#honestly is there anything as pure and soft as joseph’s smile?

[josephbyrne]

[consumedkings-archive]

ancient names, pt. xix

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt xix: messy hearts

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~11.2k  

Rating: Explicit; they bang it out. 

Warnings: mentions/depictions of murder-suicides(though none very graphic, only mentioned in passing and after the fact, if that changes anything). Unreliable narrators abound. I think that's all, but if there's anything I missed please let me know.

Notes: I'm going to keep these notes brief just because the chapter is quite a hefty one! We finally get some plot movement, a look into how Elliot got her mantra to Keep Going Anyway mantra, and boy howdy if you thought things were bad before just fucking wait.

I have so many people to thank and I just don't know how to express my gratitude. @shallow-gravy, you are a pure angel and I just adore you so much. Thank you for being so wonderful and for cheering my girl on always, no matter what! @lilwritingraven ilysm!!! You are so sweet and I just don't think this chapter would have happened without you.

And of course, absolutely none of this fic would be possible without @starcrier's unending love and support. The amount of MEMES, the amount of screenshots and meltdowns and in general just fuckery she puts up with nonstop is remarkable and I honestly believe that without her support we wouldn't have gotten where we are today!!!

I anticipate there is, perhaps, one or two chapters left of Ancient Names. Thank you everyone who has supported, even by a single like or kudos or comment; this community is so incredible and I am so so so grateful for every friend I have made. <3

The U.S. Marshal arrives ahead of schedule.

That is to say, nobody is ready for him. Everyone seems a little nervous. He’s familiar with the area—“Familiar enough,” Whitehorse says, and Elliot thinks she can sense a bit of disdain in his voice; people don’t take well to outsiders traipsing around like they own the place, and Cameron Burke certainly carries himself with an amount of confidence that might come off as arrogant.

“Hey,” he says, when she passes him in the hallway, “you’re the rookie, huh?”

She’s already tired of being called rookie—Rook is fine, she supposes, because she likes the way it makes her sound like the chess-piece, the bull-dozer, straightforward and brutal—but she nods, clearing her throat and holding out her hand. “Elliot.”

Burke shakes her hand. There’s a bright, easy grin on his face. “Yeah, I read about you, Honeysett,” he tells her, and for a second her stomach drops; the shame rises up in her throat like a second wave of exhaustion, but he plunges on, “you fuckin’ killed it at the Academy. Flying colors, everyone tells me.”

Relief floods her system. “Tried, anyway,” she says, unaccustomed to compliments regarding her work and more accustomed to dodging questions about why Whitehorse had to think twice about letting her on. “It was—I like the work. Of training, I mean. School. I’ve always liked school.” Fuck, she’s rambling and she can tell—she’s rambling because she’s nervous he’s going to ask, but Burke watches her for a moment.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” he says after a brief pause. “This place could use some new blood. Kinda dusty, don’tcha think?”

Elliot nods. It’s hard not to smile when he’s flashing his teeth boyishly, when he sticks a toothpick in his mouth and winks at her before he sets off. It is kind of dusty, in Hope County, she thinks—and she likes it, this little stretch and slice of home, but it does need new blood. Once they clear the cultists out, it’ll be like new; and then her life will really begin.

She’ll really start over.

Joey doesn’t like him much. “Sounds like a prick,” she says that night over takeout, her legs draped across Elliot’s lap.

“I like him,” she says, fishing her chopsticks around in Joey’s takeout box for a spare bite of broccoli. “He was... Nice. To me.”

“Oh?” Joey cocks a brow at her. “You had a little chat with our friend the U.S. Marshal?”

“Just in the hallway,” Elliot replies quickly, “on my way out today, I passed him. He said he read my file.”

Joey isn’t staring at her, but she doesn’t need to be for Elliot to know that she’s listening. She’s digging around in her noodles for something when she makes a low, quiet noise of inquisition, as though to say, is that so?, because she knows what that usually entails.

“He just mentioned I got good marks,” she murmurs after a moment. “At the Academy.”

“Well, you did,” Joey says. Elliot huffs out a short little laugh and smiles.

“I know. Just nice to be recognized for my greatness.” She crinkles her nose. “Whitehorse just kind of looks at me like he’s worried I’ll fire off.”

“Oh, Elliot! So strong, so smart, so fast, so capable of shooting a man on foot or by vehicle!” Joey wails dramatically. “Your hand in marriage, I beg it of thee!”

Elliot rolls her eyes and shoves Joey’s legs off of her lap, stretching and coming to a stand. “Yeah, yeah, fuck you.”

“Not before marriage, though,” her friend intones somberly. “Joseph “The Father” Seed wouldn’t have any pre-marital fucking in his domain.”

“I don’t think he’s as stiff on that as everyone thinks he is.” Elliot walks into the kitchen and uncorks the bottle of wine, pouring herself a new glass. “Aren’t cults supposed to be weird about that kind of thing?”

She can hear Joey scoff in the living room. “You’re going to be with us tomorrow. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“Oh, great idea! ‘Hi, The Father? Do you fuck, or nah?’ He won’t be expecting that at all.”

“Perfect. See how Burke feels about that pro-strategy.”

Elliot laughs and settles herself back on the couch, holding the glass of wine in both of her hands; the fragrance of it swims in her head pleasantly. Tomorrow they take the U.S. Marshal down to the compound and finally root the Seeds out of here. For good.

She says lightly, “Anyway, I want to get tomorrow done as fast as possible.” A little sigh escapes her.

“Things will finally get back to normal.”

Burke’s hands are around her throat and he slams her up against the wall with a vicious noise.

And then he sees her—really sees her—and he drops his hands from her neck to grip her shoulders instead as he says, “Fucking Christ—Rook, I’m so sorry, fuck, I thought—”

Elliot coughs. Her lungs strain with each movement; every bone in her body feels bruised, and something slimy crawls up and down her spine when she thinks about the way Joseph leaned in close to her in the helicopter and said, no one is coming to save you.

“Burke,” she manages out, her voice hoarse, “they took Joey—they f-fucking—”

“This shit is all fucked,” Burke says. “I had no idea. We had—”

Everything in her is vibrating with a strange kind of hunger. It’s like she’s itching for something, but she can’t quite figure out what it is—movement, maybe, or a purpose, a task. It had been one thing to crawl her way out of the helicopter and start running blindly, but now she’s stationary, and in a trailer, and Joey is gone and she almost can’t think straight.

“Rookie,” Burke says firmly, but not unkindly, “with me.”

Her lashes flutter and she realizes she’s been zoning out. “Y—Yeah, I’m—here—I’m—”

And then she’s gasping, heaving for a lungful of air. All of a sudden, the ability to take a breath is gone. Her body’s normal functions have flown out the window. Her vision fuzzes around the edges and she thinks, fuck fuck fuck, don’t fucking do this, please, fuck, not right now, get it together.

No one is coming to save you.

Burke grabs her hand and plants it right on the side of his neck. His pulse beats—fast, but steady, in the complete opposite of the stuttering arrhythmia of her own heart. He’s breathing hard, but his eyes are clear and his movements assured.

“With me?” This time it’s a question, and she’s taking breaths at the same time he is so she nods.

“Yeah,” she replies, “yeah.”

“Good.” He pulls away from her and gestures for her to follow as he heads further in. “Check the room.”

She does. It’s empty. Eden’s Gate scripture decorates the walls, photos of the Seed family staring at her unflinchingly from behind glass panes of photo frames.

“Clear,” she reports, when she remembers to, and finds Burke standing in what appears to be the main living room of the trailer. The lines of his face are hard, unforgiving, and she can feel the urgency radiating off of him as he scrambles to pull together a plan.

“We’re gonna put these fucking psychos behind bars, Rook,” he says, pointing at a picture frame sporting a portrait taken of the Seeds. Elliot can’t stand to look at them. To think that she’d met John in a bar and—even considered—

“Every single one of them,” the Marshal reiterates as he rips the photo frame off of the wall and drops it on the floor, crushing the glass beneath his boot on his way over to the window. “We’re gonna—”

There are voices outside. Dread crawls up her spine; she can feel it latching on, sinking its teeth into her, gripping.

Burke shoves an automatic rifle in her hands.

“Eyes,” he barks out, back to business as he creeps toward the door of the trailer. “There’s a truck out there. You ready to fuckin’ rumble?”

She grips the cold metal. She wants to say, I don’t know if this is a good idea, because the edges of her are bleeding and blending in with everything else, and she’s having a hard time thinking about anything other than the texture of the carpet under her booted feet, but it helps to have something to hold onto.

Burke turns to her, crouched by the door, and his hand drops on her shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, “we're gonna bolt for that truck and hope it starts. Cover me."

"There's hardly any ammo in this thing," Elliot tells him, a note of panic rising in her voice as more people can be heard gathering outside, shouting to check the trailer. "What happens when—"

"I told you, kid, I read up on you. I know you were that small-town, All-American girl hitting soft lobs in the batting cage once," Burke tells her. "You'll figure out a use for the gun if you run out. And Rook?”

Elliot waits, and grips the cold metal slowly going lukewarm under her hands, flicking the safety off. “Yeah?”

The Marshal gives her shoulder a squeeze. “The second you think you can’t anymore,” he says, “you dig and keep going anyway. No matter what. Give ‘em your teeth if you have to. Got it?”

She nods without thinking about it, because the words feel good—if you can’t, keep going anyway. Dig dig dig. It reminds her of a poem she had read once.

What do we do with grief? Lug it; lug it.

“Good.” Burke drops his hand from her shoulder and gets ready to push the door open. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

There’s not a lot of detail to recall of the next few moments. She’s aware of voices, and gunfire, and the rhythmic, steady movements that she falls into. Aim, fire, drop, reload, aim, fire, rinse and repeat, until the torturous drag of time has her hauling herself into the truck while bullets whizz and clink off of the metal. The second she’s sitting, and not moving, and not breathing, her muscles start screaming; pain blooms behind her eyes.

Burke sends the tires shrieking as he speeds down the highway. He says something, but it’s hard to hear over the rush of wind from the open window, over the shouts of voices and sounds of gunfire echoing in the still, dark night. Elliot falls into a rhythm again—lean, aim, fire, pull back, reload, and again and again—while the Marshal drives over barricades and nearly throws her out of the truck.

“Nice fuckin’ shot, kid!” he says over the noise, just as the sound of an airplane rattling above them makes him lean over the steering wheel as he drives. “Fucking—you’re telling me they have God damn air support? Fuck!”

“Burke,” Elliot says, because they’re rapidly approaching a bridge with a truck ahead of them and the airplane hasn’t let up, “Burke—the bridge—”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ see it,” he grits out, fingers gripping the wheel. “Hold on, Rook.”

He punches it. He’s going to try and get around the truck and across the bridge. But it’s not enough; the truck ahead of them swerves, stops him from being able to speed past and keeping them trapped.

Gunfire from the sky rains down on them. The bridge goes up in flames; the truck is plunged straight into the water; and for a second, Elliot thinks, oh, thank fucking God, I’m done.

