes to see them reunite again, I would have left the fandom entirely at this point! (No seriously, I’m getting tired, folks.)

A pairing that I despise: Hordak X Horde Prime, but I think that’s the point, since most people use it to explore toxic relationships from a distance. Anyways, I really do not want to talk about abusive alien selfcest.

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zelenacat · 3 years

Text

When We Were Young- Chapter 13- An Obitine Story

The difficult part of that promise lay with Tyra Satine. How would she get her daughter to Mandalore? Korkie went back to school with very few words to her, and all he promised was that he wouldn’t tell anyone. Satine felt sick to her stomach. Tristan, who attended the Royal Academy of the Sciences in Sundari, was spending most of his free time with Korkie and his friends. Although, Satine had only found out through the gossip columns. Mara was being trained as a criminal, but she was incredibly witty and quick. Satine decided that she wanted her daughter to have an education, and so granted Mara access to the Library of Lawmakers. She and her master criminal, Bartok was his name, had relocated to Mandalore and would be her eyes in the criminal underworld. Which Satine considered a great advantage, that she could tell no one about. But Tyra Satine, how could she get to her?

Then Padme called, and she knew.

“I’m coming next Tuesday!” cheered the Senator.

“Wonderful,” Satine smiled, “and Padme, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know, Master Quinlan Vos?”

“Hm,” Padme obviously tilted her head, “Anakin might.”

“Can you give me Anakin’s number then?”

“Why?”

Satine sighed, “There’s more that ties me to the temple than what you know.”

“How? This is a secure line, Satine.”

“Master Vos’ padawan,” Satine swallowed, “her name is Tyra Satine.”

Padme was silent for a moment.

“I’ll give you Anakin’s number, and ask about him for you.”

“Thank you, Padme,” Satine’s fear eased, “you’re a darling.”

“I know, I know,” the Senator grinned, “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Your arrival will be grand, that I promise.”

“Oh well,” Padme sighed, “I guess I’ll have to charm everyone.”

“It’s what you do best, Padme.”

“See you then, Satine.”

Happy with herself, the Duchess began to plan for Padme’s arrival. Her advisors were more than thrilled, Almec however, was slightly cautious.

“A Republic Senator visiting, after we’ve chosen to remain neutral,” he ventured, “wouldn’t that send the wrong message?”

“We’ll invite a member of the Seperatist Senate another time,” Satine assured him, “Padme is what the system needs.”

If anyone was surprised that the Duchess called the Republic’s best diplomat by first name, they didn’t show it.

“Is that all?” Satine asked.

“Yes, Your Grace.” the Prime Minister nodded.

Satine dismissed the meeting.

“Are you worried at all?” Parna asked when she brought in Satine’s afternoon tea.

The Duchess stayed silent.

“About the kids?” Khaami prompted.

“Yes,” Satine admitted with a sigh, “Korkie has been avoiding me.”

“I’m surprised you told them so soon,” Khammi commented, “seventeen years ago you said they would never know.”

Satine opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.

“She met Ben again.” Parna explained.

“Ah, yes,” Khaami leaned back, “the Jedi Knight in shining armor.”

“You know?” Parna squinted.

Khaami smiled, “I was present at the births of both sets of twins.”

“Along with Fesma and a medical droid.” Satine added.

“No pain relievers?” Parna gasped.

“Just some pills.” Satine answered.

Parna gaped.

“Our Duchess is quite the warrior,” Khaami smiled, “in her own way.”

“The she-wolf.” Parna agreed.

Satine sighed and stirred her tea, “I never thought my life would be like this.”

“I don’t think anyone could’ve foreseen what happened.” Parna said sympathetically.

“It is quite unusual.” Khaami added.

“That’s for sure.” Satine rolled her eyes.

Satine’s comm dinged.

“Oh,” the Duchess looked down, “it’s Anakin.”

Khaami tilted her head, “The Senator’s Jedi?”

“Yeah,” Parna explained, “he and Ben are close.”

Satine smiled.

“What is it?”

Satine giggled, “He’s congratulating me on my extensive efforts to undermine the Jedi, how very Mandalorian of me.”

“Ah,” Khaami nodded, “the hero with a strange sense of humor.”

Satine asked about Quinlan Vos and his Padawan.

“They will be accompanying Senator Amidala!” Parna squealed, reading over her lady’s shoulder.

Satine smiled and thanked the Jedi.

“Wait a minute,” Khaami blinked, “Ben isn’t his real name!”

Parna gave her a look.

“Isn’t Master Kenobi on the Jedi Council?” Khaami asked with a frown.

“That’s why no one can find out.” Parna explained.

“Satine,” Khaami sighed, “please tell me you’re not going to have any more children.”

The Duchess laughed, “Khaami, I’m 35 years old, I won’t be having any other children.”

“I’m just making sure, Your Grace.” the lady winked.

Parna smiled, “Where shall we have them meet?”

“The gardens,” Satine clapped, “with a picnic.”

“In full view?”

“They’ll be friends of Korkie’s,” Satine explained, “just here for tea.”

The meeting took place on Sunday, and Quinlan Vos and his Padawan Tyra showed up in one of the Republic’s cruisers. Only, it hovered slightly above the landing pad.

“I’ll pick you up on Tuesday!”

Satine’s heart lurched as Tyra jumped off the ship and struck a perfect landing right next to her.

“Tyra Satine!” she whispered harshly.

Her daughter stood, took the Duchess’ hand, and curtsied.

“You must be Lady Mother.”

Parna giggled on Satine’s right.

“I am.”

Tyra stood and kissed her mother’s cheek, “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Your Grace.”

“Oh?”

The Padawan pulled a necklace out of her shirt, “I did extensive research on it, that’s how I knew I was Mandalorian.”

“I’m glad you still have that trinket,” Satine looped an arm around Tyra, “it was your grandmother’s.”

Khaami and Parna accompanied Satine and Tyra to the gardens, where Korkie, Tristan, and Mara were waiting.

“Howdy do?” Tyra winked.

Mara burst into laughter, Tristan looked confused, Korkie was horrified.

“Don’t worry,” Tyra sat down on the blanket, “I don’t actually talk like that.”

“Oh,” Tristan bit his lip, embarrassed, “well thank God.”

Tyra snorted, “I have some manners, I’m from the Temple after all.”

“Can I see your weapon?” Korkie perked up.

“Sure!”

“No,” Satine crossed her arms, “definitely not.”

“Why not,” Korkie asked, mirroring Satine’s stance, “Lady Mother?”

“Because,” Satine huffed, “you are the Mandalorian heir, and you shouldn’t touch a Jedi weapon.”

“Oh yeah,” Tyra nodded, “because he’ll definitely burst into flames.”

“Tyra Satine.”

“It’s true, Lady Mother,” Mara piped up, “Korkie can handle himself.”

“I’m seventeen.” Korkie agreed.

“Son,” Satine sighed, “you’d burn a hole through your head if you tried to use a lightsaber.”

“Not if Tyra trained him.” Tristan pointed out.

“Absolutely not!” Satine clutched her pearls.

“Why not?” Korkie asked, smiling wider than Satine had ever seen him smile.

“Because,” Satine stuttered, “because-”

“Perhaps, Your Grace,” Khaami interrupted smoothly, “we should leave the children to their antics and go enjoy a nice cup of tea?”

“A relaxing cup of tea.” Parna added.

Satine relented, “I would enjoy that.”

The Duchess began her walk upstairs, but then turned around sharply.

“No Jedi shenanigans, children.” she warned.

“Of course not,” Tristan grinned in a seated bow, “Lady Mother.”

Slightly frustrated Satine continued on her way upstairs and had Khaami bring a nice platter of tea and sweets up to her personal parlor.

“They love each other already.” Parna smiled.

“They ganged up on me!” Satine huffed, grabbing a cookie.

“That’s what siblings do.” Parna smiled.

“Their obsession with the Jedi though,” Khaami frowned, “that’s concerning.”

“We told them their father is a Jedi.” Satine frowned.

“Yes,” Parna spoke up hopefully, “but they don’t know which Jedi.”

“Let’s hope they don’t figure it out.” Khaami agreed.

“Let’s.” Satine nodded.

After her morning tea, Satine had a meeting with her council.

“Things are running smoothly for Senator Amidala’s visit.” Prime Minister Almec smiled.

“What about these reports of food shortages,” Satine asked, “they are concerning.”

“I agree,” seconded one of her advisors, “we must investigate this problem.”

As more and more agreements to this statement were reiterated, Satine noticed Almec’s knuckles whiten.

“What do you think, Prime Minister?” she asked, suddenly skeptical.

“I think that we should focus on one event at a time,” Prime Minister Almec suggested, “perhaps this should be a problem for after the Senator leaves.”

Satine frowned, if there was one thing she hated, it was corruption, and she now knew that people were willing to lie to her.

“I think we shall keep watch on this problem,” Satine decided, “but I also think we should begin our efforts now.”

“I agree with Her Grace.”

Satine looked around the table, no one disagreed.

“Dismissed.” Satine announced.

Only the Prime Minister stayed back.

“Prime Minister?” Satine questioned, tilting her head.

“I do not think it wise to show the Republic we are weak.” he responded.

“We are only as weak as our insecurities are strong,” Satine stood, “Mandalore stands firm in her position.”

Almec bowed, “Your Grace.”

Parna met Satine at the door.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s just,” Parna sighed, “Tristan has just mind tricked a guard.”

Satine coughed.

“And Korkie,” Parna continued, “Tyra seems to think he’s powerful.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Satine shook her head, “not my Korkie.”

“Come see.” Parna advised.

Instead of the garden where she left them, Satine’s children were at the center of the garden’s maze. Surrounded by a large picnic and floating objects.

The Duchess was furious, “What in the name of Mandalore-”

The flying objects dropped.

Satine raised an eyebrow, “Didn’t I say no Jedi shenanigans?”

“Sorry, Lady Mother,” Tristan smiled, “but I can do mind tricks now!”

Crossing her arms, Satine told her second son to fix the guard. After some pouting, he did.

“Your Grace!”

“Please return to your post,” Satine nodded, “I must speak to my nephew and his friends.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

After he was gone, Satine noticed all the children staring at her.

“What?”

“You called me your nephew.” Korkie said sadly.

Satine shook her head, “That particular guard is not on the list of people who know.”

“Which guards are?” Tyra asked.

“My two head guards know half the story,” Satine clarified, “but you must not tell anyone.”

“Tristan has great balance,” Tyra spoke up, “he should practice lightsaber movements.”

The Duchess’ voice grew cold, “There is no need for that.”

The children looked at each other, surprised.

“Lady Khaami said our father was a powerful Jedi,” Tristan crossed his arms, “why can’t we learn his art?”

“Because he,” Satine stuttered, “he, he doesn’t know about you.”

“We know that, Lady Mother,” Mara spoke, “that’s not a good enough reason.”

Satine let the silence hang.

“Would it be so terrible to assume,” Korkie began, “that our father is a high profile figure?”

“No,” Satine swallowed, “no it would not.”

“And no doubt your reputation,” Tyra frowned, “even at the Temple people are surprised I hail from the Mandalore system.”

“And Mandalore’s dignity.” Tristan added.

“All I ask,” Satine began quietly, “is that if you do anything remotely related to the Jedi, then please do it in secret.”

“Yes, Lady Mother.” Mara nodded.

“We understand, Lady Mother.” Tristan agreed.

Korkie stood and embraced his mother.

“You raised me,” he said, “even though I didn’t know, I would hate to remind you of hard times.”

The Duchess sobbed, “Thank you, Korkie.”

“We won’t practice if it reminds you of our father.” Tyra insisted.

“No, practice,” Satine wiped her eyes, “just don’t tell me about your progress.”

Parna came forward and steadied Satine.

“We have the final touches to prepare for Padme’s visit.”

“Yes,” Satine swallowed, “please children, excuse me.”

The final steps to prepare for Padme’s visit were picking her rooms. Korkie still slept on the same floor as her, and his siblings would be placed in the remaining rooms around him. Which left the lower floor.

“Can we give Padme a room on the lower floor,” Satine asked, “Would she be offended?”

“I cannot say, Your Grace,” responded the palace’s head maid, “she seems sensible, but we do not wish to offend the Republic.”

Parna leaned in close to Satine, “Tyra and Mara can share, and if Tristan bunked with Korkie she could fit.”

The Duchess considered this, she had never shared a room with Bo-Katan even when they were young.

“I hear the Prince’s friends will be staying till Tuesday morning.” stated the head maid.

“Yes,” Satine nodded, “but we will have them share, I’m sure they won’t mind.”

Hesitant, the maid smiled, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

The Duchess arranged for a quiet dinner in a small dining room with her children. Then, she asked the guards if they knew where the Prince and his friends were.

“The ballroom, Your Grace.”

“Thank you.” Satine nodded.

The Duchess of Mandalore was shocked to find her kids wrestling each other on the ballroom floor. Well, it was more like Tyra was teaching her siblings self defense with the added bonus of getting to beat them up.

“It’s alright, Lady Mother,” Mara smiled, seeing the Duchess first, “we’re alright.”

Satine gawked, “Tyra Satine, stop choking your twin brother!”

“I’m not-”

Korkie, who was back to the floor, kneed Tyra in the chin and twisted on top of her.

“Go Korkie!” Tristan cheered.

Satine sighed, “Don’t encourage your brother, Tristan.”

Mara pulled Korkie off of Tyra.

“Come on, I was about to win!”

“No you weren’t,” Tyra stretched, “Tristan, you want to go next?”

Tristan opened his mouth to speak.

“Absolutely not,” Satine crossed her arms, “I have ordered a special dinner and I will not have my children bruised.”

“Dinner,” Mara frowned, “it’s not even four o’clock.”

“Lady Mother,” Tyra’s knit her eyebrows, “that doesn’t make any sense.”

Tristan and Korkie looked at each other.

“Knowing our Lady Mother,” Korkie began, “we will likely have to dress for the occasion.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry,” Tristan grinned, “I’m sure you’ll take kindly to the royal treatment, Tyra.”

“Ha ha.”

“Children,” Satine smiled, “tonight I would like to imagine I raised you myself, you will have to act your birthright.”

“But it’s just us, right?” Mara asked.

“Yes,” Satine nodded, “just us.”

“Korkie,” the Duchess turned, “give Tristan one of your old uniforms. Tyra and Mara shall come with me.”

Parna and Khaami made grand gestures to welcome Tyra Satine and Mara to the Duchess’ royal wardrobe.

Mara gawked, “I’ve never seen anything so fancy before in my life!”

Tyra clapped, “Oh my God, we get to wear these?”

“Yes,” Satine smiled, “pick out a dress.”

Squealing, the Duchess’ daughters ran through the rows of gowns and skirts of their mother’s walk-in closet.

“You’re so stylish, Lady Mother.” Tyra winked.

“Some of these I haven’t worn in years.” Satine confessed.

“I’ve watched some of your speeches,” Mara nodded, “you generally stick to the house colors.”

Satine was humbled, “You’ve watched my speeches?”

Mara blushed, “He was never subtle.”

Satine smiled.

“I like this one!” Tyra smiled, pulling out a salmon pink gown with a satin ivory sash and lace.

“What, Tyra,” Mara asked, “why?”

“We don’t get to play dress up at the temple,” Tyra explained, “and I think I'm gonna love being a secret princess.”

Satine laughed at that.

Mara gasped, “OMG, we should be matching!”

Tyra raised an eyebrow, “You?”

“Criminal trainees need baby lace too!” Mara whined.

Laughing, Satine pulled out a lilac version of the same dress.

“I’ll leave you two to get changed,” Satine beckoned for Khaami, “Lady Khaami will bring the head seamstress to see you.”

“The head seamstress?”

The Duchess grinned, “Alterations of course.”

Mara gasped, Tyra squealed. Khaami winked as she passed them.

“Parna,” Satine turned, “watch the girls while I check on the boys.” “Yes, Your Grace.” the lady smiled.

Satine made her way over to Korkie’s room, where much rustling emanated from within.

“Ow, Tristan-”

“Move over, Korkie.”

“Boys,” Satine smiled sweetly, “will you be done soon?”

“These uniforms are all tight, Lady Mother.” Tristan complained.

“Wear something in pastel blue, then, with white accents,” the Duchess suggested, “it will go with your sisters’ outfits.”

“Yes, Lady Mother.” Korkie agreed.

With a triumphant grin, Satine sauntered off back to her room.

“Mara and Tyra are being fitted in the parlor,” Parna told her, “shall we pick out your dress?”

“Yes,” the Duchess straightened, “I should like my pale yellow dress for this evening.”

Parna clapped, “I know just the one.”

By the time the entire family was dressed for dinner, it was almost time for the meal. Satine took her daughters and met her sons in the hallway.

“You look lovely, boys.” the Duchess smiled, pride in her features.

“We’re matching,” Tristan observed, “I’m sure you planned that, Lady Mother.”

“I most certainly did,” Satine nodded, “now, we will enter in proper form.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, hush, Tyra Satine,” the Duchess waved, “Korkie, take your twin sister on your right arm.”

Korke made a show of walking over to Tyra, jutting out his right arm, and placing Tyra’s left arm through his.

“Tristan, do the same with your twin sister.” Satine ordered.

With a little less grace and a couple hesitations, Tristan did the same.

“Korkie and Tyra will walk behind me,” the Duchess instructed, “and Tristan and Mara, you will follow.”

“Ooh,” Mara grinned, “fancy.”

“You ready?”

“Yes, Lady Mother.” answered a quartet of voices.

Satine lead her children into the private dining room, applauding herself silently as they all gasped.

“What a feast, Lady Mother!” Tyra gasped.

Mara choked back a sob and Satine wrapped her arm around her youngest.

“I’m afraid we’ll forgo servants tonight,” the Duchess explained, “servants and all, but please sit down and serve yourselves.”

Tyra made to sit down, but Korke stopped her.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he smiled, pulling out her chair, “only the best for a princess of Mandalore.”

Delighted, Tyra sat down.

Pulling out Mara’s chair, Tristan asked, “Are you trying to outdo me, Brother?”

Sliding into her chair with ease, Mara grinned up at her mother as Tristan pushed in her chair.

“Who shall pull out Lady Mother’s chair?” Tyra asked, looking to stir up violence.

Korkie and Tristan shared a look before racing over to their mother’s chair.

“How about both of you work together,” Satine suggested with a smile.

Tristan pulled out the chair anyway, stubbing Korkie’s toe.

“Lady Mother.” bowed her oldest.

Mara snorted. Satine sat down.

“Now that we’re all seated,” began the Duchess when everyone was comfortable, “I was hoping you’d all tell me a story about your childhood, a favorite moment, so that I get to know you.”

The children looked around the table.

“While eating of course.” Satine amended.

The Duchess worried that she had asked too much of her children, but then the silence dissipated and they began to serve themselves.

“After I had gotten my lightsaber,” Tyra began with a grin, “the Jedi Masters were supposed to choose a padawan, Master Vos chose me because I told him I had better hair than he did.”

Mara snorted, “Proud at an early age huh, Tyra?”

“He then asked me why I thought so,” Tyra gestured, “and I said because I was Mandalorian. Then I said that I researched my necklace and voila, I had a master.”

“Wow,” Satine shook her head, “that’s not usually how I remember hearing how it goes.”

“Lady Mother,” Tyra rested her chin on her hands, “you know Jedi stories?”

“I’ve known a few Jedi.” Satine nodded.

“Wait,” Mara paused, “isn’t our father-”

“I mean Master Qui-Gon-”

“You knew Master Qui-Gon,” Tyra perked up, “Master Vos says he’s the only one who could rival me for best hair.”

Satine burst into laughter.

“Lady Mother?”

“Tyra Satine,” smiled the Duchess, “you would for sure win that contest.”

“Really?” Tyra perked up.

“Master Qui-Gon once went a week without washing his hair,” Satine smiled at the memory, “it nearly destroyed him.”

Tyra shivered, “Sounds dreadful.”

Korkie sighed, “I now know so much more about you, Tyra.”

Tyra snorted, “Oh please, that wasn’t even the best one.”

“Mara,” Tristan suggested, “why don’t you go next?”

“Ooh,” Mara clapped, setting down her spoon, “how about the time I mind tricked the head of the Coruscanti Crime Ring!”

Satine gaped, “You did what?”

Mara blushed, “Don’t worry, Lady Mother, we’re not allowed back there.”

Satine sighed, head in her hands.

“I’ll go next,” Tristan piped up, “when I was seven I tried bokator for the first time.”

“Teach me?” Korkie asked.

Satine was so startled she coughed on her own spit. Tyra laughed.

“Anyways,” Tristan continued, “I broke a kid’s nose and then proceeded to tell him the process of how the doctors would fix it.”

“You’re such a nerd, Tristan.” Mara teased.

“When I was five,” Korkie began, “I told the head of Clan Saxon that she reminded me of a pooka.”

Satine groaned, “I remember that.”

“You,” Tyra asked, “the perfect manners man?”

“Yeah.”

“He got no dessert for a week,” Satine recounted, “what was it you liked, Korkie?”

The Duke of Sundari grinned, “Those packets with flavored powder and chalk-like sticks.”

“I loved that!” Mara gasped.

“I wasn’t even allowed to have that.” Tristan crossed his arms.

Tyra looked between her siblings, “Did I miss out on something?”

“Definitely.” Satine stated, reaching for her drink.

As dinner progressed, the Duchess felt a happy longing, wishing for this to have always been her life.

“Remember, children,” Satine spoke before dismissing her children, “Senator Amidala is coming on Tuesday.”

“We know, Lady Mother.”

“You’ll have to remain in the background,” Satine advised, “but you’ll meet her later on.”

After bidding her children goodnight, the Duchess went up to her room, sending Khaami to bring nightdresses to her daughters.

“How was it, Your Grace?” Parna asked, untying Satine’s dress.

“Marvelous,” tears sprung to the Duchess’s eyes, “my children are treasures.”

#satine kryze #satine x obiwan #Duchess Satine #korkie kenobi #obi wan kenobi #obitine #obiwan

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absinthemadness · 3 years

Note

Prompt:

“i don’t like the way they look at you. perhaps i’ll cut their eyes out.”

Warnings: Serial killer AU, death, murder, blood, dismemberment, one(1) possessive ghost

Boy howdy did this get dark quick (Though I imagine that's what you're going for) Set in the same AU as my ao3 post, for those that have read it.

Read the warnings and proceed with caution (if you're not Spookie.)

Under the cut because... yeah.

Plz don't snipe me where I stand tumblr

---

It shouldn't be Axel lying in a bed of dirt and bones. Deep within the forest. It should be strangers. People Roxas didn't know.

Didn't care about.

Not Axel. Not his clarity.

Though, he supposes even Axel hadn't been enough. He wound up buried with the rest of them in the end.

But if he'd made an ounce of connection, felt an ounce of humanity with one person, surely he could do it again.

---

He finds himself at a restaurant. Unsure how he got there. He sits across from a guy.

And Roxas realizes. He can't remember the man's name.

All he can see is the green of his eyes, nowhere near as vibrant as they should be. How his hair is too orange. How he is too short.

But Roxas forces a smile and tries. He talks. He listens. He tries not to tell the man that he will wind up dead if he sticks around. How he will be nothing more than warmth for his lover's corpse in the end.

His lover. Who was standing behind the man.

Axel is flawless. Save for the gash across his throat. He isn't ghostly white like he should be. But tan in the flickering candlelight.

And the man across from him is forgotten. Until he calls Roxas by name.

"I'm sorry," Roxas apologizes. He tries to force the smile up into his eyes. He tries not to watch as Axel walks around the table. To stand by his side.

"Why do this, Roxas?" Axel speaks over his shoulder. "Are you trying to replace me?"

"I killed you," Roxas hisses, hoping his date doesn't hear. He'd learned months ago how to speak without moving his lips.

People thought one crazy when they talked to ghosts.

Axel leans in over the chair. His palms slide down Roxas's chest. "And I told you. I'll always be with you."

He waits for his date to say something as Axel kisses at his neck. Ghosts shouldn't be able to touch him. But there Axel is.

His date is smiling at him. Talking about... Something. He talks with his hands. Just like Axel used to... Still does.

"Roxas, darling. I love you so much." Axel pauses, nibbling at his earlobe. Roxas fights to keep in the pleasured sigh, trying to focus on the stranger in front of him.

He is smiling still, quiet. Staring expectantly at Roxas.

"I'm sorry." Roxas bows his head, trying to lean away from Axel. "I missed that last bit."

The whole conversation.

"Are you feeling ok?" His date reaches out and places a hand over his. "You're looking awfully pale."

Axel hisses when their hands make contact. He drapes himself over Roxas, heavy on his shoulder as he tries to slap the man's hand away.

But unlike the torso resting on his body, Axel's hand goes straight through his date's.

"Yeah, no. I'm ok." Roxas yanks his hand back, and wonders if the man heard the slap.

The weight disappears from his back and he watches in horror as Axel moves back around the table to stand by his date.

"My sweet Roxas." Axel leans in, staring him dead in the eyes over the stranger's shoulder. His hand ghosts over the man's cheek.

"I don't like the way they look at you."

Roxas's heart hammers in his chest as Axel's hand moves toward a steak knife.

"Perhaps I'll cut their eyes out."

But Roxas sighs in relief when Axel's hand passes through both the knife and the table.

Axel is by his side in an instant.

"Take him home, Roxas," Axel hisses in his ear. "Kill him. Bring him to me." One long finger strokes his cheek. Over and over. "I'm so cold, Roxas. I need more to keep me warm at night."

Roxas wants nothing more than to be swallowed up by his emptiness. But with Axel by his side, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, it is impossible to slip away.

The entire date is a mistake. How had he dared to have hope? To think he could get over Axel.

"On second thought," Roxas mumbles. "Maybe you should take me home."

---

The stranger takes him up on the offer of coffee. It's easy enough to lure him into the kitchen.

It is always easier to clean the kitchen.

Axel leaves him alone, and he slips into the numb emptiness of his mind until he stands deep in the woods. At three am.

And there he adds to his lover's tomb. His lover's shrine.

He adds to the nest that cocoons the body with more blood, flesh, and bone.

He has to keep Axel warm and safe.

And then he turns and places a pair of not-quite-emerald-green eyes into Axel's waiting palm, watching long fingers wrap around them.

#absinthe answers #akuroku #welcome to dark hours with absinthe #darkfic #serial killer au #death cw #dismemberment #murder

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consumedkings-archive · 3 years

Text

WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic.

chapter five: dark vibrations

word count: 11.4k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: body horror, hallucinations (?), mentions of self-harm, mentions of suicide. spooky scary activities ensue. elliot has an increasingly difficult time keeping a grasp on reality. we knew this was gonna happen, though!

notes: howdy! i hope y’all enjoy this. sometimes i go weeks without updating and sometimes i wait like, 4 days before manically writing an entire chapter. you know how it be like that sometimes. i was feeling a bit more inspired and felt like i finally hit a groove on where this story was going, which i think definitely helped, and i hope you all enjoy it!

thank you, as always, to everyone who reads, likes/comments, even if you just come into my dms with two nice words or write something nice in your tags; it really does make my whole night to see even one person enjoying anything i’ve made. <3

Cold morning light filtered in through the window, drenched in wedding-silk grays thanks to the wintery cloud-cover. Everything in the room looked to be placed with absolute intent and care; polished, porcelain-white decor in elaborate geometrics, gold accents, a king-sized bed with impeccably pressed sheets. Truthfully, John had thought for certain he’d come back into the house to be informed by Elliot’s statuesque mother that, in fact, she had rescinded her offer to let him stay and actually, he would need to depart immediately, lest the authorities be called.

He was glad that it hadn’t come to that, of course, because it would’ve been such a shame to have to dampen Scarlet’s opinion of her own daughter so quickly into their meeting.

Dropping his small bag of belongings—the manila folder packed full of information, including his own scribbled notes; the burner phone; a few quickly-packed clothes that had been meticulously cycled to avoid the most long-term wear—John paused as the heat in the house kicked on with a delicate whirr.

Everything in Scarlet Honeysett’s home seemed to be precisely the shape and color that she liked, with not a single thing out of place; and yet, as the heat kicked on, he was certain that he could hear the sound of sharp, hushed voices downstairs, a little ripple in the woman’s perfect, arcadian home scene.

It was good. It felt good, to be here. To have gotten the upper hand. So much of the past weeks he’d spent with Elliot had felt like he was slowly, violently spiraling out of control, but this? She was here, and she had to play by his rules for once, and—

And he’d wanted just one more second alone, with her. To watch the way her eyes flickered over his face, to drink in the way her chin tilted up in defiance but not unlike the way she used to do it when she was waiting for him to kiss her, the same lovely high-color in her spreading along her cheekbones and the same little spark in her gaze. Whether it was anger or allure was neither here nor there, anymore; with Elliot, they were interchangeable, a stepping stone one way or another, just the way it had always been with them.

Because John liked her anger. He liked her wrath. He wanted to put his hands on it, his mouth on it, break it into pieces and wring it out of her and put it back and do it all over again, while she said his name, his name, and not anyone else’s. God, she’d been so fucking close—so close, and he couldn have just had her if he really wanted to, grabbed a fistful of her hair and kissed her when the sting of her slap was still fresh on his face. She liked when he did that; kissed her, like he was starved for her. Because he was starved for her, and then she could knot her fingers into his shirt or dig her nails into his skin or whatever it was she wanted to make him desperate.

The sound of excited barking downstairs broke him out of his thoughts. John blinked, taking one last swift look-over of the immaculate room his mother-in-law had decided to put him up in before he nudged his bag beneath the bed and stepped out into the hallway.

To say old money would be almost an understatement. Surely, this house had to have some kind of historical significance; it was several stories, with one of those grand staircases that was wide going up, hit a landing, and then split to either side of the house. As he made his way down, he caught sight of the flicker of Scarlet’s silk robe in the kitchen; music drifted out of it, the same kind of hazy, older music that Elliot had turned on in her mother’s house back in Hope County.

“Stop moving,” Elliot was saying to Boomer, strapping him into a little reflective vest that sat on him like a saddle blanket. For a second, she didn’t notice his presence—or willfully ignored it; he couldn’t say for sure one way or another—and instead focused on the Heeler, rubbing his ears and kissing the bridge of his nose. A tiny little smile ticked the corners of her mouth, and he thought he heard her say, so handsome, best boy, yes you are.

Boomer’s attention snapped to John, now at the foot of the stairs. He let out one sharp, accusatory bark (could dogs sound accusatory, John wondered, or was that just Elliot getting to him?), and what little of his hackles were visible from out under the vest spiked up instantly.

“Good to see you too, beastie,” John greeted him, trying to ignore the way the hound’s low-pitched, reverberating growls made his skin crawl. Flashes of Boomer’s numerous and vicious takedowns of not only Eden’s Gate members but at least one member of the Family that had the misfortune of having chained the dog up darted across his memory, like a flipping through a photo album.

“Don’t talk to him,” Elliot snipped, cupping Boomer’s ears protectively. “I don’t need him getting the idea we’re friendly.”

John rolled his eyes. “More than friendly, I’d say.” His eyes darted over her, drinking in once against the shock of her appearance—red hair, so fucking red that every time he looked at her it was almost like staring at a stranger until he took in the rest, the freckles smattering her nose and the flush in her cheeks, cupid’s-bow lips that were glossed. Had he ever seen Elliot with more than river-soaked mascara on before?

The woman shot him a look, dry and unamused, coming to a stand. He asked, “Going for a walk?”

“Trying to,” she replied tartly, “but someone is evil enough that Boomer doesn’t trust them.”

“We’re pals,” John offered pleasantly. “Me and the beast. You know, were, anyway. He probably just needs to spend a little time with me.”

“Speaking from personal experience, more time makes you less palatable.”

“Let me come on the walk with you,” he tried again, letting her little barbs and jabs roll right off of him, water skating off of his feathers. At this point, he really quite enjoyed her venom; it was familiar. “I’m sure we’ve got plenty to catch up on.”

Elliot eyed him warily, eyes giving him a scathing once-over—eerily reminiscent of her mother’s own disdainful look, and now he thought, ah, yeah, that is where she gets it from, then—as her mouth twisted around whatever it was she wanted to say but wouldn’t let herself. Something too vicious for Scarlet to overhear, perhaps. The threats she’d made in the past had been wildly colorful, but each second that Ell spent considering her words more carefully rather than saying whatever it was she felt with her eyes darting to the kitchen was another second that John became more aware of how little Scarlet actually knew.

“Fine,” Elliot said at last, her eyes narrowing. “I suppose that we do. Mama, we’re leavin’.”

The little quirk of an accent at the end of her sentence made him swallow back a laugh. He’d barely heard that Georgia accent back in Hope County, but maybe spending time with her mother had reinspired it.