But she’s not, unfortunately. As she holds her breath around the water she’d swallowed upon the impact, she struggles out through the open window of the truck and fights her way to the surface. Everything inside of her wants to quit—everything says, we could just close our eyes, we could just be done, and then she remembers.

The second you think you can’t go anymore, you dig and keep going anyway. No matter what.

Her hands find soil. She hauls herself out of the water, coughing, lungs straining for air. Her vision blurs black and fuzzes, fizzing and popping in and out of existence as she considers the logistics of letting herself die. Just for a second. She can die for a second, right?

“No! Get off me! I am a United States Federal Marshal!”

It’s Burke. She can see the glimmer of flashlights on a distant bank, closer to the bridge. The dull, wet impact of something against skin quiets him; as Elliot lays back against the bank with her eyes flickering shut, she feels fingers grip the front of her shirt and haul her upwards.

“My children...”

The voice drones out of speakers—the sound speckles in and out, crackling in her head, distant but sickening.

“S—” Her voice slurs as she tries to say something; she’s being carried, and she doesn’t know to where, or by who. “W—Wait—”

“We must give thanks to God. The day I have prophesied to you has arrived.”

Elliot tries to force her eyes open. She can’t. She can’t, and she’s going to let Burke down, because she can’t dig anymore. How is she supposed to dig if her nails are scraping the bottom of the barrel?

“Everything I’ve told you has come true... The authorities who tried to take me from you are now in the loving embrace of my Family... save for one.”

She’s going to be sick. She’s going to be sick, and she wants to die, and she thinks that fucking psycho is talking about her.

“But the Wayward Soul will be found. They will be punished...”

She can see stairs. Concrete stairs, as the man carrying her hauls her down, down down down. Vaguely, hazily, she thinks, belly of the beast, now? and she wonders if she will ever feel normal again. Her vision fuzzes black, but she’s not dead and she’s not asleep; it’s unfortunate.

“And in the end, they will see our glorious purpose.”

Metal clinks against metal. Cold from the concrete floor seeps through her soaked clothes. Elliot lifts her head lazily, feeling the tug and strain of handcuffs around her wrists, and when she opens her eyes she can see she’s—somewhere. Somewhere, and handcuffed to a bed, while an older man stands at the radio. Joseph’s voice rattled on through it.

“I am your Father. You are my Children. And together, we will march too—”

The man turns the radio off. The air hangs hazy around him with smoke; something burns in the ashtray, and she thinks, fuck, I’d kill for a goddamn cigarette right about now.

“You know what that shit means?” the man asks, turning to look at her. She blinks at him blearily, and when she doesn’t answer, he plants himself in a chair in front of her.

Joey, and maybe Pratt—Burke, Whitehorse? They’re all gone, or dead, or something somewhere, and now it feels less like this was her chance to really start over and more like a set of trials and tribulations to make her suffer.

Her gaze flickers to meet the man’s, and she shakes her head uncertainly. The words won’t come out, even if she thinks there’s even a chance she’d have the strength.

“It means the roads have all been closed.”

No one is coming to save you.

“It means the phone lines have been cut.”

What do we do with grief?

“It means there’s no signals getting in or out of this valley.”

Give ‘em your teeth if you have to.

Elliot feels her stomach churn violently, nauseated. She wishes this man would have left her to die—or sleep, or whatever it was her body had been trying to get her to do on that riverbank.

“But mostly,” he finishes, leaning in to look at her with a hard, flinty gaze, “it means we’re all fucked.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A loud knock at the door echoed in the dim, stinging heat of the bath. For a moment, she felt a jolt of instinctive fear pound through her body—where was she? Was she drowning again? Had she not made it out of the river, had she—

Burke, and Joseph, and Joey getting dragged away, and Dutch, and—

But then Elliot remembered: she was at her mother’s house, and she’d run herself a bath in the big clawfoot off from the master with a vodka soda, and John Seed was here, too, and her lungs burned because she’d been sitting under the water. The sharp, splintering pain in her chest was grief, the memory of Joey's laugh and smile freshly remembered.

Breaking the surface and steadying the breath that wanted to gasp out of her through her nose, Elliot pushed any stray bubbles from her face and eyes and waited again to see if the sound was real.

Another knock came. “El?” John called from outside the bathroom, and his voice hinged on something else—something strange and foreign, and it gave her a tiny little thrill through the pit of her stomach to know she was making him feel like that. She blinked a few times, straightening up in the bathtub as the now-lukewarm water splashed around her. It had been a long time since she’d fallen asleep like that, without sporting a metric fuckton of exhaustion for days. It was probably the alcohol.

“I’m here,” she replied, feeling hollowed out and trying not to let it show in her voice, “come in. What is it?”

The door clicked open. John glanced around curiously at the bathroom—her mother had never let her use this bathroom for anything, not even to get ready for a high school dance or her graduation, and she thought maybe that made the room all the more special—all of her mother’s glittering compacts and colored perfume bottles, carefully-maintained hanging plants, the big French windows and gauzy white curtains; they all spoke to a woman who had created for herself a safe space.

She only thought, I hate that she never let me enjoy this safe space, too.

“We should be going back soon,” he said lightly, crossing the marbled floor to drag the stool from the vanity up to the side of the tub. With one arm leaned up against the porcelain, he reached the other hand out and tilted her chin; like this, covered only by the rose-scented bubble bath foaming up around the hollow of her chest, she was sure that she looked gnarly—mottled with bruises the size of Kian’s fingerprints, all over her neck and shoulders and chest, dousing her in a faded red-wine color that made her skin prickle in faint pain when John traced the slope of her collarbone.

Kian was dead, but he was still there—lingering just below her skin, a bone-deep ache and grief that she would never be rid of because no matter how dead he was, Joey was much more dead.

“—you’re thinking about,” John murmured, his eyes flickering over her face, and she leaned back against the head of the tub.

“Come again?” Elliot reached out of the tub, snagging the half-drained glass of vodka soda and downing the rest of it with a grimace that only partially cleared out the fog of grief.

“I said,” he continued lightly, fingers smoothing over bruisy skin below her collarbone, “tell me what you’re thinking about.”

I’m thinking about Joey, and your fucking cultists dragging her out of the helicopter and taking her away from me. There was no venom in the passing voice as she closed her eyes, damp hair sticking to the nape of her neck and her mother’s bath oils filling up her senses; John was touching the spot he’d once threatened to mark her with her sin. Wrath.

I think it’ll fit nicely right here, don’t you? Maybe just over your heart.

It wasn’t enough to wear it on her skin, anymore. It didn’t feel like enough, anyway. It was inside of her; a poison that she couldn’t sweat out, embedded in the sinew of her tissue now.

“I can hear those little gears turning, hellcat.”

“What do we have to do?” Elliot asked after a moment, opening her eyes, as John’s fingers traced the shape of a letter beneath her collarbone. W... R... A...

“Do?”

T...

“For the baptism,” she clarified, as the blunt drag of his nail finished the final touch of an H. “What do we have to do?”

John watched her for a moment, gaze flickering over the quickly-fading red marks he’d left on her sternum. She knew that look on his face—he was hungry for it, this thing he had been trying to get from her all along. Even after it all, he still itched to carve it out of her.

And maybe she did, too; maybe it would feel like a penance, a purging, a catharsis, a—

That’s how, she thought after a moment. That’s how they get people.

“We’ll cleanse you...” His voice trailed off and his eyes flickered back up to hers. “And then reveal your sin.”

“Cut it out of me,” Elliot supplied, exhaling a little out of her mouth.

John’s mouth twisted around a smile when her eyes traced the exposed Sloth scar she had memorized the feel of. “Real courage.”

She wondered, briefly, if it would feel the same as when she had done it before. The scar would certainly look different—no fine gossamer wisps, ghosting across her abdomen and hips and the inside of her thighs. Those were ghosts. This one—this scar John wanted to give her—would be a neon sign flashing over her head.

Do you think they’ll understand, when they read the reports of what you did to that man? Of the trail of bodies you’ve left behind yourself?

Could she have a life after this? Would it matter if she and John even left? Regardless of where they went—if they did—they would be a pair, matching in scars and matching in sin and matching matching matching until they were the same, just as much blood on her hands as there was on his.

“Then,” he continued, dipping his hand into the fragrant water before drawing it up across her bruise-mottled shoulder, “you’ll be clean.”

I liked it, she thought through the haze of alcohol and perfumed air, killing Kian. I liked it.

His fingers came up to her jaw, and he leaned against the edge of the porcelain tub and kissed her; long and luxurious, not punishing or bruising but drawn-out enough to elicit in her a pleasant, dull ache. 

“Okay,” Elliot murmured, speaking the words into his mouth, into his kiss.

John paused, but did not pull away. She could taste the dredges of what swallows he’d gotten of her drink in his breath. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She reached up and dragged him the tiny distance back in for another kiss. “I want to.” She thought, if it’s what will convince Joseph, if it’s what’ll make it so I can leave, if it means you’ll go with me, if it means I won't have to be alone, but none of those words came. It had never been her strong suit, talking about her feelings.

John exhaled, like the acquiescence—the relenting—was enough to drive him to nirvana. She could feel his smile against her mouth.

“El,” he rumbled against her mouth, fingers skimming along the slope of her jaw, “I’m gonna give you everything you want.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Slow down.”

They’d only been driving through Fall’s End for about five minutes—not that it took too long; you could probably drive five minutes in just about any direction and hit the edge of town—when the blonde barked out the order. It was a strange juxtaposition, to have her biting out words like that when the smell of roses wafted off of her like a perfume, filling the cab from the oils in the bath.

Elliot’s voice was sharp when she spoke; her eyes were fixed on something out past her window, evening having sunk heavy and dark over the town of Fall’s End. It was a ghost town, now, but the urgency in her voice had him hitting the brake more fervently than he intended, and the truck lurched to stop.

“What is it?” John asked, and when he did Boomer growling low and angry behind him. He eyed the Heeler before he realized even the dog was looking elsewhere.

The blonde didn’t answer. She leaned forward instead, as though straining to see in the dark. Over her head, he could see the front of the Spread Eagle where they had been only a few days ago; now it was decorated with blossoms, and at its base sat two darkly-clothed figures. This far away, John couldn’t see if they were asleep or awake.

And then he did see. He saw the arterial spray against the dark wood, flickering under neon lights that buzzed in the stillness of the night; he saw the bouquet clutched between their hands; he saw the open, glassy eyes and slack jaws, and the glint of metal sitting on the ground beside each body.

Above them, written in dark, oxidized red-brown: WRATH, DO YOU WANT TO BLOOM IN ME?

“Sorry fucks,” Elliot said, her voice flinty and steeled as she leaned back into her seat. In the cab of the truck, the perfume of the bath oils radiated off of her in gentle waves, the heady, floral scent almost dizzying this concentrated and close. 

John let the truck roll forward a little, scanning warily; he didn’t see any dark shapes moving behind windows, or in the distant treeline, which was what actually worried him—the presence of more, live enemies, not the suicide love-birds.