“Alright,” Scarlet said, drying her hands on a towel as she stood in the doorway. Her eyes glanced between them, inquisitive for a moment, before she said, “Be quick. Doctor’s appointment in an hour and a half.”

John tilted his head. “Oh? Baby check-in?”

“Can’t imagine what else it would be, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet idled. “Are you familiar with the process of pregnancy?”

“Not beyond the knowledge of a man, I’m afraid.”

“Well, allow me to educate you,” the blonde said, her voice light. “When a woman is carrying a baby, she has to make frequent visits to the doctor, to ensure that all is well. Can’t have anything going wrong with the baby, you know.”

John steadied the intake of breath so that it did not sound so abrupt. He would have done a double-take and thought perhaps she was just overbearing, and not attempting to insult him, were Elliot not smiling. Certainly, only her mother’s attempted insult of him could elicit such an expression out of her.

“Then my arrival was fortunately timed,” he announced. “I look forward to it.”

“And you’ll be sorely disappointed,” Elliot cut in, her humor fading. “You won’t be coming.”

Ah, yes. That’s why I don’t love her attitude. “That’s absurd,” he replied, incredulous. “It’s nearly six weeks, and I haven’t seen a single ultrasound of our baby.”

He was careful, this time, to keep it to our baby. He’d seen the way Elliot’s expression tightened when he’d said my baby, even though that’s what came so naturally to him now, being that they were hardly on the same team—but he’d seen it, that look in her eye, the way she’d squared her shoulders like she’d suddenly been ready to go at him.

Only one thing to do with a rabid dog, Jacob had said, not two days before they found Elliot drenched in another man’s blood in the woods.

John half-expected Scarlet to jump in, to say that it was the father’s right to be there; she was more traditional than Elliot, if her comment about wedlock or her insistence of him staying were anything to go by, but when he turned his gaze to her, the older woman’s expression was devoid of any sympathy. Typical of Honeysett women, he was coming to find.

“If she doesn’t want you there, then you won’t be there. I won’t have my daughter stressed out,” Scarlet told him. “Stress is bad for the baby. Surely that falls within the realm of what a man knows about babies, Mr. Seed?”

He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “Surely.”

“Good. Hour and a half, my beloved, do not be late.”

That a woman had become so capable of tacking the softness of my beloved onto something that verged on a threat was nearly beyond John—would have been, certainly, were he not accustomed to Isolde’s particular brand of venom that was not so unlike Scarlet Honeysett’s.

“I won’t,” Elliot promised. “Can you call the handyman? My TV’s been acting up lately. Turning on static and whatnot.”

“Fine,” Scarlet replied, waving her hand. “I’ll have them come out this afternoon.”

Elliot turned on her heel and opened the front door out into the frigid morning, letting Boomer dart out ahead of her and not waiting for him in the least. He fell into step beside her easily, shrugging into his coat halfway out the door as it clicked shut behind him; she trudged through the snow, passing the garbage can and opening the gate that led out into what had once been pastureland and towards the woods.

It was the same fence that she’d been standing at, early that morning, face lax and serene. If the return to the fence bothered her at all, it didn’t show on her face any more than her irritation at having him there.

“Your mother’s quite...” John’s voice trailed off. “Tall.”

“Mm.”

“Statuesque, even.”

“Mmhm.”

“I get the feeling she doesn’t like me that much.”

“Yes,” Elliot acquiesced, her tone dripping with something close to venomous amusement, “I’ve never seen her take so poorly to someone so quickly before.”

“I suppose I should be flattered.”

“You would be.”

A fourth of the way into the snowy pasture and Boomer was far ahead of them, leaping like a little speckled gazelle in drifts of snow. It was easy to forget that the dog had been ready to rip him to shreds just a little under an hour ago (and once more, more recently). Still, as they trudged through a path that it seemed Elliot had worn through a few times before, John let out a little puff of breath and glanced over at her.

For just one second, she wasn’t spitting any venom at him, but rather seemed to favor the act of pretending like he wasn’t there, which was a bit worse than having her fix her fury on him. Her gaze was focused forward, following Boomer’s little lines in the snow. Attention at all was one thing, but acting as though he didn’t exist?

John said, “So, Burke just got his autopsy reports back and dropped you off right here at home, huh?”

Elliot’s face had already gone pink from the cold, right on her nose and spreading through her cheeks. At his words, a new flush of color rose, a shade more vicious than the last, and her gaze slid to him. If looks could kill, he thought, that dreamy little spike of delight at her eyes on him going straight to his head. Look at you, my little Wrath. You’ve got the good girl mask on, but I know what your true face is.

He’d seen it. Kissed her when the blood was still in her mouth. Let her feed the monster inside of her when she told him to beg, when she dug her nails into his skin, when her breath hitched in her chest from the pressure of his knife blade against her sternum—not in pain, necessarily, but delight at that pain.

The scar had to still be there, of course. The reminder of its existence, swathed in the heavy winter fabrics she wore now, made his fingers itch. If he could just get his hands on her—get his mouth on her, if she would just stop being so obtuse—but he didn’t think he’d be so fond of her if she wasn’t.

“The same way the government probably drove you and your siblings back to the compound and dropped you off,” she replied at last, her voice tight, “isn’t that right?”

John flashed his teeth at her in a grin. “Very astute, hellcat.”

Her expression tightened at the moniker. She sucked her teeth, fixing her eyes forward again, shifting back into the strategy of being withholding of her attention rather than entertain him.

“Oh, come on,” he said, swinging around in front of her and stopping her single-minded journey across the pastureland. “You can’t say you didn’t miss me even a little bit, Ell.”

“I told you,” she replied tartly, “not to call me that.”

“Because it reminds you of what it was like when we’re together,” he agreed.

An exasperated noise came out of her. “Did you forget that I lied to you?”

“At the end, sure,” John said, eyes flickering over her face. “But I don’t think you’re so good a liar you could lie about all of the times you said please, or the way that you said my name, or—and I think you’ll recall I’ve insisted on this bit from the beginning—the undeniable connection that we’ve had since we met.”

“You are a fucking lunatic,” Elliot snapped, her face flushing red. “And don’t fucking talk about me like I’m—like I wasn’t there, I know what I—” She sucked in a sharp breath; lower, and more threatening, “I’m aware of what I said. Of what I did.”

“And you’re going to tell me that it was all fake?” he prompted, unwilling to let go of this little thread. Gripping, sliding through his fingers, but he wouldn’t be so quick to let it escape him now that he didn’t have to think about her mother pitching in an unwanted opinion. “That you lied the whole time and you don’t feel anything for me, that—”

“Of course it wasn’t fake,” she bit out. Her voice had gone venomous, sharp, unbridled in its timbre. “I’m not a fucking psychopath, John, I can’t fake loving someone like you can.”

John opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it. He hadn’t been expecting that. Sure, there was a part of him that was sure Elliot had her doubts about his intentions, otherwise she wouldn’t have fucked off to the middle of nowhere (nor turned them in), but—still?

“You think I—” He paused again, blinking. “You’re not that stupid.”

Her eyes narrowed. Everything about her stiffened, quite suddenly, like maybe she was bracing to take another swing at him. “You are fucking begging for a punch to the face.”

“I mean,” John began quickly, waving his hands a little, “that you surely don’t think that whole time I was just—”

Elliot made a disgusted sound and brushed past him, letting out a high whistle; the sound immediately drew a flurry of activity as a flock of birds when bursting from the treeline, followed closely behind by Boomer’s gray-and-black speckled form. John fell back into step with her, huffing out a breath of air. He was going to table that discussion for later—she was clearly still upset, still a little sore and tender from their departure, and that was fine. There were a lot of things at play concerning his wife’s mood, including but not limited to being pregnant.

So she did, he thought, glancing at her through the corner of his eyes. Love me. Back then, and maybe now, still.

“How have you been sleeping?” is what he said instead, when the moment had spread between them long enough for him to think that he was safe to speak again with incurring her wrath once more. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Fine,” she replied, her voice tight.

“Yeah?” he asked, keeping his tone conversational. Elliot blinked once, slow, clearly trying to temper herself. “I just remember what a restless sleeper you were, back home.”

He wanted to say, I saw you at three AM, twice, staring out your window and then walking out into the snow barefoot. I saw you sleepwalking, I know you aren’t sleeping well.

He wanted to say that, and he couldn’t, because if Elliot knew he’d been tailing her for a while she’d go berserk—pull the plug, self-destruct, take whatever loss she had to in order to fucking end him.

“I’m sleeping fine,” the redhead reiterated. For a second, she looked like she wanted to say something; her eyes flickered uneasily, like something was bothering her and she hadn’t been able to say it to anyone but maybe she wanted to, and maybe she could say it to him, but something in the treeline drew her attention away. They were about ten yards away, now, the low breeze skimming pine needles against each other as Boomer barked conversationally at the birds that had so rudely taken flight.

Elliot’s molars clicked, grinding together. Her lashes fluttered, and she sucked in a sharp little breath through her nose.

“Elliot?” John glanced at the trees, but that was all he saw—tall, dark pines, bunching together erratically through years of growth spurts and inevitable fellings. He turned his gaze back to his wife, gaze inquisitive. “What?”

“Don’t you—?” She stopped herself, and sucked in another sharp breath, and now John felt the concern spike sharp and hot in him, because when he reached up she didn’t even seem to register his movement; Elliot, the same woman who had snatched his wrist and threatened to snap it in half for having the audacity to ‘sneak up on her’ when he’d been in the middle of talking to her, completely transfixed on something that he couldn’t see.

“Elliot.” He tried something firmer this time, his hand coming up to sweep the strands of her hair away from her shoulder and neck. The gesture finally startled her out of wherever it was she had gone, yanked her back to reality.

Her shoulder bunched up to her jaw in an effort to deter his hand, swatting at him absently with her hand. “Don’t touch me.”

“Are you going to tell me where you were just now?” John asked, tilting his head inquisitively.

“I was here. Just thought I saw something in the trees,” she replied tightly, turning away from the treeline and clearing her throat. “Just birds.”

Just birds, she said, even though the birds had already taken off and the forest was otherwise still and serene. Behind her, Boomer whined before beginning to follow her back towards the house. Elliot moved with a newfound purpose, one that she had been distinctly lacking before.

His mouth pressed into a thin line. John turned his attention back to the trees, searching for anything—any tangle of branches of play of shadows that might read sinister or threatening.

Only the trees and their shadowy pines. He thought about that night he’d fished Elliot out of the Family’s grip, when she’d been so fucking drugged up to her gills that she’d balked at the sight of the treeline on their way out. I don’t think I can, she’d said then, her voice pitching high with the anxious vibrations of panic. John, I don’t think I can—

“John,” Elliot snapped from ahead of him, “are you coming, or are you just gonna stand there all fucking afternoon?”

He thought about the way Ase had grabbed her hand, blood and viscera coating Elliot like she’d become a tried-and-true Scream Queen. If he searched long enough, if he sat in the memory long enough—did Ase’s mouth open? Had she said something to Elliot? What had she said?

“John,” came the grinding demand, again, less patient than before. “As much as I would love to leave you to freeze to death for insinuating I’m stupid, mama would hate to have to deal with a corpse on her property and I’d never hear the end of it.”

“I missed our banter,” he replied, though the jest did not quite land the same way that it would have were he not so deep in his own thoughts. By the time he’d started walking in her direction, his back to the forest, something uneasy had settled just under his skin; the feeling of being watched, eyes on the back of his neck, anticipation prickling along like his spine.

The house loomed, polished and pristine, on the horizon; as they picked their way across the snowy field, Elliot puffing out breaths occasionally from the labor of it all, John tried to shake that pervasive feeling of dread that had settled over him.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Weyfield was just Weyfield, a small town not unlike Hope County, and maybe he was just jumpy from the way the Family had conducted their business, and maybe it was the same for Elliot, who had certainly been put through a different experience than he—but regardless:

The sooner they got out, the better.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Shouldn’t have agreed to let him drive me here.

“Have you been getting enough sleep?”

It was stupid. Stupid, I should have put my foot down, told him to fucking stay at the house and wait for me to come back.

“Elliot?”

She blinked, vision fuzzing and refocusing around the sterile white of the doctor’s office. Her abdomen was sticky, and the ultrasound machine had been turned off along with her shirt tugged back down. Like usual, Dr. Harding did not say anything about the gossamer-webbing of scars, but did pause upon first seeing them, as though she hadn’t seen them times before.

“Sorry?” Elliot said, the apology quirking up at the end in question. She sat up from the bed, the paper crinkling beneath her as she moved.

“I asked,” Harding reiterated, “have you been getting enough sleep?”

Elliot knew the answer. She felt the exhaustion souring in her mouth already, the way something spoiled when it went too long without attention. A sickness. She should say that she hadn’t been sleeping well at all, that she’d begun sleepwalking, that

(seeing things, I’m seeing things when I close my eyes and when I look in the dark treeline, I see faces, heads, people I don’t know but they feel familiar and their faces drop down in between the branches of trees on invisible silk threads and their terrible dark mouths open but they can’t scream)

she’d been feeling out of sorts, as of late. That seemed like a nice way to put it.

The dark images that had fluttered between the trees on her walk earlier that morning with John felt as real as any memory—and that wasn’t to say that her memories always felt real, because they didn’t. But the validity of this morning’s waking nightmare of floating heads drifting between tree-trunks, swinging loosely while John asked her how she’d been sleeping.

“Fine,” Elliot said after a moment, feeling a fresh wave of nausea come over her. “I think, um, maybe the stress about the baby is keeping me up at night.”

Harding regarded her for a moment. The severe sharpness of her dark hair pinned back did nothing to soften her expression—though the woman was hard-pressed to be cheerful, she, at the very least, never sugar-coated anything. “Have you been trying those breathing exercises before bed? And spending time at the stables, as I suggested?”

“I have,” she replied, which wasn’t entirely untrue—she was doing at least one of those things. “It’s just been a lot of—stress, is all. I’m sure it’ll get better once the holidays are over.”

“That can definitely help,” the woman agreed, nodding her head and typing a few loose notes into the computer. “If you find that you aren’t getting enough sleep—enough,” she continued, pointedly, “restful sleep, you let me know and we can figure out some next steps.”

Elliot nodded, coming to a stand; the sudden movement had her head rushing, and she for a second she thought again of the floating heads, swaying with the breeze through the pine boughs.

“I’ve been sleep-walking,” she blurted out impulsively, her doctor’s gaze turning quizzically towards her. “I mean—um, just twice.”

“Do you have a history of it?”

“No,” Elliot began, “but I’ve always been a restless sleeper.”

“It’s not uncommon for sleepwalking to increase with pregnancy, Miss Honeysett,” the doctor replied, her voice even-keel. “It sounds like you’re under quite a bit of pressure, as well. I would suggest trying something mild—an over-the-counter sleep aid would be fine. Unisom is a typical one. Try half of one first, and see how it makes you feel.”

“Okay,” she murmured, sliding her coat back on. Something that was less heavy-duty than the pills her mother had left for her might be good. “Are there any—symptoms? To sleeping pills?”

The doctor adjusted the glasses on her nose, regarding her for a long moment. “Some adverse side-effects, on occasion. Usually with stronger, prescription sleep aids, you could have worsening anxiety and depression, day-time drowsiness. That kind of thing.”

So, no hallucinations, then. No sleepwalking, no lost time, no...

“Are you having other symptoms?” Harding asked.

You’ll think I’m crazy, Elliot thought, you’ll think I’m fucking nuts if I tell you about my dream with the television, and Joey’s body, and walking out nearly to the treeline in my sleep clothes. You’ll think I’m fucking nuts and I’ll have to be committed.

So Elliot said, “No, just curious,” and Dr. Harding hummed as she scribbled the name of the sleep aid onto a sticky note for Elliot to take out with her.

“You have a healthy baby, Miss Honeysett. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?” The brunette gestured for Elliot to head out the door, walking with her back up the hallway that led to the front lobby once again. “Next appointment we can find out the gender, if you’d like.”

“Oh,” Elliot said, surprised. Was it that soon already? Had it already been that long of being—like this? With child? She swallowed, pleasant little flutters in her chest. It was the first time that she’d felt something other than dread concerning the baby. Well, first time, sans John’s annoying little assertion about his claim. Why had that bothered her so much?

“You can decide to keep it a surprise,” Dr. Harding added, sound a little amused. “Think about it, and in the meantime, get some rest. Half a pill to start, remember.”

“Will do, thank you.”

She waded through the small collection of people in the lobby and out onto the street. Something strange was humming inside of her—it was sad, she realized, with a little spike of panic. She felt mournful. So fast, and so soon, she would figure out the baby’s gender, and suddenly the baby would be all the more real and she’d have to start thinking about names, she couldn’t have a baby without a name, and how was she supposed to pick a name? How was she supposed to decide something a real human being was going to be saddled with, forever?

Was the baby a Seed? Or a Honeysett?

Which one was she?

“What’re you doing, just standing out here? You’ll freeze.” John’s voice broke her out of her thoughts, shaking her back to reality again. He must have seen her standing there, glassy-eyed in the middle of the sidewalk, from where he’d been waiting—perhaps, if she was lucky, even suffering over the fact that he hadn’t been allowed into the doctor’s appointment—and come out. He’d kicked up a big enough fuss about not getting to come in that she’d said, fine, you can fucking drive me there, but that’s it, and true to his word John hadn’t pressed the matter any further than that.

Even though he wanted to. She could tell he wanted to, the second they had parked on the main street. She could tell he wanted to say, so, maybe I do come in, hm? What do you say to that? But he hadn’t. And that was...something.

Fuck, she needed to stay focused; she couldn’t keep letting her mind wander like that. Twice in less than an hour?

“I was just—thinking,” Elliot replied, feeling exhausted already. John’s brows furrowed at the center of his forehead, and she sighed. “Stop looking at me like that.”

He arched a dark brow loftily. “Like what?”

“Like you fucking care,” she snapped.

“Contrary to what you might believe concerning my feelings for you,” John quipped, his voice tart, “I do have every reason to be invested in the well-being of our baby.”

She thought to reiterate again that the baby was, in fact, hers, and not any part his, as she was doing all the work and John had done nothing to endear himself as an acceptable father-figure, but she was too tired. Something about the doctor’s office and the way she’d had to dodge the truth of how she’d been feeling left her empty, scooped out her insides like she was a Jack-O’-Lantern and left her floating, aimless.

“Ell,” he began. His voice had pitched lower, now, and his hand reached up; she saw it move in the corner of her vision and something inside her said, yes yes yes, this is what we want, we remember you, we know you. He twisted a loose curl around his finger, letting it smooth out against her shoulder, the corner of his mouth ticking upward when she absently batted his hand away. “Tell me about the appointment. Did everything go well?”

“The baby is fine,” she told him, and then sighed. “I mean—healthy. The baby is healthy. The doctor wants me to pick up an over-the-counter sleep aid, so we’ll need to stop at the store on the way home.”

“I thought you were sleeping fine?” John prompted. He sounded sly. His was a gotcha tone, the way he got when he thought he’d walked a particularly fine circle through the holes in what she chose to tell him or not. Elliot’s expression flattened. She ignored the way that he was looking at her—hungryhungryhungry, always greedy and never, never content with what he had—and fixed her eyes on the passing traffic behind him.

She said, “Just when you’re being somewhat tolerable, you have to go and ruin it.”

“If it’s intolerable for me to point out when you’re withholding information from me about your health,” he demurred, “then I’d prefer intolerable.”

“I cannot believe that I have to say this to you,” Elliot bit out, the sudden spike of irritation flaring hot and violence in her chest, “but I don’t fucking owe you anything. I don’t owe you the truth, or an explanation, and quite frankly, the fact that I allowed you to even chauffeur me to this fucking appointment is a sign that I’m being incredibly generous with you—far more generous than what you deserve.”

John’s teeth flashed in a grin. Before, back in Hope County, the venom had bothered him—he’d hated it, frowned and fought back with a little poison of his own, despised that he had to work so hard to get to the nitty-gritty underneath. But he had once, and perhaps now that he had known her, it only thrilled him.

How frustrating.

“Everything I did,” he said, lowering his voice as he closed some of the small distance between them now, “whether you believe me or not, was for us—”

“Ugh.”

“—and I might have gotten a little heated,” John continued, and this time when he reached up again Elliot’s mouth twisted into a grimace and she tilted her face away, don’t say it don’t say it don’t you fucking say it fuck you fuck you fuck you, “back at the ranch, but I meant it when I said that I l—”

“Honeysett!”

It was Via. Her greeting immediately cut off John’s words, effectively driving a wedge between their metaphorical—and physical—closeness. Snapped her out of the magic of his cologne and his voice and his hand coming up to her shoulder with its grounding weight.

“Missed you at the barn today,” the blonde chirped, cheery as she approached, hands tucked into her fluffy parka pockets. Her eyes flickered over to John, inquisitive. “Friend?”

And then Via turned her eyes back to Elliot, waiting expectantly. It struck her quite suddenly that Sylvia was checking—that despite the kindness and warmth in her voice, she was giving Elliot the opportunity to escape, to wave a red flag and ask for help. She said friend?, and what she meant was, is this man bothering you?, and it made a fuzzy warmth spread right through Elliot’s chest, uncomfortable in the softness is inspired in her.

“Hey, Via, this is...” How best to proceed? How to explain, this man is the father of my baby—which, by the way, I’m pregnant—and also technically we are legally married, oh and also he’s supposed to be in Federal custody right now but he isn’t, somehow, but it’s fine, we’re all good? “...my...John.”

Sylvia eyed her for a moment, sticking out a gloved hand. “Howdy, Elliot’s John. I’m Sylvia.”

John was clearly trying not to have the biggest shit-eating grin on his face as he shook Via’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Sylvia,” he replied pleasantly, once again reminding Elliot that the man was a tried-and-true practiced liar and could slip a perfect face on at any time. The knowledge was almost enticing, to know that she’d seen him without the masquerade, more than once.

It made, in hindsight, reflecting back on that moment he’d come unraveled at the ranch—No way, baby, I’m fucking it for you—have a different light. She had done that to him.

Good.

“Y’all busy?” Sylvia asked, blissfully not prying any further for an elaboration on what the nature of their relationship was. “I was just about to meet Wyatt at the Wild Rose. It ain’t trivia night, but they do have a live band playing tonight that’s supposed to be good.”

“Oh,” Elliot said faintly, “I don’t think—”

“That sounds excellent!” John interrupted. “I’ve barely seen anything of Weyfield. What do you say, Elliot?”

I say you can eat shit, she thought, but Sylvia was watching her closely—trying to make sure everything was okay, she supposed, considering Elliot had said nothing of John since they’d become friends. She took in a little breath and looked at the blonde, giving a small smile.

“No harm in a little time out of the house,” she agreed after a moment. “I’m starving, anyway.”

She wasn’t hungry in the least. The sticky note with the doctor’s suggested sleep aid was crumple in her pocket, and a little sweaty from the way she’d been clutching it, but somehow the idea of returning back to the house only seemed to fill her with more dread.

The tv, buzzing static, dull and thrumming in the back of her head, in the roots of her molars. HAVE YOU BEEN HAVING STRANGE DREAMS? And the heads, twisting and turning in the breeze, their silk-spun puppet threads invisible, their mouths swinging open as they try to scream.

HAVE YOU BEEN HAVING STRANGE DREAMS?

“Well, can’t have you starvin’,” Sylvia said amusedly, looping her arm through Elliot’s own and beginning to walk. “You’re not keeping my girl well-fed, Mister John?”

“Trying my hardest,” John replied, his gaze sly, “but she can be a bit ornery.”

“Hm, that does sound like her. Where are you visitin’ from, anyway?”

As they chattered, over her, John on one side and Sylvia on the other, Elliot got the distinct impression that her friend was quietly, politely fishing for information without putting Elliot under the stress of it.

HAVE YOU

Snow underfoot. The forest breathing, expanding, swelling because it holds some great, dark beast just waiting for her to get close enough.

BEEN HAVING

(Itwaitsforyouitwaitsforusallanditwillhaveyou)

STRANGE

“Careful,” John cautioned, reaching for the door with all of the gentlemanly nature of a man not possessed by the devil to hunt her down across states, “it’s slick.”

He opened the door into the Wild Rose, the sweep of warm air rushing over her a pleasant shock to her system that managed to draw her back to reality. Sylvia nudged her inside, effectively planting herself between Elliot and John as they moved single-file into the crowded bar.

She was tired, and having nightmares, and once she finally got some sleep she would feel a lot better about everything. All she needed was some sleep. And in the meantime, try to enjoy her time with her friends as best she could.

Get some sleep. Feel better in the morning. Burke’s old mantra popped up in her head, running through the worn grooves that were a sad, bittersweet sort of comfort to her now; the second you think you can’t anymore, you keep going anyway. Dig, dig, dig, until her fingers were dirt-packed and bloody, as deep as she fucking needed to go to keep moving, because it wasn’t just about her anymore.

Get some sleep.

Feel better in the morning.

Sylvia had drifted out from their little formation to make her way to the booth they had recently staked out as their own, where Wyatt already sat waiting and waving for them. John planted his hands on her shoulders, squeezing and lowering his mouth to her ear. “What do you want to drink?”

“You’re acting awfully domestic for someone who should be in Federal custody,” Elliot replied lowly, looking at him over her shoulder just in time to see him flash a smile that was all teeth.

“C’mon, hellcat,” and he all but purred the words at her, making her skin prickle in a type of anticipation that wasn’t purely dread. Traitorous, treacherous body. “You can at least play at liking me while your friends are around.”

“Iced tea.” She shrugged, disembarking his hands from her shoulders. “No lemon. A lot of ice. Think you can swing it without, I don’t know, lying halfway to Hell on your way there, Slick?”

“Anything,” he replied, pitching his voice even lower amidst the din of the bar, “for my lovely wife.”

Elliot’s head snapped around, ready to grab a fistful of his shirt and remind him to watch his fucking mouth, but he’d already started his journey to meander through the crowd and reach the bar on his little fetch quest.

Fucker, she thought, even when her stomach twisted with something other than vicious disdain. John had only been here for a day and was already too comfortable taking liberties; she’d have to make sure that got nipped in the bud before he got any funny ideas about his own personal redemption arc.

It would have been nice, to just be able to turn off any and all feelings whenever she wanted. But she couldn’t, and that meant she’d have to do the next best thing:

Get John the fuck away from her.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Eden’s Gate did not make a good first impression. Eden’s Gate did not even make a good second or third impression; in fact, Isolde had come to the conclusion that Joseph’s little compound was incapable of making any impression that didn’t fill the observer with a sense of despair. Every time she stepped out of the little building Jacob had set her up in, she was overwhelmed with disgust—eyes followed her, but none of them held anything beyond a dull spark of interest, nearly smothered by what seemed to have been a full-body beat down by the other cult.

The other cult, she constantly had to remind herself, because that’s what Eden’s Gate was. A cult.

A few miserable days at the hands of Montana’s coldest winter by record had her in a foul mood. The snowfall seemed inevitable, like it wouldn't ever stop, and the amount of times there had been paths shoveled between buildings—all leading to the chapel—were equally endless. Isolde couldn’t imagine coming to fucking Montana for fun, let alone for work, and yet she was somehow here for the latter and not the former. Distinctly, painfully lacking in fun.

It didn’t help that Joseph was insufferable. It didn��t help that every time he fixed his eyes on her, she felt an uncomfortable heat dripping down her spine like some kind of molten IV, like they hadn’t left on the worst of terms. Like she hadn’t told him to get the fuck out of her loft, like she hadn’t thrown an engagement ring on the floor like it was poison.

That was a time of her life that she had the distinct desire to not revisit, not even once, and yet in his presence—she found it nearly impossible to ignore. Joseph seemed to take a special, muted pleasure in making her hackles raise, and at least that hadn’t changed about him.

“Sol!”

Jacob called to her from halfway down the compound’s yard, a truck idling beside him. She stopped her trek back to her little hovel and looked at him, arms crossing over her chest.

“You wanna get out for a little?” He inclined his head toward the truck. “I’ve got some errands to run.”

“What kind of errands do the Collapse dictate?” she asked.

“The important variety.”

“Hm.”

She didn’t elaborate on that any further, and Jacob waited only one heartbeat before he reached for the driver’s side door and opened it, slowly.

“Going once—”

“I am not a child, Jacob.”

“—going twice—”

Fuck, did she want to get out.

“Fine,” Isolde snapped, “but bring that truck here. I’m not hiking through a snowdrift to get to you.”

Jacob, sounding quite pleased with himself, replied, “I thought you weren’t a child?”

He seemed moved enough by the dramatic eyeroll to oblige her, and if he found it annoying, it didn’t show; enough so, at least, that Isolde was able to clamber into the passenger side of the truck once he pulled it around, tapping the snow off of her shoes before pulling herself in.

“Thank you,” she huffed, shutting the door and rubbing her fingers to circulate the blood again. “This weather’s a bit abnormal, don’t you think?”

“Not anything out of the ordinary for this time of year, no,” Jacob replied. He nudged the windshield wipers on, plowing a thin layer of snow that had already begun to accumulate off of the window before starting to pull out of the compound. “I think you’re just not suited to the snow.”

“Could have told you that myself,” Isolde snipped. “I’m a hot-blooded creature.”

Jacob made a noise, something like an mm, a place between agreement without incriminating himself by agreeing too fervently or elaborately. She glanced over at him through the corners of her eyes as they turned onto the highway. In the comfortable silence that elapsed between them, Isolde settled back against the seat of the truck and tried to appreciate being out from the stifling dread of the compound.

It did seem to her that Joseph was markedly different than he had been, before. In the few instances in the last couple of days where he hadn’t been picking a fight with her, it almost felt normal—but of course, he was doing it in his own way, this pot-stirring, this instigating. With politeness. With kindness. By remaining completely unrattled by anything she said to him, every, any critique, so self-assured in his righteousness that not even reason could make him look twice at the state of his congregation.

Then, he had always been that way. Righteous. Assured. She had found it appealing, once—she liked a man with confidence—but now she found it—

Equal parts frustrating and attractive. Objectively, of course. Not anything that she felt herself.

“Trying to account for the bodies of the Family against the ones we know we saw before,” Jacob explained, when she had been quiet long enough to let him sort out his thoughts. “Seems like they started killing themselves, in pairs, once the two leaders were done with. I sent out a couple of scouts and they radio’d back some locations, but they’ve gone quiet for a while.”

“Dedication,” Isolde murmured, digging the nail of her thumb into her lower lip. “How dreadful.”

“The dedication, or the act?”

“Both. Imagine being so bound to something or someone.”

Jacob’s mouth twisted in a wry smile, and he brought the truck to a crawl. Two bodies, swallowed by snow nearly up to their waists, sat propped against the cliff face. He fished a pad of paper and a near-worn out pencil out of the center console of the truck and held them out to her.

“Mark it down, Sol.” When she blinked at him, he continued, “What, you thought you were gonna get out and not help me?”

“Well, I was hoping.”

She sighed, taking the pad and pencil—a glorified secretary is what I am, she thought bitterly—and marked two tally marks down. From where the car was stopped, she could see that the arms of the corpses came together, and though it was buried in snow, she had to think that beneath the white frost their hands were intertwined.

They went like that for a while; Jacob would drive to a spot, have her mark down the amount of bodies, and then go on. By the time they had reached Fall’s End, Isolde had counted nearly twenty dead bodies. As they rolled into the far end of town, Isolde realized very quickly that most of the buildings were blackened, and when she rolled down her window, the stale scent of charcoal still sat in the air.

“What happened here?” she asked, grimacing and scrunching up her nose.

“Dunno,” Jacob replied tightly. “Someone with an agenda.”

Isolde’s gaze snapped to him, to try and wring any information out of his expression, but true to his nature Jacob remained completely unreadable. It wasn’t until they had gotten to what appeared to have once been a bar and tallied up the bodies there that Jacob threw the truck into park.

“What in the fuck?” he muttered, eyes fixed forward. When Sol followed his gaze, she realized that it was fixed on someone—someone running towards them, frantically, nearly falling over themselves in the snow.

“Is that one of yours?” she asked. “Jacob?”

“Shh.”

He had busied himself fishing around in the back seat, and as he did Isolde squinted, trying to get a better look at what was going on. The man running definitely had to be Eden’s Gate—he had the big red emblem on his shirt, but he wasn’t wearing any coat, and—

And there were others.

“Jacob,” Isolde said, “there are more.”

“What?”

“Bodies,” she managed out, “there are more bodies.”

The snow wasn’t so deep on the roads that she couldn’t see the width of a body, and she did—see it, that is, tousled dark locks reflecting wet and sticky in the overcast, late-afternoon light. The man running was waving his arms and yelling for help, and then he fell over one of the bodies, fell to his hands and knees over the body of someone else, and made a sound kind of like anguish.