But if it bothered Elliot, if it made her feel any type of way to see these dead bodies cradling life in one last embrace, he couldn’t see it on her face. He pressed on the accelerator and glanced at her expression through the corner of his eyes; there was a steeliness there. Not empty, not as though she had stopped processing, but as though she had, and it didn’t mean anything to her.

Good, he thought. That’s how it needs to be.

The rest of the drive back was quiet. There were an unsettling amount of coupled-bodies on the drive home—propped against trees and patches of highway railings or the occasional clifface, hands interlocked as they cradled blossoms, some more intricately decorated than others. But the basis of it was always the same: a couple, slumped and glassy-eyed. Some had the words written around them, some did not. It didn’t seem to hold any pattern that he could tell.

Elliot closed her eyes and drifted in and out of sleep until they got back to the compound, the flickering fluorescents stirring her awake. As they were pulling in, Jacob was getting a truck ready to go; it was late into the evening now, almost midnight, and a sting of apprehension skittered up John’s spine at the sight of his eldest brother loading a rifle into a truck.

As soon as she had opened the door, letting Boomer out first and then following suit, Elliot looked at Jacob and said, “Where are you going?”

“Not your fuckin’ business,” Jacob replied serenely.

“Everything,” Elliot said flatly, “is my business.”

“It’s cute that you care.” Jacob flashed her a half-cocked smile. “But don’t worry, deputy, I’m a big boy.”

John slid out from the driver’s seat, watching the exchange with some apprehension. But it seemed to fizzle and die out right then and there, like Jacob and Elliot had come to some silent truce about the matter without his intervention; Elliot rolled her eyes and scoffed under her breath, heading for the bunkhouse without waiting for John.

Which was fine, because John lingered. He swung the truck keys around his finger and said, “So where are you going?”

Jacob glanced back at him over his shoulder. The redhead regarded John for a moment before he looked to make sure Elliot had closed the door behind her and said, “Couple of ours say they spotted Burke wandering around down by the Henbane.”

Oh, John thought, the words both giving him a jolt of excitement and a little of dread. Burke being missing was a problem, that was to be sure—but if they could find him? Get rid of him without ever bringing him back into contact with Elliot? The less time for conspirators to put silly ideas in her head about getting out and moving on from Hope County, the easier it was going to be to convince her of what a bad idea that was in the end.

“You’re going to go get him?” John prompted.

“Yep,” Jacob drawled, “dead or alive.”

“Preferably dead.”

The corners of Jacob’s mouth ticked upward, and he flashed his teeth. “That a request, little brother?”

Stifling his own smile, John replied lightly, “I just think it’ll solve a lot of problems if the Marshal becomes permanently lost. And if it makes my job a little easier in the process, then—”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jacob interrupted, waving his hand. I’ll see what I can do was about as good as an anything you want if it was coming from Jacob, John knew; so when he said that, and clapped John on the shoulder as he passed, it felt like an assurance more than a cautionary ‘maybe’.

John nodded, and then said, “We saw the Family.”

His eldest brother paused in his movements, and then hauled himself into the truck, looking at John expectantly.

“They’re killing themselves,” he elaborated. “At least the ones we saw. You’ll probably…”

John’s voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat and said, “It’ll be hard to miss them.”

Jacob gave one short, brief nod, slamming the door of the truck and starting it with a rattling rumble. “Sorry fucks,” he said, his words unintentionally mirroring Elliot’s words, and it was all John could do not to tell him he sounded exactly like her.

John headed for the chapel, moving with a new and reinvigorated purpose. For once—finally—things were beginning to fall into place. With Burke out of the picture, the last of the resistance having evacuated Hope County, and Elliot’s agreement to the baptism, he thought this could only indicate smooth sailing from here on out.

Well, mostly smooth. There was still the matter of their marriage, which Elliot didn’t know about—and it was a big deal, probably, for her to know that her last name was changed. As far as the law would be concerned, however, everything would check out and be perfectly binding, and when he told her she would understand that he had done it for them, that he had done it because they needed that extra measure of protection in the instance that—

Don’t, he thought to himself, pushing the door open. We are not considering the idea that the End isn’t coming.

“John,” Joseph greeted him, sounding surprised. It looked like he had just been walking towards the doors himself to leave. His brother's gaze flickered over him inquisitively. “It’s late.”

“Elliot wants to do the baptism,” he said, trying to quell his delight at the gentle lifting of Joseph’s brows at the news. “I’ll do it as soon as you want, Joseph.”

The man paused. He seemed to roll the announcement around in his head for a while, the white leather-bound bible tucked under his arm as his eyes flickered absently over the wooden flooring.

“She’s agreed to it,” John tried again. “To the—”

“Yes,” Joseph replied, “I understand.”

Another moment of silence stretched. John kept waiting for it—the happiness, the pride that Joseph should feel at him having accomplished this last great feat. Anything, John thought, I’d take anything, if you just gave me something to work with.

“Tomorrow,” he said finally, and reached out, planting a hand on John’s shoulder. He squeezed, and a bit of relief flooded John’s system. “You baptize our deputy tomorrow—”

My deputy.

“—and then we will prepare to retreat for the End,” he finished. “Yes?”

John nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Good.” Joseph regarded him for a moment, and then, at last, a little smile quirked the edges of his lips. “You’ve done well, John.”

He felt his shoulders sag a little in relief. “Thank you,” he said, “Joseph, I—”

“And I will forgive you the transgression of your lust,” Joseph continued mildly, “as you will make sure that Elliot joins us completely and wholly. Isn’t that right?”

The dread returned. Just a little; it was how Joseph operated the most effectively. Tiny, light dosings of dread, just to remind you who was in control, who it was that ran things around here. He cleared his throat.

“I’ve already,” John began, “confessed to those which—”

Joseph’s hand came to the back of his neck. “You have been fixated on our deputy since the moment she started taking things from us. You can re-commit an offense,” he said, his words echoing Jacob’s, and for a moment John felt a spike of anger—that they had been talking about him when he wasn’t around. “You’re not so wrathful as to go to such lengths to bring her to heel for that alone. And even if you were,” Joseph added, “it wouldn’t matter, as you had already given in to your sin.”

“She’s my wife,” John insisted, and his words were coming out angrier than he wanted; as always, Joseph could slide right under his skin like it was nothing, like it was second nature to him. 

“A fact she remains, as of yet, unaware of. Regardless, you lusted after her far before that, and acted on it before then, as well. I’ve let it go because of our unusual circumstances, but you understand,” his brother replied, his words a blunt-force-trauma slap to John’s exhausted brain. A moment of silence stretched between them as John worked the words around in his mouth—I actually don’t understand, nothing about that changed how I treated her in my care, I did everything you asked of me and I shouldn’t have to pay—but Joseph said, “At any rate, all will be forgiven once we are awaiting the End." And then, pointedly, "All of us.”

John swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something, any of the thoughts running around in his brain, but Joseph dropped his hand and brushed past him, humming lightly under his breath.

“Goodnight, John.”

He stood there for a little while longer after Joseph had left, turning the words around in his brain. Once again, he felt very far away from Joseph; but all this time, he had been working hard to do exactly what his brother had asked of him. Elliot might have already been converted to their cause if he’d been allowed to break her in the way he’d wanted to before. But it was Joseph who had insisted on a more merciful route, Joseph who had reiterated step by step that to do so by mercy was the way it needed to be done for the deputy.

And now, it was Joseph criticizing the steps he’d taken, in adverse conditions, to give him what he wanted.

John pushed the troubling thoughts out of his brain. Another place, another time, he might wallow on them a little more—perhaps a time when he could drink his way through them, come back to reconciliation about the fear that Joseph somehow managed to strike in him with ease, deal with it then.

When he finally walked himself to the bunkhouse, he found Elliot sitting with Faith outside the door, smoking a cigarette while they exchanged quiet words. Faith flashed a radiant smile at John as he approached, her eyes glimmering playfully.

“Ladies,” John greeted, trying to shake his last conversation with Joseph. “Nice evening for an outside chat?”

“Fucking cold,” Elliot replied, taking a drag of her cigarette and blowing the smoke out and away from Faith.

“I was just telling El how happy I am that she’s here,” Faith told him, coming to a stand. Her very casual and nonchalant use of the nickname El was enough to spike a little suspicion in John, but when she spoke, Elliot’s eyes flickered like she was trying not to smile, like the words meant something to her and she was trying to remain stoic.

Elliot said, not remarking on the nickname and tapping the ash from the end of her cigarette, “That’s two out of four siblings that like me. Think I can go for a full house?”

Three, John thought absently, but he didn’t say; the words would have shredded his mouth on the way out.

“Well,” his sister continued lightly, “I’m exhausted. Goodnight, you two.”

“Night,” John replied, keeping his voice idle as she left. He extended a hand down to Elliot, and she took it, hauling herself to her feet; he snagged the cigarette out of her hand and said, “Speaking of sleep, how about we don’t cram it on that twin bunk tonight?”

Elliot watched him smoke her cigarette down, her gaze flickering back up to his. “It’s cute how you think I’m just automatically going to let you sleep with me all the time.”

“It’s cute how you act like you don’t like it,” he replied, pitching his voice low, “especially when we aren’t sleeping in bed.”

She took her cigarette back, finishing it and dropping it to the ground to stamp it out with her shoe. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind not having you breathing down my neck all night.”

“Oh? You suppose?”

“I’m losing the motivation to continue this conversation,” Elliot cautioned in a murmur, even as he leaned in and kissed her, his hand instinctively coming up to the back of her neck to keep her there. She didn’t pull away, or even try to; instead, after he’d kissed her breathless, she continued, “Are you going to take me or what, Slick?”

He laughed, the sound billowing out of his mouth at her little country-drawl come peeking through.

You will baptize our deputy tomorrow.

His fingers curling into the semi-dry hair at the nape of her neck, and he kissed her again—harder, now, open-mouthed and hungry, until he could feel her fingers knotting into the front of his shirt.

“Tomorrow,” he said into the kiss, “tomorrow we’ll do it. A new cleansing, revealing your sin.”

“Fast,” she murmured.

“So Joseph has decreed.”

Elliot pulled back to look at him; he wanted to lean in, chase her mouth with another kiss, but she said, “Do you always do what your brother says? I thought pre-marital fucking was a big no.”

The words twisted hot and traitorous in his stomach. He wanted to say, technically, we’ve only done that once, but he knew better. After her little display back at her mother’s house, he knew better.

He swallowed back the venom and said, carefully articulating his words, “If we could refrain from ruining a perfectly good moment—”

“By talking,” Elliot deadpanned.

“By criticizing,” he clarified, “that would be wonderful.”

She regarded him amusedly, one brow arching upward loftily. She was clearly thinking about something, working it around in her brain in a place that he couldn’t reach—still, parts of her remained locked away from him, parts of her that he desperately wanted to get his hands on and hadn’t yet.

“Well,” she relented at last, “I’d hate to ruin a moment. Show me where this luxurious bed is, huh?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Elliot could tell that her acquiescence unsettled John. She could tell that he had been expecting more of a fight out of her; she was so tired of fighting, though. She was so tired, and she was so worn out, and sometimes she could feel her brain switching off in the middle of something happening, like a greater cosmic power was consistently turning her Do Not Disturb sign on.

She’d feel better in the morning, maybe. It helped that she hadn’t looked at the photos littering her mother’s house for too long, and that she’d drank through most of her time there to keep the memories at bay. Elliot didn’t want to linger on thoughts of running barefoot through the house, shrieking with laughter as her mother called out for her to slow down; she didn’t want to think about how many times she and Joey had curled up on the same couch that John Seed had kissed her on, eating lemon bars and flipping through teen magazines while her mother drank and hummed in the kitchen.

There were good memories there. There were memories of a time when Elliot felt like the entire world was within her reach—she could go anywhere, be anything, become anyone she wanted back then.

Things had changed.

She had changed. And even though John’s promise wavered, even though it still lingered in her chest uncertainly like a beast of its own, she thought maybe he meant it. She had seen the tension between John and Joseph as of late. Something about their interactions was waning thin, worried and worn between them, and that meant that when John said he wanted those things with her—a home, a life—that maybe she could trust him.

Isn’t that a pretty thought? A wicked part of her intoned, vicious. The man who’s lied and lied and lied to you, being truthful for the first time.

But she was tired, and she was different, and being different took work and energy and she didn’t want to think about that. What else could she think, anyway? She could operate off of nothing else.

Admittedly, not trying to fit both of their bodies on a twin bed was doing wonders for her mood. John had led her to another small building within the compound; it was laid out much like the other bunkhouse had been, with a bathroom and a small table, but the bed was queen-sized and pushed up against the far wall, tucked into a corner. With Boomer having taken off with his nose to the ground—likely chasing a scent—Elliot had stripped out of her jeans and crawled into the bed with a laborious sigh that only partially revealed the relief she felt.

“I have never,” John said amusedly as she pulled the blankets up, “seen you more relaxed.”

“You did interfere with my life at an inopportune time. My bed is king-sized at home, you know; nothing like sleeping diagonally on a giant bed.”

He laughed; as he shed his own clothes—his belt, jeans, shirt—he watched her like he was trying to figure out why it was she had become so agreeable and so quickly, why she hadn’t picked another fight with him.

Blissfully, he didn’t ask. John crawled into the bed next to her, and already he was reaching to wind his arm around her waist; when he pulled her close to him, she felt that pleasant little coil of dopamine hit her brain, and she thought, what a time, that John’s hands on me make it feel like I’m not drifting away.

She thought to say it, for just a moment; she thought maybe she could give John that, because she’d been taking and taking and taking and she didn’t think she was giving him anything. 

The words didn’t come so easily to her, so instead of saying them, Elliot reached up and dragged him down to kiss him. I’m gonna give you everything you want, he’d said, and just remembering those words made her feel too-warm. She’d never, ever had anyone devoted to her—not like this, not in the way that John was, dragging his mouth reverently down her neck and sliding his hand along the back of her thigh.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” John said, murmuring the words into the skin of her neck. His mouth skimmed lower, dragging down her sternum; his hands pushed up the hem of her tank top and she felt the slick, hot flicker of his tongue against the part of her that she knew was scarred, ghosting and intent.

“Can’t,” she managed out, trying to steady her breathing, “when you’re—”

“You can.” He nudged her legs apart, glancing up at her inquisitively, the blankets dragging down with him. “Tell me.” He kissed the inside of her thigh, open-mouthed, and she felt her breath shallow a little.

“I’m thinking about—what you said, back at the house,” she managed out, as John’s breath fanned across her skin.

John’s eyes fixed on hers again. His fingers skimmed beneath the hem of her underwear; he was waiting for her to tell him to stop. When she didn’t, he tugged the fabric down, sliding it completely out of the way and discarding it somewhere on the floor.

The apprehension curled up, high and hot, in her throat. Still, forced herself to relax, to think about John’s hands gripping her hips and his eyes and his mouth and—

“When you said,” Elliot continued, “you’re going to give me everything I want, and that you wanted—”

He pressed his mouth to her; she felt the sound he made into the gesture, her vibrating straight through her and short-circuiting her brain. Instinctively, her fingers went to his hair and knotted. She didn’t know if she was trying to ground herself again or if she was trying to keep John there, but the intention didn’t matter—as soon as she pulled, even a little, she felt John’s tongue slide sly and wicked against her and she moaned without thinking about it, the sound as involuntary as breathing.

It felt too raw, too vulnerable, and she tried to think is this too much? Am I feeling too much right now?, but the pervasive thought in her brain was: yes yes yes, this is what we need, this is what we want. To be loved, to be touched, to be worshipped.

“Can't get enough of you.” John's voice was rich and dark against her skin. “So sweet for me, hellcat.”

“John, we—you don’t—” Elliot started breathlessly, but the words were strangled in her throat by a half-sighed whimper when John’s mouth returned to where he wanted her the most and he groaned, like he was starved for her, like he could barely stand the thought of not having his mouth on her right that instant.

“Fuck, I wanted this so bad,” he murmured huskily, reverent as he planted kisses along the slope of her hip. “Wanted those sounds you make, and the way you’re looking at me—knew you’d make the prettiest fucking noises when I got my mouth on you—”

Another desperate sound came out of her, just loud enough that John's response was to drag his teeth along the dip and curve of her hip bone. He sighed dreamily and leaned in to flatten his tongue against the neediest part of her; the gesture served only to make Elliot moan and squirm, and her hips instinctively arched upward to try and garner some friction—any friction—but John's hands held her down against the bed.

“Love when you’re desperate for me,” he rumbled against her, breathing the words against her skin and making her breath stutter out of her in an uneven exhale. He pressed his mouth back down, tongue flicking and dragging wet, hot pleasure against her, his gaze half-lidded and not once straying from Elliot’s. 

It was almost too much, the whole lot of it; John, saying filthy things against her while he ate her out, his eyes hungry and his mouth hungrier and the way that he dug his fingers into her hips and—

“F-Fucking—tease,” she managed out, but he shook his head, rumbling against her and drawing another spiral of heat straight into her stomach, sharp and unforgiving.

“Don’t you like it when I take my time with you? You certainly seem like you’re enjoying yourself.” He hooked his arms underneath her legs and tugged her down against him. She squirmed, her lashes fluttering when he let his breath fan across her. “Thinking about how I promised you whatever you wanted. Are you going to tell me, then? What you want?”

Elliot could tell that he loved saying that, I’ll give you whatever you want, because he knew what it did to her; that it thrilled her, this shred of power that he gave her, offered to her. John dragged his tongue against her, his gaze heated and nearly blown-black with want, and stayed exactly there between her legs.

“John,” Elliot moaned, “I—want you to fuck me—” And then, in an effort to feel a little like she was in control: “Please.”

The word had its desired effect; she could feel the tension radiating off of him, straining against his carefully-manicured veneer of being in charge. And then John groaned at her words, his own eyes fluttering shut for a moment, as though her words were enough to make him need a moment before he opened them again. He pulled back from her, sitting up so that he could press his fingers into her, and fuck if it didn’t make all the more delicious to have John watching her while he did.

He said, his voice hoarse with want, “El, you’re so fucking—God, you’re so fucking gorgeous like this—asking so nicely for me—”

“Fuck me,” Elliot insisted, her voice verging dangerously close to a wail as he changed the pace of his fingers very little. She thought if John kept looking at her like that, if he kept saying those things, she might finish just like this—and she didn’t want to. “Stop teasing me and f—fuck me like I know you want to—like we both want—”

It was enough. Or maybe it was the thing John had been waiting to hear from her, because it prompted him to shed what little clothing remained between them and sidle back between her legs. Reaching down to cradle her face with his hand as he kissed her, she could taste herself on his mouth; she could feel the heady, intoxicating drag of him against her and God he was taking his fucking time. 

“Want this to last,” he moaned, burying his face into her neck, “fuck, so good for me, baby, so wet already and I just can’t fucking… Can’t fucking get my fill of you.”

Elliot keened her agreement breathlessly. Yes, she wanted to say, yes, I’m so good for you, now please hurry up and fuck me, the thought driving a wedge of heat straight down her spine. As soon as John slid inside of her, he was panting into her skin, biting out swears as he tried to keep himself from snapping into her.

“J-John,” she whimpered. Her brain felt muggy, hazy with want; like she wasn’t going to be able to think about anything else except for him, and that was exactly what she wanted. Not to think. “So—feels so good—”

“Yeah,” he gritted out, moving slowly, too slowly, “fuck yeah, this is what you needed, huh? Needed me to fuck you like this—nice and slow, make you feel me every—single—time—I—”

It felt good to give him this. She hadn’t lied, when she’d said that before—that she liked giving him what he wanted, that it made her feel in-control and desired and loved and maybe that was the worst part of it all, that her brain might have been making those things up as a way to justify this. But it didn’t matter in that moment; all she could think about was the feeling of him rocking into her, hips slotted perfectly against hers and his mouth on her neck and the faded scent of his cologne mixing with the floral scent of her own remaining perfume.

Elliot sighed, “Yes, John,” in agreement, and pulled him up for a kiss; his movements hitched just a little, the delicious drag of the uneven pacing almost sending her right over the edge. So close so close, her body said, so she knotted her fingers into his hair tight and said it again; “Yes, yes, yes,” against his mouth, moaning it, until John was grinding out swear between his teeth.

“Not yet,” the brunette moaned, almost frantic with desire. “I want you to come, I want to feel you get fucking wet for me, baby—”

She knew that she could make him beg, that she could make him come undone if she really wanted to. But for this moment, Elliot thought she liked this; she liked letting him take control, liked squirming and shifting underneath him until each cant of his hips against hers had sparks of pleasure flickering behind her eyes.

John’s mouth went to her neck. His teeth dragged, and then he bit down harder than he had before; the pain bloomed wet and hot, and she moaned, her lashes fluttering as it sent her sprinting sprinting sprinting right over that edge.

“Yes,” he ground out, “yes, fuck yes, so fucking good for me, El, s-so—good.”

Elliot kissed him hard when he came, his fingers reigniting old bruises on her hips and her own high still cruising, careening prettily down; the surrender was almost better, the act of giving in and giving John what he wanted nearly as intoxicating as the idea that he was hers.

Mine, she thought dreamily as he dragged his tongue over the bite mark on her neck, the word one that wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to her but which hadn’t occurred to her in this context before. For that suspended moment in time, nothing else could matter to her; there was no space in her brain to worry about anything except the weight of his body against hers and the wicked, delicious aftershocks radiating throughout her body.

All she could think about was how nice it felt to not be so alone.

It feels good for him to be mine.

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When he awoke the next morning, there were three soft knocks at the door. John blinked, forcing himself to work through the tired haze of his mind, sitting up and reluctantly leaving the warmth of the bed and—

And of Elliot, curled up against him, stirring from her sleep.

“John?” It was Faith, mild-tempered and shy; like she knew exactly what she was going to find if she opened the door and she was trying not to let him know. It wasn’t that it bothered her; it was that Faith was exceptionally good at keeping herself in-check, so any time her tone deviated from serene was a red flag.