Jacob finally managed to pull out what he’d been looking for—a pair of binoculars—and immediately lifted them to his face.

“Shit,” he said. “Fuck, they’re ours.”

“All of them?” Isolde demanded. “They’re all—”

“Yes,” he bit out, opening the driver’s door and grabbing the rifle from the back seat. “They’re all ours. Isolde, stay in—”

Jacob’s words were cut off by the violent crack of a gunshot. For a split second, Isolde saw nothing; in the space between heartbeats, sluggish from panic, she saw the arterial spray coming from the back of the running man’s body before he hit the ground, screaming.

He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead, he was still crawling, dragging himself through the snow, leaving a smear of red behind him, and that’s when Isolde saw them.

Jacob had stopped moving as well. The person at the far end of the main road leading through Fall’s End had yet to shoulder their weapon. From here, Isolde could see that she was tall—short-cropped, blonde hair, swathed in dark clothes, but beyond that the features were near impossible to make out.

“Close the door,” Isolde hissed, not moving, her instincts screaming to duck but the fear that sudden movement would draw attention prevailing. “Jacob, close the fucking door.”

The eerily satisfying click-click of what could only be the bolt-action rifle in the hunter’s hands clattered around in her head. The rifle was returned to their shoulders, brought up level, and then fired again.

Out of pure instinct, Isolde flinched—but once again, the bullet was aimed not at them, but at the man already crawling in the snow. The sound of the gunshot, and the subsequent bullet-on-bone impact, was enough to make her stomach churn; now, at least, the man lay slumped in the snow, one of the many bodies that seemed to have been the unfortunate pull-and-fire clay birds for the stranger.

“Who,” Isolde whispered furiously, as Jacob carefully put the truck into drive without letting it move forward at all first, “Jacob, who the fuck is that?”

The redhead’s expression was unforgivingly tight, pulling taut with it the scars and mottling of his skin visible outside of his beard. He wasn’t looking at her, but rather kept his eyes fixed forward, as he closed the driver’s side door.

“Fifteen men,” he ground out between his teeth, “that’s fifteen fucking men I sent out here to figure out the body count.”

The stranger finally lowered their rifle, apparently satisfied with their work. This far away, it was hard to tell, but Isolde got the distinct impression that they were being watched, looked at now, where before the attention had been elsewhere.

And then it was confirmed, because the stranger lifted one gloved hand and pressed her index and middle fingers right against the hollows of her jaw. A snakebite. A cut right to the carotid. A message.

Jacob cranked the wheel, the tires shrieking in protest against the snow as he pulled between buildings in a sudden rush of acceleration. The stranger was quickly cut out, stifled by the side of the used-to-be-bar, leaving them out of direct range of a sniper rifle. Not that her companion seemed that pleased about it, anyway.

“Fuck,” he bit out, seething as he tried to navigate the narrow space in the clumsy Eden’s Gate truck. “Fuck, did you count how many bodies were on the ground?”

“Hm, no!” Isolde snapped viciously. “I was a bit too busy trying to make sure they were going to shoot us!”

Jacob gritted out another string of swears between his teeth, turning the truck until he could take what looked to be a back alley in the opposite direction of their little hunter. He checked the rearview mirror frequently; his expression was set in a deep frown, and he only looked at her once before continuing his regular scanning of the road behind them.

“Well, aren’t you going to turn around?” she demanded.

“For what?” Jacob replied flatly. “I’ve got a hunting rifle, not my HTI.”

“I don’t know what that means, and I don’t care,” Isolde bit out.

“It means, the chances of me getting shot before I get a shot on them are significantly lower,” he told her, his knuckles whitening along the steering wheel, “and as confident as I am that I could kill them before they killed me, I’m not confident they wouldn’t take a shot at you first.”

Isolde’s stomach rolled. It wasn’t the violence that bothered her—it wasn’t the death, or the guns, or even the blood—but the message itself. The Stranger had been hunting the Eden’s Gate men and women for sport. For fun. To pass the time, while they waited. But what for? What could they be waiting for?

She stayed quiet, listening to Jacob radio back to the compound quick, short orders that flew right over her head. She couldn’t stop thinking about it—the gesture. The stranger. Who were they? The remainder of the other cult, perhaps? What were they waiting for?

You’re next, that two-fingered, snake-bite-right-to-the-carotid gesture had said.

You’re next, and I’m coming for you.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Sylvia did not seem that impressed with John Seed, and Elliot could not blame her.

John was exceptionally charming. So charming, in fact, that he and Wyatt seemed to get along smashingly. It was almost frustrating, how quick the blonde took to John—but then, Wyatt did strike as the type of man who got along with everybody until they gave him a reason to think otherwise. After all, he’d been kind to her, and she was...

Needless to say, Sylvia was a harder sell, which was nice. Reassuring. It made Elliot feel more grounded, to see Sylvia politely smile at John’s chatter—she’d nearly forgotten how much he liked to talk—but then decidedly turn to Elliot to ask her about something or dive into a different conversation. It was pointed, and if the way John watched them interact was any indication, the message of it was not lost on him.

By the time the evening had drawn to a close, for her and John at least, the brunette had departed to go warm-up the Jeep and left her standing by the doorway, keeping warm, with Sylvia.

“You sure you’re doin’ okay?” the blonde asked after a moment, propped up against the wall in the tiny little doorway that led out to the main street. “You look tired. Stressed out. I was worried when we didn’t hear from you this morning, about comin’ to the barn.”

Elliot felt a little pang of guilt digging in, just there below her sternum. “I’m okay,” she promised. “I’m sorry I didn’t call, I—had a doctor’s appointment this morning that I completely forgot about until my mama reminded me, and John showed up this morning too, so it’s just been...”

“A crazy day,” Via agreed, her nose crinkling cutely in amusement. “He’s a funny fella, that John of yours.”

Oh, if only you knew. “I think so, too.”

“What is he?” she asked, conversationally. “Maybe a—car salesman?”

Her friend’s playful jab was enough to elicit a laugh, billowing out of her and catching even herself by surprise. But then, she shouldn’t have been shocked to find that Sylvia had gotten a quick read on John. Given the way she’d quickly diverted from the attention on Elliot’s scar and carried on, she thought maybe Via was more perceptive than she liked to let on.

“Lawyer,” Ell replied, and Via winced comically.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I mean—Elli,” Via intoned playfully, “he might as well be sellin’ you snake oil when he’s a lawyer.”

Elliot sighed ruefully, glancing out the window to see John clambering out of the front of the jeep. Snake oil seemed a light judgment for him, all things considered.

“Hey, Via,” she began, swallowing a little, “if I tell you something, you’ve gotta promise you won’t say anything?”

Via regarded her curiously, head tilted. “Okay, sure, Freckles. What’s up?”

She shifted on her feet. “John and I are actually, um—” Elliot paused, swallowing thickly. She didn’t want to say it. She didn’t want to, because saying it out loud—her, and not John—made it real. Gave it legs. Forced her to face what had happened and what she couldn’t change yet.

“You don’t have to,” Via told her gently. “I could tell there was somethin’—you know, out of sorts. You don’t get a slick-talkin’ lawyer grinnin’ like the cat what ate the canary if he hasn’t done somethin’ to piss a woman off.”

Elliot shook her head. “We’re actually, uh,” she tried again, pulling at a loose thread on her shirt, “m—married.”

Saying the word out loud didn’t feel as wretched as she thought it would, which was almost three times as concerning. She felt, instead, more dread waiting for Sylvia’s reaction—waiting to see what her one friend had to say or think about that.

The woman’s face screwed up comedically. “Oh, Freckles,” she said, her tone teasing. “Say it ain’t so.”

“I’m not kidding!” Elliot felt a nervous little laugh bubble out of her. “I mean—what, Via? You clearly have an opinion on him.”

“I don’t know the man from Jack walkin’ down the street,” Sylvia demurred. “I just think...well, I just think you’re a real peach, you know? And you didn’t seem too pleased to have this John walkin’ around, and I take that kind of thing seriously.”

Sighing, Elliot scuffed her shoe against the ground, watching John pick his way through the crowd back down the street.

“We left on—bad terms, sort of,” she explained. “He showed up to make amends.”

“Do you want to make amends?”

The question caught her off-guard. It was an obvious one—obvious in that, it should have been one of the first things anyone asked her regarding John, even John himself, and yet: no one had. Not a single person had asked her if she wanted to suffer through making amends with the man who had lied to her, violated her trust, and still somehow managed to be the one person she didn’t have to fear seeing the worst, ugliest parts of her.

“I don’t know,” Elliot said after a moment, clearing her throat. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Then I will reserve judgment,” Sylvia replied firmly, “so you can make a decision on your own.”

The door to the street opened, bringing with it not only a waft of chilly wind, but John himself and the scent of his viciously-expensive cologne. It took every ounce of Elliot’s self-control not to burst into laughter at the absurdity of it—John Seed, charisma-extraordinaire, somehow managing to make poor first impressions both on her mother and her friend.

“Car’s all warmed up,” John announced, rubbing his hands together. He glanced between the two women, the corner of his mouth ticking upward. “What’s so funny, hm?”

“Nothing,” Elliot replied. “Just talking about you.”

This piqued his interest. He said, “Good things, I hope,” and she could see it on his face—the painful reminder of the way John had craved Joseph’s approval, the way he’d lit up like a nuclear mushroom cloud the second Joseph deigned to say anything remotely kind to him.

“Jury’s still out,” Sylvia said lightly, and then flashed a pretty smile and clapped him on the shoulder. “But don’t worry bud! We’ll get you there eventually.”

John tried very hard to feign polite laughter, but the uneasiness bled through readily—and it was a little satisfying, to see John squirm, to see him out of his element, no longer surrounded by a constant chorus of Yes hitting his dopamine centers nonstop. No wonder the man had a conniption anytime someone dared to dislike him.

“Better get this lady home, she looks like she’s about to fall asleep standing,” Sylvia announced, reaching and giving Elliot a gentle hug. “Night, Freckles.”

“Goodnight.”

John and Sylvia bid each other a pleasant goodbye as Elliot stepped out onto the street, careful to avoid icier parts of the concrete as she made her way to the car. Her brain felt fuzzy—a lot of socializing, a lot of time spent trying not to let John get to her. It had been long enough since she’d had to hold her walls up for so long that she felt exhausted from doing it, even for this long.

Maybe that was his strategy. Wear her down, then swoop in, just like last time.

“Did you have fun?” John asked, and she realized that she was at the car, having climbed into the passenger seat already. He closed the driver’s side door, settling in before carefully beginning to back out of the parking spot.

“I mean, having you loom over my shoulder the entire night was a little odd.”

He made an affronted sound. “I was not looming.”

“You were,” Elliot told him, “a little.” She paused, feeling the exhaustion pulling at the edges of her vision, begging for her to close her eyes—but she couldn’t. Not in the car, not with John driving. If she did, he might just keep driving and not turn back around. “It’s funny—”

“My quote-unquote looming?”

“How much different you are,” she finished, “when you’re not around Joseph.”

John was clearly trying very hard not to look like he was stiffening at her words. Gotcha, she thought, with a little pinprick of pride. Yeah, I didn’t forget. I didn’t forget how much you hated it when I brought him up.

“I don’t know what you mean,” John replied, keeping his voice light. “I’m exactly the way I’ve always been.”

“You haven’t tried to drown me a single time.”

“That time was a miscommunication,” he insisted. “I wasn’t trying to drown you. Just—coerce you. And besides, that’s behind us now. I know you, Elliot Honeysett, intimately, which means such forms of brute persuasion aren’t required.” He paused. “It’s much better when you indulge me willingly, anyway.”

Elliot’s nose crinkled. “You sound fucking nuts when you say that. ‘That one time I thought about drowning you was just a miscommunication’. No wonder Sylvia doesn’t like you.”

“So she told you? That she doesn’t like me?”

He paused for a moment, his gaze flickering over to her, and when he saw the very subtle upturn of her mouth he exhaled out of his nose.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Not necessarily. But if I was—it would be the least you deserve.”

He was different, out from the insane pressure of the cult, out from under Joseph’s thumb. It was like, given room to breathe, he was suddenly relearning what it was like to make his own decision—to exist outside of Joseph. Back in Hope County, John had been fervent in his belief that he owed Joseph everything. Maybe the distance had done him some good.

Don’t, something inside of her insisted viciously, as she turned her attention out to the side of the road where the headlights illuminated snowdrift after snowdrift. Don’t get soft on him. That’s how he got you last time, you know. Don’t let it happen again.

But if he wanted to press the issue about Sylvia—or about her comment concerning Joseph—John seemed to exercise a remarkable amount of self-control and instead focused on driving. In the quiet, without him chattering on about doing things for them or how much he missed our banter, it was almost...Comfortable.

“Finding out the gender,” Elliot said after a moment, the exhaustion now settling like a deep chill in her bones. “Of the baby, I mean. At the next appointment.”

The brunette shifted in his seat. In an attempt at nonchalance, he said, “Oh, yeah?”

What am I doing? she thought. He plays nice for one night. He’s good at that. Short-term goodness.

“I’m nervous,” she added after a moment. “About finding out.”

“Not excited?” John tilted his head.

“No,” she admitted. “Nervous.”

Ahead of them, she saw the dark blur of a figure. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. John was saying something—something about how he’d read a number of books and it was normal to feel nervous, or some other kind of psycho babble—but she shifted forward in her seat, eyes straining to see.

“Slow down,” she said, “I think there’s a dog...?”

“What?” John asked. “Where? I don’t see anything.”

“Just up ahead. Have you not been paying attention to the road?”

He made an indignant sound—“I am the best driver between the two of us, you know,”—but before Elliot could think up a response, the dark, furred creature slowed down ahead of them, stopped in the middle of the road, and turned its head.

The headlights caught it immediately. It was a dog, four-legged and large and shaggy black fur, but when it turned its head, it was a man’s face, the mouth slung open and the gently-rounded teeth of a human’s mouth blaring white in the headlights. Something dark and slick oozed between the teeth, in that split second, she watched the dog-human-creature push off from the ground and stand on its two hind legs.

She screamed, and John swerved, and immediately threw the car into park and slammed his hand on the hazard lights button.

It was dread, pure dread and fear, sending a pulse of adrenaline straight to her brain. Bent over at the waist, Elliot closed her eyes tight, trying to will the image out of her head, out from behind her irises. John had quickly unbuckled and reached over, his hands doing the same to hers.

“Elliot,” he said urgently, fingers pushing the hair back from her face. “Ell, take a breath, come on—sit up, you have to take a breath—”

“Is—is it gone?” she asked, but the words came out closer to a wail, the fear spiking viciously in the timbre of her voice. Please, God, what the fuck, please let it be gone. God, oh fuck, what the fuck what the fuck— “The—the—”

“There’s nothing—?” John stopped. Elliot frantically scrabbled at the high neck of her parka, fingers shaking and clumsy. “Ell—”

“Can’t breathe,” she managed out. “Too hot, can’t—”

The brunette reached over the console and stilled her hands. She was still bent at the waist, but he made do, pulling the zipper of the parka down until she could pull her arms from it; once it had been deposited in the back seat, his hand went to the back of her neck.

She sat up slowly, her eyes immediately making a frantic search of the road. There was nothing. Only quiet snowfall.

“Where—” She paused, swallowing thickly. “Where did it go?”

“Ell,” John murmured, “there wasn’t anything in the road.”

“What do you mean?” she moaned. “I saw it, the—I saw the—”

“You saw...?” he prompted. His thumb swept across the back of her neck, coaxing.

“The dog,” she insisted. “It was a dog, but it had—it’s face was—it was a man’s face, and it f-fucking—it fucking stood up, John!”

He was watching her carefully, his gaze searching her face for a long moment. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t see anything,” he told her. “Just that you—you just screamed, so I pulled over.”

“I’m not crazy,” Elliot bit out, her voice wobbling.

“I know,” John replied plainly. “Maybe it was just—you know. The snow. In front of the headlights.” And then: “Have you really been getting enough sleep, Ell?”

She felt her lip tremble, the desire to cry almost overwhelming. She couldn’t stand it—couldn’t stand John being tender to her, worrying about her, questioning the validity of her saying that she had been sleeping fine because he could see that she couldn’t. He was wretched and wicked and it needed to stay that way.

“Please take me home,” she said finally, re-buckling and rolling the window down to let the cold air on her face. “Please just take me home.”

John waited for a few heartbeats before he turned the hazard lights off and put the Jeep in drive.

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” he told her after a moment, glancing at her a few times. “I mean it, Ell.”