“I’m awake,” he called back, and even he could hear how hoarse his voice was coming out of him, rough with sleep.

There was a pause, and then Faith said sweetly, “Joseph says we need to begin soon.”

The blonde beside him rolled onto her other side, hauling the blankets up to her chin. “Fuck off.”

“We’ll be ready in thirty,” John called back.

“He said that he wants me to get Elliot ready,” she continued, and there it was; that sly little curl in her voice, the one that reminded him exactly of why it was Joseph kept her around. 

John passed a hand over his face tiredly, rubbing his eyes for a moment before he cleared his throat and climbed out of bed. “Sure, alright, Faith, just—give me a minute—”

“Take your time.”

The implication hung there—that she would politely wait until he was done getting dressed, but that she wouldn’t be leaving to wait, so that anything he wanted to say to Elliot was going to have to be saved for later. Haphazardly pulling some clean clothes out of the dresser and onto his body, he glanced back over his shoulder to see Elliot sitting up in bed; she cradled the blanket against her chest and blinked tiredly at him.

“It’s time,” John said. “For the—”

“Yeah, I heard.” Elliot carded her fingers through her hair and slid out from under the blankets. Like this—in various arrays of undress—John could see the purpled bruising along her sternum and neck and shoulder, a few of them on her legs, beginning to fade into a wine color and even lighter still around the edges.

I’ll have to be careful when I’m writing her sin, he thought absently as he buttoned his shirt. As Elliot muddled her way through pulling on last night’s clothes, he closed the distance between them and reached for her; she let him, though maybe only because she was still half-asleep, with the daylight still fresh and new and the outside mostly still dark.

John cradled her face and leaned down to kiss her. “You and me,” he said against her mouth, “right, hellcat?”

It’s not a lie, he reasoned when she kissed him back. It’s not a lie to say that.

“You and me,” Elliot agreed. Her voice sounded thick, like he’d said the exact thing she wanted to hear and it had caught her off guard, and he felt a little thrill of victory in his chest.

Once she was mostly-dressed, he made his way to the door and nudged it open. True to her word, Faith had waited patiently; a swath of dark fabric was draped over her arm, silken, and as she stepped past John she said, “Okay, John, girls only now.”

Obediently, he stepped out of the building, turning and looking at Elliot over his shoulder. The eye contact only lasted for a minute before Faith beamed at him and shut the door. Inside, he could hear Faith saying something to Elliot; making out the words, however, was near impossible.

“Right,” he said under his breath. “This is fine. Everything’s fine.”

It was the first time he’d said it to himself, in a long time, and it felt true.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“It’s so fucking cold,” Elliot said, shivering. The silk slip of a dress that Faith had told her she needed to wear for the “baptism” barely did anything against the early-morning chill. Dawn had nearly crept all the way over the distant mountains, and as they picked their way down to the water, she wished they’d just let her wear the clothes that she had brought. Naturally, Eden’s Gate—and Joseph, by proxy—were completely incapable of doing anything reasonably.

“I know,” Faith replied sympathetically, their fingers intertwined as they picked their way down the path. “But at least it’s only for a little while. In and out of the water, and then you can change again.” And then, as though it were meant to comfort her, she added, “Blue’s your color.”

Elliot grimaced. Blue was John’s color. “Yeah,” she agreed dryly, “it matches well with my bruises, don’t you think?”

The woman laughed, giving her hand a little squeeze, and for a brief second in time Elliot felt a twinge of regret. There wasn’t too much time to think about it; by the time she was opening her mouth to apologize—an action which Faith seemed to elicit in her quite easily, when overall apologizing was not something that came so naturally to her—they had broken the treeline and all thoughts went sweeping out of her brain.

Joseph stood at the edge of the shore, but she barely thought of him; she barely thought of anything except for John, standing nearly waist-deep in the water, the Book of Joseph held open in one hand and his eyes fixed on her. It sent a little flurry of aches through her, reminding her that once, what felt like a thousand years ago, she had wanted to kill him. Spit in his face. Leave her mark on him and throw his entire fucking family behind bars.

But maybe Joseph had been right, when he asked if she really thought she was going to be accepted by the people she had done all of this to protect.

John's gaze swept over her as they came near; a grin split his face, and with his empty hand he reached for her. She was vaguely aware of Joseph saying something, light and tranquil, but the words didn't register in her brain. She was only barely aware of Faith letting go of her. With that same hand, she took John’s outstretched one, and he tugged lightly, guiding her into the chilly Autumnal waters; where it barely reached John’s waist, the water just crested above her belly button, and she felt the goosebumps spreading.

John cleared his throat. His eyes swept over the page in the book, before he closed it and held it out for Joseph. When the man took it, standing just at the edge of the water, he turned back to Elliot and murmured, low and barely above the sound of the water lapping around them, “You and me?”

Her stomach twisted and lurched uncomfortably, but she nodded. She’d had barely an opportunity to reconcile this moment with herself. She thought, maybe, if she made it a rebirth for herself—if she let Joseph think that it was for him, but in her mind and in the marrow of her bones it was for her, that would be what mattered. But it was hard to think that way when John started reciting the words from the book, words that sparked in her memories of the last time this had been happening.

Hands, gripping her shirt, plunging her under the water over and over and over again. The “scripture” bleeding into her head, into her heart, muffled occasionally by the water. John’s voice, slick with venom, when he said, “This one’s not clean.”

When John finished speaking, he reached up; still stuck in the waking nightmare-memory, Elliot’s hand reached up to grip his arm where the sleeve had been rolled up. 

John, plunging her under the water. Holding her. Dark dark dark, and her voice rolling the word weak around as she fought for air and struggled to break the surface—

But now, his hands cradled against the pillar of her neck; now, he looked at her reverently, like she was something to be worshipped.

“Here,” the brunette said, his voice low and soft, and somewhere in the back of her mind his words overlapped with a memory that at once felt both too sharp and too foggy to recall; “with me.”

“Okay,” she whispered. He smoothed his hand along her back, between her shoulder blades, and then pulled her under.

It took every ounce of her self-control not to fight it. Every fucking ounce of it, and she still caught herself tensing like she was ready to. John kept her there, one hand between her shoulders and one hand on her sternum, the light pressure digging a little into the remaining bruises.

And he kept her there. And kept her there. And—

Above the water, somewhere out there, she heard the sound of John saying something; more voices echoed back, more than just Joseph and Faith. He pulled her up out of the water abruptly; the sudden movement had her gasping for air, her nails digging into his forearm, and she thought, he was going to let me, he was going to let me fucking drown, I—

“I’ve got you,” John said, steadying her; certainly he could feel the rapid pulse of her heart. There was something strange about his tone—it was hard, tense and tight, and she saw it in his face, too.

Shivering ferociously, Elliot kept her hand gripping his arm. She started, “John, why did you—”

“Rookie?”

The familiar voice had her head jerking back to the shoreline. There were more people there, now. There was Joseph with Faith beside him, and just at the edge of the water and staring at her, was Cameron Burke.

Behind him, Jacob flashed his teeth in a wolfish grin.

“See?” Jacob said, slapping his hand onto Burke's back like an old friend playing too rough. “Told you she was just fine.”

The Marshal’s hands and feet were unbound, but he swayed on his feet, and Elliot saw that his pupils were blown wide and dark—he reeked of a sickly-sweet floral scent that felt familiar, tingled somewhere in the back of her mind—

She couldn’t think. She couldn’t think about any of that; her brain felt like its competency had been completely reduced, that the strain of focusing on more than one thing at a time had become too much. And here, now, Burke was staring at her, and when he said it again—when he said, “Rook, is that you?”—his voice broke, hoarse and wretched.

“B—” Elliot’s throat closed tight. The air had been sucked out of her lungs; she felt the ache in her chest bloom fresh and hot and new, and it was grief—grief and shame, reopening old wounds that she had hoped would be long-since healed over.

With me? Burke’s pulse, steadfast and firm, under her fingertips. 

The man’s expression crumpled. She let go of John’s arm and went to wade through the water; his hand caught her elbow and held her fast.

When she looked back at him, his expression was unreadable. He said, “El,” but that was all he said, and she heard the strain of something close to desperation in his voice. Don’t, it said, without saying it at all. Don’t do this.

With her teeth chattering and a violent spike of anger racing through her, Elliot jerked her arm out of his grip and stumbled her way up onto the bank; Burke reached for her almost immediately, catching her arms and pulling her up out of the frigid water and to him. His body felt feverishly hot, even though the cotton of his shirt, his vest long-since discarded.

You dig and keep going anyway. No matter what.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he managed out as he gripped her, and she felt his eyes sweeping over the exposed bruising, like war paint on her skin.

“Burke,” Elliot said, her voice breaking, and oh, she thought, oh, there it is; the release, the catharsis, because she was crying at the overwhelming sense of shame and relief in equal amounts at the sight of the man who had walked her through her first real firefight; big, gasping, grieving sobs, hiccuping in her chest violently because she kept thinking about Burke—she kept thinking about him grabbing her hand and saying, we’re getting out of here, and how he was here now. Now that she was—

This.

“God, what the fuck did they do to you?” Burke asked, his voice barely breaking the sound-barrier of a whisper. He pulled her forward, closer, protectively. “I’m so—I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I—”

“Found him wandering out by the old prison,” Jacob explained, presumably to the others and not to her, “having a nice little trip. Weren’t you, Burke?”

The shame washed up in her again, a nauseating cocktail that reminded her of all the things she had done. All of the awful things she had done, while Burke was out there, alone, wandering and confused and tripping on Bliss overloads and now he was here. Now he was here, and she kept thinking, what have I done?

“Hey,” Burke said against the top of her hair as she clutched at him, “I got you, Rook, I’m sorry, I’m here.”

I'm sorry, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm ruined now.

“Well,” Joseph said, his voice tightly-controlled and forcibly serene, “I suppose we should give the deputy and her Marshal a moment to catch up, shouldn’t we?”

[klaineharmony]

300x3, Year 2, Week 1:01

All right, all. I’m trying to pick up my 300x3 for the new year, and get back into “We’ll Be There to Defend One Another.” I’m posting a fairly large chunk here, but I only wrote 302 new words of it today. But 302 words is 302 words! I won’t sneeze at it. @whatstheproblembaby, @katherineisthebestpulitzer, @queenofbrooklyn, @canadiantheatrenerd, @elozable, @wordshakerofgallifrey, @captainlordauditor, @writemetohell, @thelittleredheadedmusician, @rudeflower (are you a fan of this ‘verse? I honestly don’t remember).

Katherine woke early the next morning, much to her chagrin. She had honestly wanted to get some sleep after the past few days. She was normally an early riser, but it became chronic when her brain was too full, her mind too busy, and there had been much to think about during the past week. She wasn’t sure that even David knew about this particular quirk of hers, though he already worried that she didn’t sleep enough. (He was one to talk, with his full work days and union meetings afterward.)

She crept out of bed and once again availed herself of Sarah’s wrapper before sitting next to the window. I really should bring a set of nightclothes from home, she thought. Goodness knows I’m here enough, and they would be easy to smuggle out of the house. I’ll do that, the next time I have a convenient excuse to leave with a bag.

Of course, if David had his way (and Jack, too, from the sound of it) this would be her home permanently about a month from now. The thought filled her with joy, but there was trepidation mixed in.

Last night had been hard. She had known - or thought she had known - the complications of existing in a mixed religious marriage; her parents had certainly had their share of detractors and mockery, and even hatred. But, to a certain extent, her father’s money and position had insulated them. Elite New York was a money club, after all. Joseph Pulitzer could create scandal around anyone, make or break political careers, with just a story or two. And her father had done everything he could to divorce himself from the Jewish community, Katherine recalled bitterly. He had given up his heritage when he married her mother, become persona non grata to to the community that should have been his home, failed to teach his children about the religion he had been raised in. Katherine had never asked him whether his motives were personal or purely social, but either way, she wasn’t sure she could forgive him for it.

Still. To think that she had understood the extent to which people in mixed marriages could be ostracized and threatened, based purely on her own family’s experience, seemed like the height of arrogance now. 

She wanted to build a home, and a family, with David. She hadn’t fully realized that she could also deprive him of those things, simply by being who she was. The community that was instrumental to the Jacobs’ support and well-being could close ranks and leave them utterly alone, if it was collectively decided that she and Jack were too great a threat. People in her parents’ stratum of society did the same, of course, to anyone who violated their social rules, but it wasn’t quite the same. Money could be gained or lost, earned or inherited, and while longstanding wealthy families always carried a certain social influence around with them, it wasn’t a given that they would always belong to the club. Money wasn’t religion or heritage or identity, as much as some people in her parents’ circles liked to believe it was. It didn’t create a community or a home. Her parents’ cold mansion was proof enough of that. It didn’t hold people together when there was nothing else left.

Katherine sighed softly, rubbing her forehead. She was thinking in circles, and the headache that was developing as a result did not bode well. All she really knew was that she wanted David to be as safe as he could be, given the constant prejudice that was a part of daily life for him - and therefore, now, for her. She didn’t want to make that worse - but how could she make it better?  

A shadowy figure appeared abruptly outside the window, on the fire escape landing, and Kath pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp. It took her a moment to recognize Jack’s shape in the vague gray outline, but then her alarm gave way to concern.

She raised the window sash slowly, careful not to disturb Sarah. “Jack,” she breathed. “What are you doing here? It’s so early, and you have work today. I thought you were staying at the lodging house.”

Jack had turned toward her at the sound of the window, and Kath could just barely make out his features in the dark. “I did,” Jack confirmed, “but I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep, so.” He shrugged. “It happens more often than I’d like.”

“For me, too,” Katherine admitted softly. 

She just caught sight of Jack’s grin. “What keeps a wealthy girl like you up at night, Ace?” 

Katherine chuckled, still trying to keep her voice down. “A lot, these days.” She climbed carefully out the window and shut it behind her, joining Jack on the first escape and sitting next to him.

“Scandalous,” Jack teased. “Katherine Plumber out on a fire escape with a disreputable union leader.” 

“I think the papers would find the fact that I’m out here in my night clothes more scandalous than the company I’m keeping. Every paper in New York and anyone who reads them knows that I’m hopelessly corrupted - a union worker, a socialist. A champion of the working class, heaven forbid,” Katherine responded dryly, but she was still smiling.

“I’m glad you’re safe, Kath,” Jack said softly. “I was worried about you yesterday.”

“Awwww, Kelly,” she teased. “I’m so touched. I didn’t know you cared.” 

(She was touched, actually; his reaction to her story had been expected, but still shocking for its intensity. She had also learned long ago that it was easier for him if she teased, before delving into anything serious.)

Jack leaned over and shoved her shoulder with his own. “Shut up, Plumber. Just because you’re Miss Independent, you think no one in this family worries about you?”

Katherine smiled, but she was reminded abruptly of the conversation at dinner the night before. “I know you do. I’m grateful for it,” she said soberly. 

“How was it?” Jack asked, and though his voice was steady, Katherine could feel the trepidation underneath.

“It was . . . better. I think,” Katherine said. “Warden Collins seems to be a good man, and he’s made a lot of changes to try and make the children healthier and happier, and less afraid. I think he truly is trying to do his best for them. But it’s still awful.” 

Jack sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Sounds about right. But I’m glad, if it’s any better at all.”

“Speaking of which,” Katherine said, “I’m supposed to tell you that Eugenia says thank you, and that things really are better now, at least for her.”

Jack looked over at her in surprise, and a smile crept onto his face. “You saw Eugenia?”

“I did,” Katherine confirmed. “She’s lovely. One of the best students, she said. She’s thinking about going to high school.” 

Jack’s smile broke out in full, then. “She’s a good kid. That’s . . . that’s amazing, Ace. Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course. She asked me to,” Katherine said gently. “Of course I would. And - and I’m going to be able to get Smalls home, Jack. Collins said that as long as Skittery can come get him, as long as he can release Smalls to family, he’ll be glad to let him go home. I want to try and talk to Skittery today.”

Jack blew out a long breath, and pulled Katherine into a hug against his torso. “You are somethin’ else, Katherine Plumber,” he said. “Skittery’ll be - he’s never been the same since they took Smalls away. He’ll be so happy.”

“That was the point,” Katherine said.

“I thought the point was makin’ yourself a world-class reporter,” Jack needled her, but she could tell from his tone that he was joking.

“The story’s just a bonus,” Katherine said, smiling and shrugging her shoulders, and Jack chuckled. 

“Jack,” Katherine asked slowly, “before you escaped the last time - and I was on the ferry, by the way, and worked out how you escaped on Roosevelt’s carriage, clever boy - but before the last time, did you ever try to swim, to get back to Manhattan?”

“Sure,” Jack shrugged. “It’s not that far, Ace - maybe half a mile? Maybe a little longer, to get to a dock. The hard part is the currents, and avoiding the river traffic, but still.”

Katherine hugged herself, crossing her arms over her chest. “But you would have been so little. How did you even know how to swim?”

“My ma taught me,” Jack said, his voice low. “We used to go out to Coney Island - it’s one of the only memories I have of her when she was even partly healthy. I don’t even know how we went, or why - maybe the doctor thought it would help, bein’ farther out of the city. But I remember bein’ in the water with her, and my pa too, and her showin’ me how to move my arms and keep myself up. I guess I never forgot.” He paused. “It’s funny, the more I talk about her, the more I seem to remember.”

“I’ve never heard you mention her before,” Katherine said softly. 

“Mama Jacobs asked me about her, and no one had asked in so long that I wasn’t even sure I was rememberin’ right,” Jack said ruefully. “But now that I’ve thought about her, things keep comin’ up to the surface, almost.”

“Maybe you’re just ready to remember again,” Katherine said, her voice still soft. She had the feeling that if she pressed on that memory at all, Jack would close up like a clam, and so she refrained from saying anything else. She stood up, straightening her nightgown and borrowed wrapper as she did. “Stand up.”

Jack raised an eyebrow at her. “What for?”

“Just stand up, would you?” Katherine said, rolling her eyes. 

Jack did so, and Katherine tugged him into a proper hug, resting her chin over his shoulder, looping her arms around his waist, and holding tight.

He carefully put his arms around her shoulders. “What’s this for?”

“This is just for you,” Katherine whispered. “For being brave enough to stay alive and stay yourself in that awful place. I couldn’t stop thinking about what it must have been like for you.”

Jack hugged her harder. “Best not to think about it, Ace.”

“You’re an annoying idiot, Kelly,” Katherine murmured, “but I wanted to burn The Refuge to the ground yesterday because of what Snyder had done to my brother. And cry my eyes out. Preferably in that order.” 

“Hey,” Jack said softly, rubbing her back. “I’m okay, Kath. I’m okay.”

“I’m not really sure you are,” Kath retorted, “but if you’re not, you tell Sarah or you tell Davey or you tell me, and you let us help you. I know you talked to David a little bit, the other day, and I’m glad you did. If you need to, you keep talking, and any one of us will be there to listen. Understood? That’s what families do - or what this one does, anyway.”

“Understood,” Jack promised, and Katherine nodded and gave him a final squeeze before letting him go.

“Good,” she said, trying to smile as she swiped at her eyes. “So, I understand that our fiancé brought up the idea of getting married in a little over a month?”  

Jack gaped at her, and Katherine winced. “Too much too soon?”

“Way too much,” Jack murmured. “You do realize that Davey and I haven’t even had a chance to talk about this yet?”

“I’m sorry,” Katherine apologized, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “You know I say things before I think, sometimes, and it’s usually not good when I do. I didn’t mean to be intrusive. I know you haven’t had a chance to talk to each other, and we’ve all been trying to have these conversations where we can, this week, because we’ve all been so busy. Let’s table that, then. But just so you know, Jack - I’m happy to talk about it, once you and David have had a chance to get your heads around it.”

Jack gave her a little smile. “I know, Kath. Just - give me some time with this, okay?”

“Absolutely,” Katherine promised. “And, in the interest of doing that, and also filling you in, you really should know about dinner last night, and what happened to Sarah yesterday.” 

Jack tensed visibly, and sat down again, bracing his elbows on his knees. “What happened?”

Katherine launched into telling him all that had been said at supper the night before, including Sarah’s unpleasant encounters with Bilah Schecter and Mr. Johnson, and the family conversation about potential threats against the Jacobs. She took her time with the story, both to give Jack some breathing room and to make sure she remembered the details, and Jack’s face was sombre by the time she finished.

“Damn them,” he said angrily, and he suddenly sounded exhausted. “Damn all of them for their hatred. And if Johnson lays a single finger on Sarah, I swear by all that is holy, I will kill him myself.” 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. You knew he had been threatening her,” Katherine said carefully.

“I suspected,” Jack nodded. “Sarah would never say it outright; she wouldn’t want me to worry about it, when there’s not a lot I can do. She’s been workin’ in that kind of environment since she was fifteen, Kath; she knows what it takes to keep herself away from the foreman’s attention. It sounds like yesterday was just unlucky. Sarah told me, once, when I asked her how she knew how to punch Morris, that her father taught her some defensive moves to keep her safe - how to throw someone off balance, how to punch them, how to hit them in vulnerable places - enough to get herself away, if she ever needed to. He gave her lessons right before she started working.”

“Mr. Jacobs taught Sarah those things?” Katherine repeated, amazed. 

Jack nodded again. “He knew the dangers, and she always has, too. He wasn’t about to let her work without some basic ways to defend herself, and I’m glad she knows as much as she does. But sometimes - sometimes it isn’t enough.”

“I - I just never thought about it, I suppose,” Katherine said, still shocked. “I can’t imagine my father deciding to teach me those things. Men in my father’s circles get away with - liberties, shall we say,” she grimaced, “and occasionally worse, but for most of them it’s just words. They know the social cost of hurting an unmarried woman of their own class - not that they should get away with it with any woman,” she added angrily. “Some of the men hurt their wives, too - I saw enough of the women wearing long gloves or long sleeves out of season, and heard enough talk, to know what they were trying to hide. And the law can’t touch the husbands for it. I suppose the difference is, married men do the damage at home, and foremen go after their women workers. But it’s still the same brutality. Some of the men in the newsroom are bold with me - words again - but I can’t imagine any of them ever trying to -” she broke off and shook her head. “But maybe they would.” 