“Fuck you,” she replied, exhausted and feeling furiously wound up. “Just take me home.”

Get some sleep.

Feel better in the morning.

#my writing #otp: death keep off; i am your enemy #ch: elliot honeysett #ch: john seed #ch: helmi #ch: isolde khan #ch: jacob seed #fic: witching hour #she gets a lil face lift #as a treat : ' )#far cry 5 fic #fc5 fic #john seed x deputy #fc5 oc #john seed/deputy #normally i would be making more of a commentary in the tags but head empty !!!!#but: thank you thank you anyone and everyone who reads!!! ily!!!!!

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wendimydarling · 4 years

Text

The Soldier’s Wife (Chapter Three)

Title: The Soldier’s Wife

Summary: Syverson and his wife navigate the ups and downs, the highs and lows, and the blessings and pitfalls of marriage.

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC

Word Count: 1572

Warnings: Finally sex! I mean... there’s sex, guys. Watch out. 😬

Song Inspiration: “Autumn Finds Winter” - Yiruma

A/N: Well, looky here, you luck ducks: Chapter Three! Fully inspired, this chapter wrote itself quick. If you’re interested, you can find an image of the car here. Look it up the song inspiration and listen while you read, you won’t be sorry. Thanks be to the beautiful queen @littlefreya who beta’d for me. Enjoy!

As always, I am a comment WHORE; please let me know what you liked, disliked, etc.! I can only grow as an author with your input! Tag list is open, please let me know if you’re interested!

Tags: @littlefreya @sciapod @thiccgeralt @fucking-hell-cavill @brexrif @peakygroupie @viking-raider @constip8merm8 @daniig95 @elinalfrida @hell1129-blog @oddsnendsfanfics @agniavateira @dearlybelovedluke @sofiebstar @wanderinglunarnights @magdelen69 @vania-marie

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER THREE

Mabel walked down main street at a leisurely pace, her boot spurs clinking against the wooden sidewalk. On her arm she carried a picnic basket that Syverson had given her for her birthday a couple of years ago. She’d had no contact from him since this morning, but she knew where he was. He was where he always was after events like that.

The bell above the front door to Mel’s Autoshop chimed as Mabel ducked under it. The smell of oil, grease and rubber greeted her, along with the owner’s friendly and knowing smile.

“Howdy, Mel. How’s the wife?”

“Oh, crotchety as ever. Sy’s out back.”

“Thanks. Mind if he takes a lunch?” Mabel held up the basket as she asked. Mel smiled at her, showing his missing teeth.

“Only if ya share a piece of that pie I know’s in there,” he bartered, but Mabel was one step ahead of him. She pulled some tupperware out of the basket, two pieces of pie sealed tightly inside, and handed it to the old man with a kiss.

“Did ya think I’d forgot about ya?” she teased. Mel smiled at her, ever grateful that Syverson had Mabel in his life. Mel had always been attached to that boy; had given him safe shelter on more than one occasion when the boy’s father had come home drunker than a fish swimming in whiskey.

“Go on then, git,” he admonished her in mock gruffness, tucking into the pie without so much as a fork. Mabel smiled, heading through the back door into the car yard.

She didn’t have to search for him, Mabel could hear angry grunts and the sound of metal striking metal. She followed it, and it led her to Syverson, who was shirtless, sweating, and violently attacking the hood of a beat up station wagon with a crowbar. She set the basket down and stood there awhile, watching as he took out all his frustrations on the innocent vehicle. It was always best to let him have his say, even if his say was hitting the largest inanimate object he could find. It was never her, and that was all Mabel cared about.

Syverson looked up and stopped mid-swing when he saw Mabel. The crowbar clattered to the ground as his chest heaved, staring at her with a look that only she could read. A look that told her he was afraid. Afraid of hurting her. Mabel grabbed the nearest rag she could find, confidently striding over to him. He needed to see that she didn’t fear him. Syvesron flinched and took a step back as she came near but Mabel pressed forward, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“I ain’t afraid of ya, Sy.”

He took the rag from her, wiping his torso as he shook his head.

“Lord knows why. I nearly ripped yer ma’s head off this mornin’.”

“Well, then, she woulda had it comin’ to her fer wakin’ ya like that. I’m so sorry.”

Syverson yanked his shirt off the rail where it hung nearby and threw it on. Mabel watched him, marveling at his physique.

“Damn it all, Syverson, I think ya get bigger every time ya get back.” she said as she squeezed his bicep, hoping to lighten the mood a little. It worked partially, she received a small smirk. Striding over to pick up the basket, she held it out to him.

“I brought lunch.”

At this, Syverson actually smiled, taking the basket from her and linking her arm in his.

“In that case, our table awaits, milady.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their table was a turquoise 1957 Chevy Bel Air Convertible. It didn’t run anymore, but Syverson and Mel had fixed it up nice on the outside and rolled it underneath a giant Live Oak tree overlooking the lake on Mel’s property. Trees surrounded the lake, their roots digging into the boundary of the water and their bows reaching far over the cresting waves in a daring attempt to defy gravity. An old rope swing hung from one of them, cutting into the flesh of the branch from all its use. A worn out canoe sat on the bank, just waiting for a brave soul to take her out on the water. Whenever Mabel would bring Syverson lunch, they would come out here to eat it.

Today was no different. They ate their lunch quietly, Sy’s arm draped over the backseat with Mabel tucked securely underneath him. She looked up at him as she fed him the last bite of apple pie, chuckling as the fork missed and stabbed him in the lip.

“Goddamn, woman, wha’d ya do that fer?” Sy grumbled, pressing his thumb to his lip to see if he was bleeding. Mabel just laughed, leaning over to lick the remaining pie from his face. Syverson grunted in surprise but quickly recovered, pulling Mabel to straddle his lap as he tangled his fingers in her hair. She kissed him eagerly, feeling the urge to defy her mother in every possible way she could.

Mabel could feel one of Syverson’s hands inching underneath the skirt of her dress, the other pulling one of the straps down so that he could kiss her bare skin. His touch ignited a desire deep within her, an ache that only he could fill. Her fingertips danced along the hem of his shirt, softly brushing the skin she found underneath. Ever the impatient one, Syverson tugged his shirt over his head to reveal his broad form to her once more, and Mabel did the same with her dress.

Syverson attacked her lips again, his hands touching every piece of skin he could find. Mabel was struck with a sense of boldness and sat up, pulling away from his mouth. Syverson watched in awe as she calmy reached behind her, unhooking her bra and letting it fall into her lap. He gazed tenderly at her naked flesh, tracing a single finger over her breasts as he did. They’d never been this far.

Mabel surveyed Syverson’s face as he in turn observed her body. She’d never shown a man this part of her before, and though she was nervous, it also felt right; it was Syverson. He protected her. He cherished her. He loved her. And she wasn’t afraid of him. She wanted him, and only him, to have this from her. This piece of her soul that she’d been unwilling to share with anyone else, she gave to him willingly, gladly.

Soft, wet, exploratory kisses grazed her nipples, making Mabel moan. She clutched Syverson’s head to her bosom and leaned back, letting him have all the access he wanted. He heartily, hungrily took over, tasting her, touching her, feeling her move against him.

Syverson had been waiting years for this moment. He’d fallen in love with Mabel at the ripe old age of nine, and there’d been no one else in his eyes, not ever. He knew back then that she was the one, and he’d spent the next nine years waiting for her to know it too, basking in her presence, treating her like a queen, stealing kisses from her when he could. It wasn’t until he’d left for war that Mabel finally realized the truth, and that separation had brought them together in a way that nothing else had.

Still, she had remained guarded. After Danny’s death, Syverson didn’t blame her. Hidden away from prying eyes, a few of their kisses had turned into heated make-out sessions, but Mabel had always stopped them, similarly to last night. Syverson didn’t know what had changed this time, but he wasn’t complaining. He’d reached the point where the shower didn’t help anymore. And Mabel felt too good, tasted too good.

Mabel was grinding against Syverson with reckless abandon, savoring every delicious wave of pleasure that shot through her body. Syverson slipped a hand beneath her underwear and when his fingers entered her, Mabel’s eyes shot wide open, the new sensation sending shocked cries pouring from her lips.

“Sy…”

“No, baby, use my name.”

“What?” Mabel breathed, looking at him in confusion as he worked her center. Syverson grasped the back of her neck, locking eyes with her.

“When I make love to ya, I want ya to use my name.”

Mabel understood. She tested it out, relishing the way it felt when it left her tongue.

“Hunter…”

Syverson groaned at the sound of his name on her lips. He was right. Using the hand beneath them as leverage, Syverson wrapped his other arm around her and flipped their bodies into a new position, laying Mabel gently on the seat. She cried out again as his fingers penetrated deeply, hitting a place inside her she never knew existed.

“Hunter!”

Quick work was made of the rest of their clothes as they joined one another in nakedness. Mabel gulped at the sight of Syverson. If his fingers had been able to make her feel that amazing, she couldn’t imagine the agonizing fireworks she was about to feel once that length was inside her. Syverson crouched over her, gazing into her eyes with desire and admiration.

“Ya sure?” he whispered, brushing her hair from her face. Mabel nodded.

“I want ya.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From the car yard, Mel could see the old Bel Air rocking back and forth, and he shook his head knowingly.

“‘Bout time,” he chuckled to himself, heading back inside to give the kids privacy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#the soldier's wife #captain syverson #captain syverson fic

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fangirlxwritesx67 · 4 years

Text

Whiskey Glasses

Dean Winchester x OFC Amanda, 4000 words

Song: Whiskey Glasses, Morgan Wallen Tags: drinking (so much drinking), angst, sadness, one-night stand (sex and oral sex) AN: I love this song, and it hit me a couple of weeks ago that it is a total Dean song. The first story I came up with didn’t do him justice though. This is another one where @thoughtslikeaminefield and @there-must-be-a-lock pushed me to strip it all the way down to bare bones and start over. @mskathywriteswords did her part too. Thanks, my friends.

(set after 15x03) *** Amanda looked up the minute Dean Winchester walked through the door. Thunder rolled over his features and lightning sparked in his eyes as he let the door slam behind him. She would swear, she could feel the storm around him as soon as he walked in. Restless energy seemed to cloud the air in his wake, as his gaze sought hers from across the room.

"Howdy, stranger," she called, waving him over. Her standard greeting usually drew a smirk, a wave, or even a playfully blown kiss; today he barely nodded before sinking onto a high bar chair.

"Is it a beer night or a whiskey night?" Amanda tried again, hoping to get him to look up, to smile. But he just scrubbed one hand over his face and sighed.

"Whiskey, double, and keep 'em coming." His voice had a ragged edge to it as he slapped down several twenties. He drank the first glass like a single shot, knocked the second one back like he didn’t even taste it.

Amanda paused before putting down the third drink in under an hour. All she said was, "Dean?"

Finally, he met her gaze. His eyes were dark with misery, the lines and angles of his face drawn. For a moment, she thought he would confide in her. Then he shook his head morosely. He took the whiskey and gazed into its amber depths, searching for something, before he lifted it to his lips.

Her voice was gentle when she spoke again, pitched so only he could hear it. “Last time I saw you drink this hard, you told me your mother had died.”

Dean barked out a laugh, harsh and joyless, cutting her off before she could ask any questions.

“Yeah, and that was my fault too, just like this.”

“I’m sure that’s not true-” but her words trailed off. The hard look on Dean’s face told her it wasn’t the time for empty reassurances. She couldn’t be sure, but in the light of the bar, she thought she saw tears in his eyes.

She turned away, giving him a moment alone with his thoughts. While she served other customers, her mind wandered back to the night she had met Dean.

He showed up one slow weeknight at the run-down truck stop bar in dead-end, Kansas. He didn’t quite seem like a trucker, or a drifter, although he was comfortable enough with them.

Something about him seemed a little too big for the room, and it wasn't just his long legs and broad shoulders. Dean seemed to fill the room with his presence. There was something in the way he carried himself that said he was a fighter, a man keenly sure of his body and what he could do with it.

That first night, Amanda had enjoyed flirting a little. It wasn’t often she got a customer who was so handsome, and charming to boot. She never expected to see him again, in fact, had almost forgotten about him, when he showed back up.

Dean wasn’t quite a regular. Sometimes weeks could go by without her seeing him. But over the course of a couple of years, he had been there often enough. She felt comfortable with him, although she always wondered why he seemed so lonely.

Even after several drinks, he was hesitant to share anything personal. She still didn’t know much about him and why he came there to drink alone. He was easy to talk to, though, smart and funny. She thought he enjoyed her company as much as she enjoyed his.

Whoever Dean was, whatever he did, he left behind when he came to the bar. He usually stepped in with a little bit of swagger and unwound as he drank, singing softly under his breath to the songs on the radio.

Amanda had wished, plenty of times, for more than talk. She daydreamed about getting to know him better. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Those strong arms, soft lips, and masterful command of his body told her he would probably be a good lover.

But her dreams of Dean were just that, dreams. He never let his guard down long enough for anyone to get close. Although she considered him a friend, he kept her at arm's length.

Tonight was no different. He was desperate, obviously hurting. Still, he kept himself guarded, invisible armor firmly in place.

Only once did Dean say anything, when the song that came on the radio was Whiskey Glasses.

Line 'em up Knock 'em back Fill 'em up

“That’s me.” He raised his glass and nodded before downing the contents in one gulp.

“Is that it? Someone leave you?” Amanda purposely kept her tone light.

Dean's smile came slowly, wryly. It crinkled his eyes at the corners but did nothing to lighten the darkness there. Then he heaved a sigh that seemed to come all the way from his soul.

“Nah, I just like whiskey.” He tried to turn it into a joke, but the look on his face was lost. “Another, please?”

It was Amanda’s turn to shake her head. “Dean, this is the last one. I can’t keep serving you like this and let you drive home.”

“S’okay. I parked out behind the truck stop. I can walk back, sleep in my car.” Dean’s words were blurred a little around the edges. He nursed that last drink until closing time.

She felt his hooded gaze follow her around the bar as she completed her closing duties. She hated to see him so despondent and worried about him leaving alone. She wished there was something she could offer in the way of comfort. But all of their communication up until this point had been casual. Nothing about Dean invited her to try for more.

“Last call, my friend,” she said reluctantly.

Dean stood up, slightly unsteady, and walked towards the door, Darkness and desperation trailed behind him like his own personal shadow. Amanda watched him go with a heaviness in her heart.

She hoped he would be able to sleep it off and wake up feeling better tomorrow. Something told her it wouldn’t be that simple, but there wasn’t much she could do. The bar was closed and he was gone, to sleep it off in his car or wherever it was he went when he left.

She locked the front door as she stepped outside. A small flare of red light caught her eye. Dean was leaning against the outside of the bar, almost hidden in the darkness, but not quite out of sight around the corner. He was smoking a cigarette, drawing on it hard. She hadn’t expected him to still be there, but since he had stuck around, she couldn’t just let him go.

She sauntered across the gravel parking lot, trying to look more casual than she felt, and asked, “Got a light?”

Dean was slumped against the wall, shoulders bowed as if the brick was the only thing keeping him standing. He held out his lighter wordlessly, and his fingers brushed hers as she took it.

“Actually, can I bum a smoke?” Amanda shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I don’t carry them anymore since I’ve been trying to quit.”

Dean scoffed before turning to look her full in the face. “So do you really want a smoke, sweetheart?”

“Not so much,” Amanda answered reluctantly. “Didn’t want to say goodbye just yet.”

He looked at her for a long silent moment before speaking. “Whadya want, then? Why come to me?”

“Dunno, man. Why are you still here?”

He finished his cigarette with one hard draw before he nodded. He dropped the butt and ground it under his heel as he reached out with one hand. Her fingers laced in with his.

“You-” was all he whispered, ragged and low.

For one long moment, they stood still, eyes taking the measure of one another. Dean tugged, ever so slightly. Amanda answered, stepping closer to him.

She had to stand on tiptoes to reach his lips but she did it, slipping one arm around his neck to keep her balance and kissing him like she had always dreamed of doing. It was a risk worth taking, acting on her instincts, and trusting he wouldn’t let her fall.

Dean did not let her down. Their first kiss was plush and warm. Next thing Amanda knew, Dean had her pressed up against the wall, kissing her hungrily as his hands settled around her waist.

She arched her body up against his warmth, tightening her grasp across his shoulders. He felt so good under her hands, so strong and solid.

His name slipped from her lips softly.

He wrenched away, leaving her feeling cold and bereft.

“No.” He shook his head. “No, this can’t be good.”

For all his size and presence, he looked so broken. She murmured, “Come home with me.”