Kath paused. It made her ill to think about these things - and it should, for heaven’s sake; it should make everyone ill, and furious - but her own privileged existence sometimes still blindsided her, and she hated that. She knew men who abused their wives. She knew girls who had been caught in compromising, scary situations, thanks to some suitor’s sense of ownership and entitlement. Girls of her class were chaperoned so heavily that it was relatively rare, but it did happen. But fathers never thought about teaching their girls self-defense - nor mothers, for that matter. The fact that Mr. Jacobs had found it necessary to teach Sarah those skills, however basic, before sending her into a factory workplace, made it so clear how little protection women workers were given. 

“Well, and there are two big differences, Kath,” Jack pointed out quietly. “One is, you have Denton. He’s your friend and your mentor, and he’s got authority over a lot of the junior reporters. I know it probably hurts a little to think that he acts as a shield for you - but he knows that he does, and he’s happy to do it. And two is, there isn’t a reporter in that newsroom who doesn’t know that you’re Pulitzer’s daughter, no matter how messy your relationship with him is.”

“Class and power rear their ugly heads,” Katherine murmured. “And I did know, about Denton - I took him with me to Hell’s Kitchen for a reason, and I know that just by existing, he acts as a protector, a buffer. I’m not a complete fool, and I’m grateful that he does so much for me. But Sarah - until last night, I never thought about what those women must go through, working together and having their immediate boss or some of their male coworkers threatening them. And there are no laws against it, nothing to stop them.”

“No,” Jack sighed. “Nothin’ but what the women themselves can manage to do. And sometimes they can’t do anything.”

“How did you know?” Katherine asked, still carefully. “I can see how you would be able to tell about Sarah, even if she didn’t say anything directly - but how did you know what happens, more generally?”

Jack smiled grimly. “I spent a lot of time in Medda’s theater when I wasn’t in The Refuge, Ace. Medda has really strict ground rules for her customers, and it’s been better since she became the owner, but she wasn’t always. Under the earlier owners, a lot of the women who worked there got threatened. Or grabbed. Or hit. I used to sit in the dressing rooms and draw, and I’d see them patch each other up, cover up the marks with stage makeup.”

“And the newsies talked,” he added. “The ones who had mothers and sisters who worked in the factories, they would come to get their papes some mornings and want to punch somethin’, ‘cause some factory boss had left bruises. Not that their pas didn’t do the same, sometimes, but when it was the bosses, they couldn’t even try to help.” 

“Of course,” Katherine said wearily. “Of course they couldn’t.” It made her ache with sadness, in a bone-deep way, to think not only of Sarah and Jack, but of so many of the newsies, enduring abuse or watching their family members endure it, and having no legal recourse to stop it.

She was silent for a few minutes, and she and Jack both watched as the light crept over the sky and gradually drove away the darkness. And in the pale light before sunrise, Kath asked the real question that had been weighing on her mind.

“Jack, would you - have you ever thought about converting? Becoming Jewish?” Kath asked, and Jack’s eyebrows went up in surprise.

“Have you?”

“Yes,” Kath confessed. “I’ve been thinking about it even more lately, and especially after last night. I want to keep David as safe as I can, Jack, and if that means formally becoming Jewish, then - I think I’m willing to do that.”

Jack’s eyebrows furrowed, and Katherine could see him considering what he was about to say. “Kath - that’s a huge thing to want to do for David, but - you know that it’s not going to make things easier, right? I mean,” he amended, “it might make things easier for you and Dave within the Jewish community, but it’s only going to make it harder for you with your parents, and anyone else from that part of your life. They’ll see it as a betrayal. And after everything your father’s tried to do to keep people from knowin’ he’s Jewish, he’s not going to appreciate the news articles your conversion will create.”

“All the more reason to do it, then,” Kath said, giving Jack a bitter smile.

Jack frowned. “Kath. I’m bein’ serious here. Is this about David, or about you, and somehow gettin’ revenge on your father? 

Katherine sighed, running a hand through her hair. “It’s not really about my father at all, Jack. Or if it is, that’s only a small part of it. I want David to be safe. I want the Jacobs to know that they are safe, at least in terms of having their own community standing behind them. And,” she said shyly, looking down at her hands, “I never really felt at home in the church where I was brought up. It was just something we did. It didn’t mean anything. I think maybe it held meaning for my mother, but - it always felt empty to me. That’s not true here. When we’re all at shabbos, when you and I get to share in those holidays and rituals - that’s beautiful to me. That means something. I don’t know the rules for this, but I hope that wanting to marry David, and declaring that I want to be a part of his faith, will be convincing enough to allow me to go through whatever process is required.”

She smiled at Jack again, and it felt more sincere this time. “So you see, I’m not really giving up that much. Not when it comes to my parents, at least. Goodness knows I never was the daughter they wanted me to be. And I don’t think I can say that I’m giving up a faith that never felt real to me in the first place. But I think - if I do this, I think it might feel like I’m reclaiming something I lost. Reclaiming the faith that my father gave up. I’m not technically Jewish, because my mother wasn’t, but this way - I will be.” Her lips twitched, and she gave Jack an impish look. “And then, after all that, there is the added bonus of making my father even more angry.”

Jack chuckled, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Those are all good reasons, Ace. Just be sure before you jump in. I wish I could feel the way you do about it.” 

“Don’t you have - some kind of faith, Jack?” Kath asked hesitantly. It pained her to think that he didn’t have that comfort.

Jack tensed, just a little, but Katherine noticed. This wasn’t an easy topic for him. “I believe in - somethin’,” he acknowledged. “A higher power, a guidin’ force in the universe, if you want to think of it like that. Call it God if you want. I’d be an ungrateful heel if I didn’t. I was an orphaned street kid who should have been dead several times over, Kath. And yet somehow, I didn’t get sick when my mother did. I had Medda, I had the newsies, then I had you all. I had people who cared enough to keep me safe, people who actually loved me. There’s no way to tell you how much that means,” he said, giving her a little smile. “But at the same time, I’ve seen religion do so many awful things. Snyder thought he was doin’ ‘God’s work’ when he beat kids. My father thought the same. They didn’t even belong to the same church, but they both used religion to satisfy their own cruelty. And people who call me a mick, who hate Sarah and Davey and call them kikes in the street, they’re cut from the same cloth. I can’t subscribe to that. Not any form of it. I’m glad that Sarah and Davey and their parents find comfort in their faith - I’m glad if you decide you can, too,” he added, “but I just can’t swallow it.” 

Katherine absorbed that for a minute. She thought about what it might have meant if her own experience with religion had not just been empty, but tied to discipline, to beatings, to hatred. In a way it was astonishing that Jack could still believe in something higher - it would be so easy for him to think that the universe was purely chance, and fortune or misfortune completely arbitrary. It would be so easy for him to hate, as so many people around him had hated him, and hated those loved - and yet he loved, Sarah and Davey and the newsies, and Medda, and even her, with a capacity that continued to surprise her.

“I think that’s understandable, and completely fair,” she said to Jack. “I might have spent the rest of my life just going to church as a matter of form. I didn’t expect to find so much meaning in Judaism - and if I hadn’t cared so much about Davey, and even Sarah, in the first place, I’m not sure I would have been so open to it. If I’d had experiences like yours, I think I might discard the idea of a god altogether. So you won’t find me trying to argue with you about how you feel.”

Jack smiled again, and she could see the relief as his muscles uncoiled and his limbs relaxed. “Thanks, Ace.”

“We should get going,” Kath suggested, smiling. “I need to hunt up Skittery, and get a full draft of my story to Denton, and you have to get to the yards. What if you go rouse Davey, and I’ll get Sarah,” she suggested, and she valiantly tried to suppress the smirk that was trying to creep onto her face.

Jack shook his head at her, and she could see him blushing even in the dim light. “You’re impossible, Plumber,” he muttered, and Kath laughed before climbing back through the window. 

[believerindaydreams]

"What's wrong with you?" Wallace is in good spirits, tending two searing steaks on his cast iron pan with diligent care. He sounds a little less sardonic than he might, usually.

"My heart is broken into so many tiny pieces, you'd need a magnifying glass to sweep them up. Why, how's it with you?"

A chuckle by way of reply. "Not so bad as you, my friend."

He doesn't really like the way Wallace calls him that, a declamation of ownership, but it's a true enough thing to say- and besides, to say such a thing to a man so lonely wouldn't be the least charitable. Anyway, today is not the time-

"Would it have anything to do with our illuminator's lady friend?"

"I must be getting soft in my dotage," Tuco retorts, fetching a knife. Two nice hunks of sourdough to mop up the juices, that'll do nicely. "To be so obvious about it!"

(Honestly, how and when? Just because his love is printed on all his dreams in the biggest of types, doesn't mean he thought to be utterly transparent.)

"No, well....I saw where Blondie's eyes were going also." Wallace shoves a spoon under the steak, flips it over in a splatter of grease. "And during Mass, no less."

He splutters off the edge of a reply; no use incriminating himself more. "I wouldn't...that is to say, I'd rather not say."

Something like loftiness enters the monk's expression, which Tuco can't help feeling doesn't suit. "There are certain advantages to keeping one's relations purely on the spiritual level."

"...mmm."

"But a word of reassurance. I spoke with her this morning, and she says she has definite business to attend to, so won't outstay the week. Joseph's moral fibre should doubtless hold out for that little time."

Worse and worse. If Blondie wanted the austere Susan, well...he can't quite see it himself, but then he has no choice.

The thought that's bothering him, after all, is the way Angel Eyes had smiled upon the night of her arrival. Vivacious, dressed to the nines, with an exceptional hat and a heart's ease that had looked so fine on him! The very way he'd spooned out marmalade ("Shall I open a fresh jar?" "If you would-" they'd sounded so impossibly elegant).

He slumps across the table, and eyes the hot steaks being placed upon it with something like indifference.

"If your appetite's gone, you really are a lost cause."

"....perhaps not that bad," Tuco admits; seizes a fork with a desperate attempt at enthusiasm. "It's just- what can I do, Wallace? Watch helplessly?"

"Then make a move tonight, you dolt. You do often enough as it is."

Good, solid, practical advice, just like its progenitor. "That's...worth thinking about."

He pops a piece of perfectly done steak into his mouth, and feels better.

[thefricklefracklesin]

George Luz

69% smut

Warnings: Fingering, shit talking, swearing, sobel being a friggin cuck, sobel being pervy, big bro lebgott, cock blocked, angry luz

There will be a part 2, I just wanted to get this out because I actually love it and I have so many ideas in my head that I want to get out but I cannot type fast enough, so enjoy this! 

p.s sorry it fell apart at the end a bit but I can assure you that the second part will be purely smut *wink wonk

Hard work and pulling sick pranks was how you earned your respect from the Easy Company men, specifically George Luz, fuck did you ever habve the hots for him. Not like you were over the moon about expressing your feelings for him in fear of ruining your friendship but eh. 