Dean studied her closely. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I know you, Dean. Know you well enough to trust you. I don’t want you to sleep in your car - shit, don’t want you to be alone.” Amanda heard the pleading in her voice and didn’t care.

She slipped her hands inside Dean’s jacket, around his waist to keep him close, and leaned into him to take a deep breath. The smell of his cigarette, the whiskey he had been drinking, and underneath it, a mixture of sweat and the outdoors filled her senses.

Dean lifted her chin and lowered his face for another kiss, sloppy and open-mouthed before he finally nodded.

“Okay, take me home.” There was a desperation in his voice that he tried to hide by standing tall, squaring his shoulders.

Amanda cared for him too much, and his pain shot like an arrow straight to her heart. She held out her hand and led him to her car. The two of them spent the short drive in silence. Dean looked out the window as if searching for answers in the night sky.

Neither of them spoke as they stepped into her living room. She locked the door behind her and flicked on a light. She was still questioning herself, wondering what exactly she was hoping for. She had hooked up plenty of times with random men from the bar. Dean was different. He was a friend, someone she trusted.

Dean winced at the brightness, but when he looked at her again his eyes were glazed, with no spark of interest, only fathomless loss. She saw then that he was drunk, really drunk. He had covered it up well enough in the bar, but she couldn’t ignore it now.

She sighed. She should’ve known. He had been knocking back double whiskeys at the bar for hours, never ordering food and drinking water reluctantly. He could still carry on a conversation, still walk straight enough, hell, he had still flirted convincingly. But he was gone.

She couldn’t take him to bed like this. It wasn’t right, and it certainly wasn't what she had always dreamed of. She actually cared about him and thought he cared about her. She wanted their first time - hell if there was going to be any time - for them both to be present.

Dean wasn’t any of that, right now. He was lost, adrift, grasping for comfort. His hand closed around her wrist, without hurting her, but his grasp was heavy.

Amanda lifted her lips to his for a glancing kiss. “The couch is pretty comfy if you just want a place to sleep it off.”

He pulled her in close, resting his forehead down on hers, and drew in a deep breath. “No that’s not- You- I’m- I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t sure what he was confessing, only that it was unexpected. But he was drunk, and also driven by whatever had pushed him to the bottom of a bottle of whiskey in the first place.

“Dean, you don’t have to. It’s me, it’s okay. Let’s just go to sleep?”

Amanda led him upstairs to her bedroom. Comfort, that wasn’t much, but it was all she had to give. He stripped to his boxers while she slipped into soft shorts and a tank top. She made sure there was a bottle of water on the nightstand next to him before she slipped under the covers.

Dean was already half asleep, breathing deeply, but he reached out for her when she settled down onto the bed. He tugged her towards him so they were spooning, the length of his body warm and firm against her back.

“I don't wanna feel a thing,” was the last thing Dean murmured as his eyes fluttered closed.

Falling asleep drunk he was still consistent, Amanda thought, as she turned in his arms to look at him. Even at rest, his face looked worried, his body weary.

Amanda had so many questions about the handsome enigma next to her: who was he, and how had he ended up in her bar? How had she come to care for someone, knowing so little about them?

She traced lightly over his skin, touching his tattoos, his scars. For all of the years that she had wanted to see him naked, she had never pictured this. She had imagined a one night stand, maybe even a satisfying one. She had never thought that he would lay so much of himself bare in front of her.

She had so many more questions, things she had never wondered, and might never get answered. But this was Dean, the man she knew and trusted. The questions could wait. Tonight, he needed care, and she needed to rest.

She lowered her lips to the curve of his neck in one more goodnight kiss. She wanted him to know that he was seen, that he was safe.

In his sleep, Dean frowned and tightened his grasp around her.

This was nothing like her fantasies of bringing Dean home. Instead of passion, there was comfort. Instead of sex, there were cuddles. She was more worried about him than anything, wanting to make sure he was safe and cared for.

She also wouldn’t complain about falling asleep in the arms of a handsome man, even if all they did was sleep.

***

Amanda rolled over as she woke up, reaching for Dean. The other side of the bed was empty.

Of course. She should’ve known when she turned down the chance to sleep with him. She had hoped he would be different, that he was her friend, that he would stick around. But of course not.

Her fingers closed on the pillow he had slept on and she pulled it close. She wondered where he was and if he was okay. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of him -- whiskey, smoke, and coffee.

Coffee? There was no coffee last night.

She raised her head and took another sniff. That was definitely coffee and bacon. She realized that she could hear sounds coming from the kitchen. She smiled.

Dean’s discarded flannel was at the foot of the bed. She slipped it over her pajamas as she got up, enjoying its worn warmth against the chill of the morning.

She paused at the doorway to her kitchen. Dean was in front of the stove, his back to her, wearing nothing but jeans. He was drinking coffee, frying bacon, and mixing up some scrambled eggs. Hazy morning light filtered through the curtains, shining on his scars and his freckles and his tousled hair.

Amanda walked over and wrapped her arms around him, leaning her face against his broad back. He startled, then relaxed into her embrace. For a moment they stood still, just breathing together before Dean turned around.

He met her eyes reluctantly. For just one moment, he let her see his pain and regret. Then he looked away and forced a smile.

“I hope this is okay, I just walked into your kitchen and made myself at home. There’s nothing like bacon and eggs for a hangover, right?” He shrugged uneasily.

“This is more than okay. I’m not used to getting breakfast when I bring a man home from the bar.”

Dean turned away, back to the stove. His next words were hesitant, almost mumbled. “No, but I bet you’re used to getting a whole lot better in bed.”

“Listen to me.” Amanda took his chin in her hand and forced him to look at her. His gaze was heavy with shame. “I brought you home because I wanted to be sure you were safe. I was - am - worried about you. But you’re not here because I want something out of you. You’re my friend.”

Dean put the spatula down and faced her fully. He held out his arms and she answered his unspoken plea. He pulled her close and took a few deep breaths that she could almost have sworn were sobs. Finally, he brushed his lips against her temple.

When the coffee maker beeped, Dean startled. Amanda watched him settle back into the version of himself she was used to seeing, confident and strong. But his face remained open, his eyes longing.

“Are you sure you don’t want something out of me?” He was joking, flirting to try to cover up his uncomfortable feelings.

She smiled warmly. “Coffee and breakfast first, okay? Then we’ll talk.”

Amanda sank into a seat at the table. Dean handed her a steaming mug of coffee, and she wrapped her hands around it gratefully. He came over to the table carrying two plates piled high with food, and set one down in front of her before sitting down with the other.

For a few moments, both of them ate in companionable silence. After Dean got up to refill both of their coffee cups, he looked at her. She couldn’t interpret his words or his expression.

Finally, he blurted out, “Thanks.”

“Thanks?” Amanda was caught off guard.

“For being my friend.” Dean smiled, one of his real smiles that crinkled his eyes and lit his entire face, the ones she lived to see. “What, did you think I was coming to that bar for the atmosphere? Nah. It’s you.”

Amanda took a deep breath. He was so clearly sincere. Somehow being a friend, sleeping together, the level of trust they had stumbled into without ever having sex, was way more fragile and intimate than the one night stand she had anticipated.

“So if we’re friends, why don’t you tell me what last night was all about?” She just had to ask. “Before I brought you home. Or do I need to get out the whiskey?”

Dean looked down. A weight settled on his shoulders again, weariness on his face. He seemed to be waging some internal war with himself. Finally, he raised his eyes to meet hers, that look of desperation in his gaze.

“I’m not sure I can explain, and even if I could, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I’m a bartender. I’ve seen and heard just about everything,” Amanda answered. “Try me.”

“You haven't heard nothin’ like this, sweetheart,” Dean replied. And then he began to talk. The story spilled from his lips in fragments at first, every word ragged and difficult.

Amanda could see that he was telling the truth, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. The story he told her was wild enough: being a private investigator of sorts, working with his brother and their partner, a boy who he raised like a son.

And loss, so much loss. His mother, his son, and most recently, his working partner, all gone. She didn’t understand every detail but his pain was clear enough.

Dean’s words raised more questions than they answered, but they explained a lot. Amanda could see how difficult it was for him to say even this much. When he finally trailed into silence, he looked at her. The expression on his face was raw, his eyes vulnerable.

“Okay.” She let out a deep breath, trying to find the words to say everything that was in her heart. Finally, she settled on just one thing. “Thank you. For telling me, for trusting me, for letting me be your friend.”

She leaned across the table and he met her halfway. Last night's kisses had been dark and desperate. This morning they were honest and hopeful, searching.

When Dean finally pulled away, he sighed. “It’s a shame I screwed up my chance last night because you’re one hell of a kisser.”

Amanda smiled, hunger stirring deep inside of her. His kisses had been everything she had dreamed, and still she wanted more.

“I think you could have another chance,” she murmured, standing up and holding out her hand.

He took it slowly, almost hesitantly.

“You mean it?”

She nodded and watched understanding dawn in his eyes.

She led Dean back to her bedroom. They kissed as they undressed, both of them giving and taking and trusting. There was no reason to cover up, not with Dean, not after everything. Still, it felt strange to be naked in the bright golden sunlight, and she reached for the sheet.

Dean took her wrists in both hands, pinning them softly on the bed. “No,” he murmured, “Don’t hide. You’re beautiful. Let me see you.”

His fingers caressed her curves, down her sides, and over her hips before settling around her waist. He tugged her up, rolling her hips open, before lowering his mouth to her.

She had fantasized about his lips, it was true, but at no point had she imagined this. She had never dreamed that he would be so good, that he would know exactly how to please her and push her. She reached up with one hand to grip her headboard, trying to anchor herself. The other hand slipped down into his hair, tugging the short strands. She moaned and panted and cried out his name as she came.

Dean looked up at her, his face framed by her thighs, his expression mingled delight and desire. He wasn’t just doing this for her. He was enjoying it, savoring it. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

He rose up over her, kissing her long and full. She was caged in by him, by tense forearms and thick thighs, all rock-solid muscle. She could’ve felt trapped but instead, she felt sheltered. She reached over his shoulders, hands skimming his back, nails trailing against his skin.

Dean moaned her name against her lips, shamelessly, before he finally lowered himself down. Every movement between them was weighted and close. When he slipped inside of her, slow and stretching, she let out a low sigh. She ground up against him, meeting his need with her own.

A long moment hung suspended between them while they found their balance, and then Dean started to thrust his hips. Amanda tried to keep her focus on his face. His eyes were dark pools of lust and longing, only faintly rimmed in green. But she had been right all along - he knew exactly what he was doing with his body.

Soon she forgot about trying to satisfy Dean, forgot about everything except the way he was holding her down and lifting her up at once. Her entire world shrank to his body on hers, heavy and hungry. Her fingers dug into his back, pulling him close, begging for more.

Dean moved faster, panting and frantic as if to lose himself inside of her. She held his gaze as long as she could until everything was too much. Her thighs tightened and she clamped down around him and came again with a wordless cry.

Amanda felt Dean gasp, and shudder, and finally let go. The sound he made as he collapsed on top of her was torn from somewhere deep inside. After a long, shaky moment, he rolled over onto his side, tugging her to face him.

He leaned the side of his face against the softness of her breasts while they both caught their breath. When he finally looked up at her, she was blindsided by the tenderness in his gaze. It was an open expression that she had never seen before on his face.

Every time Amanda had imagined sex with Dean, it had been hot but shadowy, a sort of hidden one-time thing. She had never pictured anything like this, open and trusting and bright. This was better than her wildest dreams.

She lowered her mouth and kissed him, and he kissed her back, deep and full.

“After that, I’m gonna need a drink,” she said.

Dean shook his head, a bright, warm smile lighting his eyes and curving his lips. She laid her head back against his shoulder, and they laughed. *** SPN First Last and Always: @boondoctorwho @dawnie1988 @deanwanddamons @defenderrosetyler @divadinag @emoryhemsworth @fookinghelljensensthighs @idreamofplaid @kalesrebellion @kickingitwithkirk @maddiepants @magssteenkamp @onethirstyunicorn @there-must-be-a-lock @tloveswriting Dean Curious: @adoptdontshoppets @awesomesusiebstuff @deangirl7695 @deans-baby-momma @mrsjenniferwinchester @stoneyggirl @supersassyprobablysad @wayward-gypsy @winchesterxfamilybusiness Gay Screaming: @boondoctorwho, @cracksinthewalls, @fookinghelljensensthighs @itmighthavebeenintentional, @justcallmeasmodeus, @lastactiontricia @mskathywriteswords, @rockhoochie, @there-must-be-a-lock, @thoughtslikeaminefield

#dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x ofc #dean and whiskey #whiskey #whiskey glasses

67 notes · View notes

saint-kore · 4 years

Text

Give In To Me [18+] (Commodus x Reader)

♡ A/N: Howdy everyone! I’m back with a one-shot for you all. This one-shot is dedicated to the very lovely @captain-el-writes . Thank you so much for this idea. I really had a great time writing this so I hope you love it! The ending is kinda of open because I plan on writing a part 2 to this as well. I wanna get started on that as well as the sequel to the Jimmy Emmett fic but in due time, of course! So here you go, enjoy ;) -Persie♡

♡ Word count: 4,464 ♡

♡ Contains: Very NSFW, SMUT, oral sex of all kinds, rough sex, moderate dirty talk (because why not? lol)♡

The sultry heat of summertime Rome laced through the air of the darkening evening, the sleepy sun settling low in the sky. The friendly wind greeted you, a smile gracing your features in appreciation. The deep orange, pink and lavender hues illuminating your features from the wispy white curtains as you listened to Lucius read to you. The story he told seemed to blur against your own thoughts, looking out at the people of Rome readying themselves for slumber. The playful breeze touching on the olive trees, the heady scent gracing the air in return.

“Y/N…,” Lucius spoke, snapping your out of your reverie. You glanced over at him, an amused yet slightly embarrassed smile as he regarded you with his blue eyes. He seemed to be oblivious to your daydreams, a big smile on his small face. “Did you like that story? It’s one of my favorites,” he said, the sparkle in his eyes seeming to grow brighter in anticipation.

“I loved it, Lucius,” you confirmed, much to his delight. You combed your hand through his hair, smoothing his hair back from his smooth face. In the time that you have known him, you could see his growth. His face changing from its cherubic, angelic features to its growing angular shape that showed that he was nearing the cusp of adolescence. “Come, it’s time for you to get ready for bed,” you said as you rose to your feet.

“Uncle says that great leaders have no time for rest…,” he spoke, making you pause for a moment before continuing with his bedtime routine. The mention of Commodus was enough to make your blood run cold and your body vibrate all at once. It was a strange and exotic feeling to you; the few glances that you have gotten of his sharp green eyes sent shivers down your spine. Being a servant girl, you made sure to keep your eyes down out of respect for his Majesty but you could always tell when he was looking at you. The heated yet curious glare would burn through the fabric of your tunic, even over your curves that the cotton fabric clung to generously. The deep blush that would erupt on your features would always earn a hushed chuckle from him, making you wish that you could look up, just once, to see the mirth in his handsome features or whenever he would ask you to do mundane things to keep you in his presence longer than needed. It would get to the point where your normally precise, gentle hands would become shaky with the mix of fear and eagerness of what the unpredictable ruler might do in your presence. It excited you…

Even though you were certain that the Emperor only looked upon his sister with the eyes of a lovesick suitor, he was no stranger to using maids and female servants to fulfill his lustful needs when he saw fit. He was never one to be gentle and depending on who you asked, it was either the best or worst night that they’ve had with a man. The thought that you might have the Emperor’s eye made your heart form a pounding rhythm, your chest shaking from the impact. You wouldn’t dare be so bold to ask him, of course, but you couldn’t help but wonder.

“Y/N,” a soft voice spoke up. You paused, finally being able to get Lucius to lay down for bed and looked up to see Lucilla. She regarded you with a kind look as she usually did, the cloud of sadness in them growing in them by the day.

“My lady,” you greeted as you stood straighter, giving a small bow in which, she gave a quiet nod. She then focused on Lucius, her gaze growing into one of adoration as she sat on the edge of the bed. She kissed his forehead softly, closing her eyes before pulling back. Her silk lavender stola draped gracefully upon her slender frame as she stroked her sleeping son’s head. The soft brown curls framing her face brushed along her cheeks, moving a bit with every slight movement she made. You patiently waited for her next word or request, a small sigh leaving her.

“Commodus has requested your presence,” she finally spoke, making you feel as if someone had poured ice down your back. You clasped your hands in front of you trying to busy yourself from what she had just announced, bringing it to her side. She detected your nervousness, taking the bowl from you and sitting it to the side with care.

“He will grow angry if you keep him waiting. When I left him, he was already restless…,” she warned, her voice remaining even and gentle as she pulled the pins from her hair to let her wavy tresses down upon her shoulders. “I understand your worry, but you will make it worse for yourself. Go to him…,” she repeated. You shifted on your feet, hesitating to move from where you were rooted. Lucilla gave you a knowing gaze, silently urging you to go on. You gave a short nod, silently bidding her goodnight as you left her chambers and walked down the dim hall leading to Commodus’ chambers. Your body felt heavy, let out a huff of short-lived confidence as you pick up the pace. Your gaze flits over to guards, standing stoically and ready for action against the marble walls.

You reached the smooth double doors that were all too familiar to you, the intricate details carved into the gilded exterior spiraling elegantly amongst each other in the design. You lingered around the door, jumping when the guard moved to open the door for you. You immediately greeted with the scent of imported Egyptian jasmine, juniper and fresh woody musk that you had come to know as the Emperor’s favorite scent. The fragrant aroma seemed to pour from him, blending well with his own natural fragrance. You looked around the lavish chamber, your meek footsteps bouncing off the walls as you walked further in. You paused when you finally saw him, feeling the blood drain from your face. He stood with his back to you, looking at the now dusky sky from the balcony. His cape moving in the soft wind.

You watched him for a moment, placing a hand against your chest to try to ease the chaotic thumping. Your hand slowly rubbing the middle of your chest, taking a slow breath. Before you could even open your mouth to speak, Commodus’ voice suddenly spoke before you.

“I was wondering if you would come…,” he spoke, his head turning a bit towards your direction before moving to look at you fully. The dark circles under his eyes made his irises stand out more as he stared at you, an ominous coil squeezing at you as it continued. His pink lips parted before he quirked an expecting brow at you. You quickly lowered your head, forgetting yourself as you quickly bowed.

“Please forgive me, your Highness. I did not mean to look upon you so boldly,” you said gently, keeping your voice even and soft. You blinked when you heard him approach you, his footsteps sounded as loud as your heartbeat. A patient hand touched your chin, lifting your head up to gaze upon his handsome features once more. Commodus stroked your chin slowly before moving down to clasp your neck, smirking when you eyed him warily. He tested your will, giving your neck a light squeeze and enjoyed the soft gasp that erupted from your pouty lips. “Where were you, little bee?” he purred in a honeyed voice, stroking your smooth throat with his thumb. “I’d sent for you,”

“Your nephew kept me busy, Your Highness,” you replied, your voice not above a whisper. “I…I was getting him ready for bed until his mother had returned…,”

Commodus purred softly in reply to your explanation, tucking a loose strand away from your face. His fingertips dancing along your cheek, pulling a shiver from you at the sensation. He pulled away, the hot touch of his hand against your throat leaving you and you suddenly missed the feeling. You gently touched where his hand had once been, your skin tingling in response as if it was hoping that his touch would return as well.

“Y/N, is it?” he said, glancing back at you. You kept your hands at your sides, giving a soft nod of confirmation as you followed his movements. He gestured to platters filled with fresh bread, fruits, vegetables, sliced, smoked fish covered with spices along with large bottles of wine. “Come, enjoy…,” he offered, much to your surprise. You clasp your hands in front of you as you walked over to the table. He watched your every move, smirking as he poured you some wine in a fine gold goblet, amethyst gems glistening in the light. You timidly took the goblet from him, taking a slow sip of the cool, surprisingly sweet wine. You had never tasted anything like it, making you quickly drink down the rest of it, much to Commodus’ amusement.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asked with a mischievous grin. You blushed as he poured you some more, filling the goblet to the brim. His eyes followed the rim of the cup to your lips, watching you quickly take drink so that the sweet red liquid wouldn’t spill over. “It’s one of my favorites. The finest Rome has to offer…,” he proclaimed, a sparkle of pride shimmering in his eyes. You let the sweetness coat your tongue before further indulging yourself in the fresh food presented to you, indulging in each platter. You had never tasted food like it; you had given in to temptation every once in while by sneaking a fresh bread or even cuts of exotic fruits but never often. Commodus watched you, almost curiously, slowly sipping from his own goblet of wine. He looked away from you and focused on the wall, taking another swallow of wine before sitting the goblet down on the table.

“Y/N, do you know why I called you here?” he murmured, his eyes shifting towards you one more as he removed his cape. You looked at him, your mouth filled with pieces of apple and sweet bread before quickly washed it down with a few gulps of wine. You felt pleasantly lightheaded from drinking so much wine so quickly, but you found your words once he glanced back at you.

“I do not, Your Highness,” you said softly, slowly twirling your empty goblet in your hands. You glanced away, a dusky heat rolling in your lower belly as you heard him shift and come behind you. You could feel his heat once more, resisting the urge to lay back against his chest. You held back a breath as his hands came up to tenderly caress your jawline before moving to your low hair bun, loosening it so that your glossy hair tumbled down your shoulders and back. He smoothed the hair back, his fingers grazing your temple. His hands smoothed down your shoulders and nuzzling behind your ear before burying his face in your hair. The intimate act made you as stiff as a statue, wanting to move to look at him but didn’t want him to stop.

“I’m actually a little astonished, Y/N…,” he spoke, his breathing moving from your hair until his lips settled near your ear. “I’ve been watching you. There have been a lot of maidens who have served our family and pleasured me but none like you, dear Y/N. You have honestly captured me with this skittish coyness that you present to me…,” he said, the purry tones of his voice making you bite down on your lip.

“You tease me endlessly with the soft call of your curves…aching for my touch,” he continued, his hands moving from your shoulder, smoothing over your breasts. His strong hands pushing your breasts together through the thin cotton fabric, a small moan erupting from you. He pressed against you, his body melding against you as his hands moved to latch a firm grip onto your hips. His breath became labored, pressing his soft lips more against your ear as if he were trying to contain himself.

“Would you deny me if I invited your presence in my bed, lovely Y/N…?” he asked, one hand leaving to stroke your midriff slowly and even gripping at the fabric as if he wanted to rip it off of you.

Your mouth went dry, gripping the base of the goblet in your hand which he quickly swiped away from your hands after a moment of breathy silence between you both. He tossed the goblet; your eyes watching it roll on the polished marble, little droplets of scarlet wine marring its purity. He suddenly turned you around, his eyes boring into yours.

“Your emperor requests an answer, my lady,” he whispered against your lips, his hands already tugging at his own garb. The fabric easily coming loose under his tenacious fingers, breathing heavily against your lips before gripping your throat once more. His heaving chest exposed to you, the pale flesh looked slightly damp from the heaviness of the garment that was now falling from his shoulders and torso.

“I would never deny you; I wish to serve your every need, Your Highness…,” you managed to say, gripping at the table behind you. He smiled against your trembling lips, squeezing your neck slightly as he caught your bottom lip between his teeth. He groaned in satisfaction at your submission, his ego swelling as he nibbled on your lip before capturing your lips in a deep, rough kiss. His tongue pushing and swirling around yours, the taste of the wine still prevalent. You hesitated before allowing your hands to touch his hair with care, your fingers running through the short chestnut brown locks. He let out a growl in response, suckling on your tongue before pulling away.

“Disrobe,” he commanded, stepping away from you. “Tonight, I plan on devouring ever inch of you…,” he added with a lustful moan, sitting on the bed to watch you as undress before him. You stepped a little closer, your trembling hands moving to pull at the sash around your waist. You heard a hum of appreciation leave him as your tunic fell from your body. The cool air made your skin turn to gooseflesh with a tremble, your nipples instantly perking at the change in temperature. Commodus leered at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his lips parted as he forced himself to keep his breathing steady.

“Look at you…you’re practically ripe from the promise of ecstasy,” he moaned, gesturing for you to come to him. You drew closer to him, your tongue running over your lips in effort to taste the ghost of his demanding lips once more. He quickly stood and bent you over the bed, your upper half pressed against the soft bed. You blushed once you felt him run his hands over your smooth backside, whispering lewd praises that only your ears could hear. He gripped and kneaded the soft flesh with a hungry groan, pulling his hands back to smack your ass hard. A surprised squeal erupted from you followed by a series of cries and moans as he continued, even placing some strikes against the back of your thighs. You trembled against the bed, clenching at the bedding with a firm grip. When the strikes finally subsided, he gently stroked your now sore cheeks and even cooed affectionately as he knelt behind you. A shuddering groan left him as he spread you open, your arousal glistening and dripping down your womanhood.

He let out a whimper as he licked a strip from your jewel to your quivering slit, moving his swirling back down to latch onto your clit. Your hips bucked involuntarily, moaning loudly as your hands clawed at the bed. His moans vibrated against you as he feasted on you, your moans spurring him on to continue. His hands gripped your cheeks, spreading you more as he dipped his tongue into your wetness. His tongue moving around your tight walls, moaning as your wetness sweetened his tongue. He pulled back momentarily, licking his lips wolfishly. When he returned, he licked his way up to the tight ring of muscle, flicking his tongue against it.

You blushed heavily and immediately tried to pull away only for Commodus to grip your thighs harder, digging his nails into your skin as a warning. Your eyes rolled back, your body soaring with pleasure as he alternated between suckling at your opening and your clit to placing generous licks against your rosebud. You felt your body coil as you readied yourself for the orgasm clawing its way through your body. Commodus felt needy and this only made his desire grow, suddenly shoving two fingers into your dripping slit as he continued to lick and lavish your rosebud with attention. He felt your walls tighten around his fingers, thrusting them deeper and deeper inside of you as he urged you to come undone. You whimpered and cried out passionately once you came, your essence coating his fingers as they continued to plunge into you to help you ride out your orgasm. Flushed, Commodus finally pulled his fingers out of you and stood upright once more.

You struggled to turn to look at him, letting out a weak moan as you gazed up at him through your rose-colored pleasure. Your lips parted once he brought his fingers to his mouth, cleaning his digits of your release. He swallowed hard as he stared down at your naked body, a strangled moan escaping him.

“How foolish have I been to deny myself the sweetest nectar I’ve ever tasted from a woman for so long,” he shuddered.

“Your Highness…,” you started before he cut you off.

“Commodus,” he corrected, working to remove the rest of his attire. He made quick work of the rest of his clothing, the sound of shuffling and the fabric hitting the floor filled your sensitive ears. You let out a quiet moan when you felt him kissing and tongue at your navel, licking his way up the valley between your breasts. “I want for my name to be familiar on your lips, in all of your moans and cries…,” he whispered, nibbling at one of your sensitive nipples before sucking hard for a quick moment. A smack at your thigh made you quickly move more on to the bed with him following close. His eyes glittered as he stared down at you as you stared back, taking in his form. He wasn’t spectacularly muscled, but it didn’t take away from his attractive features and overwhelming sexuality and dominance. You reached out to touch his stomach, feeling him almost falter at you touching him so intimately. You brought your other hand forward, pressing it again his stomach before smoothing up his chest and running back down to touch his thighs. The wispy hairs rising at the attention as you stroked his inner thighs, his hard shaft twitching between his legs.

A faint smirk appeared on his face as he suddenly moved up until he was straddling your chest, the tip of his lengthy member brushing against your nose before he began to stroke himself in front of you. A small pearl of precum formed at the spongey pink tip before dropping onto your lip. Your tongue quickly licked it away, shivering at the taste. Commodus’ eyes glazed over as he let the head of his rub against your plushy lips, begging for access. You immediately opened your mouth, welcoming his hot length into your mouth. A loud moan immediately left his lips, thrusting his hips forward to push more of his shaft into your soft, wet mouth. He panted, reaching down to cradle the back of your head as he began to slowly thrust into your mouth. You kept up with meeting his thrust, gagging slightly as he scooted forward even more. A possessive moan escaped his lips, his head falling back as he sped up his thrusts. You slid your tongue beneath the underside of his cock, the angry vein responding with a speeding throb. He shuddered, his brows furrowing in pleasure as his shaft pressed against the inside of your cheek before shoving down your throat. You did your best to breathe as he held you there, your gagging making your throat clench around his throbbing shaft.

“Take me now…,” Commodus moaned out to the heavens, giving you a few more breathless thrusts before you felt his hot seed spill into your throat. He gripped the back of your head as he let out a groan of completion, gripping your hair as he gave shallow bucks into your mouth as he emptied himself into your mouth. Your eyes were screwed shut, swallowing down as much of his seed as you could as some of it managed to dribble from your mouth when he finally released you. You coughed, immediately taking a much-needed deep breath. The sound of his chuckling filled your ears as he moved off the bed, trying to catch your breath. Your hazy eyes looked up at him when he offered you another cup of wine that you drank down without a word, the cool liquid settling in your belly pleasantly.

Commodus drank from the bottle, his lean body bending as he turned the bottle up before sitting it to the side. His member still hard, hitting his lower belly as he moved to get back on the bed with you. His tongue licked away the wine from your lips, grinning down at you.

“Are you ready for me?” he purred, his voice pulling you in once more as your legs immediately fell open. He moaned in delight at your eagerness, pushing your legs up roughly to lick up your wetness a few times before roughly turning you over. He arranged you as if you were a doll, your back arched with your face buried into the pillow in front of you. You gripped and held the pillow as you readied yourself for what was to come next. Your ass was still sore from the spanking that you received before; you were even sure that you had other bruises that you would feel in the morning. You felt his hands smooth down your spine and over your sensitive ass. You moaned into the pillow when you felt his hard cock brushing against your inner thigh. His mouth followed his hands, placing soft kisses up your spine and between your shoulder blades. One of his hands came up to wrap your hair around his fist, keeping a good grip as his tip nudged at your creamy slit.

“Commodus, please…,” you mewled passionately, making his movements pause for a moment. You had thought you had done something wrong, opening your mouth to apologize to him until he slid inside of you completely without warning. You moaned loudly, the grip in your hair tightening as he set into a punishing rhythm. You felt like climbing the walls as he thrusted deep and hard inside of you; your hands clawing at the silk sheets and pillow beneath you. The sound of his hips smacking hard against you was vulgar enough but your loud moans and whimpers added to it all, his name fervently coming from you which made him pull your head back as he slammed into your quivering cunt.

“Yes, Y/N. Call for me, let the world know who owns you…,” he growled, giving you a hard smack across your ass as he continued. You tried to bury your face into the pillow only for him to pull your head back up, his other hand coming around to grip at your neck.

“Don’t you fucking dare defy me…,” he warned, turning your head so that he could stare into your eyes. His hips began to move faster, his shaft stretching your walls and moving deeper inside of you. “I want to hear every single whimper that comes from that pretty mouth. I want to hear you scream…,” he growled, giving you a particularly hard thrust that earned a passionate cry from you. The sound of the both of you panting and moaning out filled the air. You didn’t care if anyone heard you but his grip tightening on your neck made your cries even more laborious. You moved your hips back against him, making him moan your name in approval and latch onto your neck, marking you with a hard suckle. His growls and moans began to get louder, his hands moving to roam over your body in a greedy frenzy before wrapping an arm around your waist and his other catching you in a lock around your neck. It was as if you would disappear after he found his release, his hissing breaths and moans filled your ear as he roughly handled you.

“Mine…,” he said through gritted teeth before he let out a trembling groan, mixing with your own moans of thirst and lust. His hip movements began to become erratic as he got closer and closer to his release; you were getting closer as well. Your wet walls tightening around his pulsating cock. He had a vice grip on your hips, his jaw jutting out as he slammed one, two, three times before spilling his seed deep inside of your canal. His orgasm set off your own, your eyes rolling back as you came. Panting and moaning his name as he held himself into you; a loud, deep moan of completion left his body as every single drop of his seed glazed your walls. Shaking, he finally moved from you and collapsed beside you on the bed. You moaned quietly as laid beside him, completely spent from your activities. You felt his sticky seed on your thighs, blushing as you pressed your legs together as you laid on your side.

Commodus looked over at you, his eyes heavy as he drew a little bit closer. He moved away the strands of hair sticking to your damp face. His warm breath fanning against your face, making you close your eyes.

“Bathe with me, stay with me tonight…,” he requested silently, a request you knew you would not deny. “I don’t want you to leave my bed…,”

A smile formed on your lips, your lips moving to kiss at the bridge of his nose. “As you wish, Your Majesty…,” you replied.

You spent the rest of the night with Commodus; eating, bathing and making love through the dark hours until the morning when you were both tangled in each other’s arms in bed under the rich blue silk sheets.

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