You and George were the pranksters of E.CO, which meant that Sobel was always on your asses about anything and everything. Some of the guys had noticed that he was giving you, specifically, odd tasks. 

“So, Y/N, has Sobel said anything weird to you?” Lew asked, to which you shrugged “Nothing like, super out of the ordinary, why?” “He’s a fuckin’ creep that's why” Liebgott piped up. Joe was like your brother, he was your best friend next to Luz “I've seen him looking at you, and I don't like it” other men in the barracks agreed, bringing up times they've seen him looking for a little too long. Specifically when you’re in your PT gear, but let’s be real, your ass was poppin’ in those shorts. 

“I haven't noticed honestly.. I mean it's not a big deal-``''It is a big deal-``''No Joe, it's not you can't go punching any guy that looks at me because you would have already hit 90% of everyone here by now” Silence fell as some of the men nodded, “That's..Fair..” sighing with defeat, Joe laid back down on his bed.

Later that day

“At least its the weekend tomorrow, I still have my pass” you spoke to George as you both walked to the mess hall, but alas, you may have spoken to soon; “L/N!” Sobel yelled, appearing for thin fucking air. You and George both stood at attention. “Luz leave us, L/N I feel as if you have been lacking your PT, your weekend pass is revoked, you’re running Currahee all weekend” this time, you caught his eyes roaming your body, George saw it too, and man he did not like it one bit. “Yes sir” George re-joined you as you sighed in defeat. “That’s Bull shit” he said as you continued your walk, now not really looking forward to anything. 

The next morning at the peak of dawn, Sobel was in your barracks, yelling for you to get up, “You're running from the crack of dawn till the last light of day girlie, and I'll be watching the entire time” you groaned as you sat up, muttering a yes sir. Some of the men who remained looked at you with sorry expressions, Joe just looked angry. 

You pulled up your shorts and went to remove your shirt to swap it for your Pt one, when you felt eyes on you. Turning to the door you saw Sobel standing there, watching you. Once he realized he had been caught he left. Fuck what a creep. You weren't the only one to notice though. Nixon was going to tell winters, and Joe was going to tell Luz.

Exhausted wasn't even the proper term for what you were feeling, you had spend eight hours running, one or two fifteen minute breaks but the rest was all running. Finally Sobel had decided that you had had enough for one day. “Go shower, I expect you to go with no breaks tomorrow.” and like that he turned and left. You collapsed to the ground, taking your canteen and emptying it onto your face and chest. George had watched you do that, holy hell did you ever look hot. “You alright?” he asked as he sat next to you in the field.

 “My legs are so weak” A laugh escaped his lips. “How is that possible? You haven't even spent a night with me?” Now your face would have been so red if it wasn't already from all the running. “Oh I’m sure” deciding to retort with sarcasm, you outstretched your hand as he stood up, pulling you along with him. “Well, would m’lady like to find out? Or would she like to call me a liar again and hurt my heart” A pout came to his lips as he looked at you, your hand still in his. “Maybe one day luz, maybe that day is today” You whispered, leaning in closer. “I am in need of some assistance showing, might the gentleman George Luz be willing to assist the lady in her predicament?” A cheesy smile replaced his pout as he hooked his arm around your waist, “The gentlemen George Luz accepts” and so he helped you to the shower which was currently unoccupied. But little did you know, a creepy boot camp guy was watching the whole thing, what a cuck

sexy time

As soon as you and George closed the door to the showers, his mouth was on yours, his hands roaming your body, squeezing and groping you. Your mouths moved together, tongue intertwining in the heated kiss. “Fuck baby girl” he groaned huskily against your cheek as he started kissing down your neck, nipping and sucking “nnh, George I'm so gross and sweaty” but your protests fell mostly on deaf ears. 

His hands made their way to the hem of your shirt, slowly he lifted it over your head, throwing the article on one of the nearby benches, next to go was your bra. As he went to bury his face between your breasts you stopped him “Georgie I'm to sweaty” a smirk graced those soft lips as his eyes met yours; “Were going to shower anyway baby girl” 

He never once broke eye contact with you as he took your left nipple into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth, flicking the sensitive nub with his tongue. One hand was groping and squeezing your other breast, and the other was rubbing your core through the shorts. Tilting back your head, a gasp escaped your lips as your hands went to his soft locks. Tugging at it a bit made him groan against you, his mouth popped off with an audible sound, switching to the right, peppering it with kisses and nips before taking the bundle of nerve into his mouth. 

His hand tugged at the waist band of the shorts, pulling one side down at a time till they- along with your underwear, pooled around your ankles. His hand went between your legs, rubbing his fingers between your folds. “Fuck you're so wet” he hummed, looking up at you as he pushed two fingers in. “Ooooh” he stood up and shushed you. “Can't be too loud baby girl, why don't you go get started and I'll come join you”

As you want to start the shower in the farthest stall, Luz checked the door, making sure no one was listening with the possible intent of watching. To his surprise a body fell forward as he opened the door, and that the body was none other that Herbert Sobel. A disgusted look came over his features “What the actual fuck, you sick bastard!” Hearing the commotion, you turned towards the door, wet hair sticking to your face. “George?” You stepped out of the stall, a towel wrapped around you. 

There was George, on the floor on top of someone, getting ready to punch the shit out of them “George wait!” rushing over to him, you pulled him off after he landed a few hard strikes on the man below. As you held him, the man he was beating lowered his hands from their defensive state. “What the fuck?!” you questioned, disgust in your voice “Fraternizing is against the rules, and striking a superior officer will get you kicked out Luz” Sobel said angrily, standing from the ground. Georges arm went out and pushed you behind him. “You were going to spy on her showering!” By now, there was a crowd, and in that crowd you could hear a very angry Joseph Liebgott. 

“Y/N? Are you okay what happened” Joe said, rushing to you, taking your face into his hands making sure you were unharmed. “I mean not mentally, but I'm fine physically, but I happen to be rather uncomfortable right now” Gripping your towel closet to your damp body, you looked to the door where Sobel was trying to get away, when Winters and Nixon stepped in front of him. “The bastard was trying to Peep on Y/N” George stated, his teeth grinding together. “Everyone out, let Y/n get dressed, I'm going to talk to Sink” and like that, they left, Nixon trailing behind winters as Sobel was thrown insults by the men. 

George turned around, his arms wrapping around you, making you feel safe. Neither of you said anything as you got dressed, a pissed off look was what George wore on his face as you made your way to Sinks office, Joe was already waiting outside, along with bull and Guarnere. As you passed by, you heard Joe say something about his brass knuckles and how this would have been a great time to have them. 

By the time you had gotten there, Sobel had told his side of the story, claiming that you and George were having full out sex and blah blah, you wish. Now Colonel Sink had a soft spot for you, your father was one of his best friends, he would trust your word over Sobels and you knew it. “Care to give me your side of the story Private” he spoke, aiming the question at you. “I was instructed to run Currahee all day, eight hours with thirty minutes worth of break time sir, my legs were in a lot of pain and I asked Private Luz to assist me to the showers, he helped me into the shower and as he was leaving, that's when Captain Sobel fell in the door.” “She is lying sir!” Sobel interrupted. 

Sink raised his hand towards the furious man, then leaned back in his chair. “I know you would never lie to me L/N, and as I’ve heard Sobel you’ve been trying to get Private Luz kicked out since he got here.” silence overcame the room as he thought. “In favor of Private L/N, a punishment will be determined for you, Sobel. There will be a specific time each day for you to shower if chosen, during that time you may find someone to watch the door until a punishment is found for him” gesturing to Sobel, you nodded, giving him a yes sir before he dismissed both you and George. You both exited while Sobel remained; George walked you to your barrack, after seeing the boys had left to eat. 

“Don't worry baby girl, well have our time” George said softly, pushing some hair out of your face, he kissed your lips softly, and you smiled against his, excitement brewing within you in anticipation for ‘your time’.

[fc5holidayexchange]

FAR CRY 5 HOLIDAY EXCHANGE 2019 [FIC]

‘Sometimes Love is Not the Best Thing for You’

Faith Seed x Deputy Jada Hale, Sharky Boshaw, Boomer, Jess Black (mentioned), Grace Armstrong (mentioned)

Happy Holidays!! I loved writing your OC, and I really hope I brought her to life as well as you deserve–and that you enjoy it, most importantly! :) The title is from the song Darlin’ by Goodbye June.

[Hope County really was the most beautiful place she’d ever been. She couldn’t deny it, she doubted if anyone could deny it either. Every part of it was stunning.

The Holland Valley was lush, crawling with life and opportunity, and if it hadn’t been stained in blood and viscera, Jada could see herself kicking back in a lawn chair once or twice, chewing the fat with whoever happened to pass by. Maybe she’d have attended a church barbecue in the sticky heat of summer just so she could spend the whole thing hanging out with Grace. She knew that fire had forged her friendship with the sharpshooter, but she liked to think that if things’d been more casual, they would’ve gotten close anyways. She liked to think that about all her friends. 

She even liked bickering with John-he scared her a bit less than his brothers, made her angrier at times and sobered her at others. For all he was an evil, irritating bastard, he was human enough, and she was sure that if there wasn’t a war going they would have had a similar relationship. Snipping back and forth, fighting like cats and dogs. 

Really, though, even putting the people aside for a second, the valley was gorgeous. 

So were the mountains, despite the tension in the Soldier’s region and the horrors she’d faced there. She didn’t have much time to sightsee, but even when she was busy raising hell, the unwavering mountains had stared down at her, seeming really unbothered by all the bloodshed. The untouched snow on the high peaks in the distance was still white, even when everything south of them was stained red. 

In a less stressful time, Jess would’ve taken her hunting on the tricky slopes, shown her all the best footpaths. She could’ve spent hours like that, doing nothing with a good friend without needing a reason to do it, all while enjoying the crisp air and the pretty scenery.

But despite the glory of the valley and the majesty of the mountains, Jada definitely had a favorite region, and it was without question the Henbane.

There was a lot to do and see down by the Henbane river, but as much as she denied it and made her excuses, the one thing that took her breath away more than anything was the very reason she was in the region in the first place. She couldn’t help it; Faith Seed was more heady and ridiculously unfair than any cloud of bliss could ever manage to be. She was prettier than the lushest valley, and she was as dangerous and impossibly pure as the untouched snow on top of the highest mountain.

Maybe it was dramatic–sure, everyone she knew would mock her ruthlessly if she ever dared to voice any of those feature-film worthy thoughts–but Jada couldn’t help it. She should’ve been angrier at Faith than any of Joseph’s whackjob youth pastors, but she couldn’t even work herself into a slight frenzy where the Seed sister was concerned. Jada cared about her, wanted her to do better than her adoptive brothers. The fact that Faith Seed was as bad a choice as bad choices got, and that she was probably getting a Bliss overdose, didn’t stop her from stumbling right back into the bed she’d started in.

Faith was asleep, curled up into her side. Jada wondered, while idly playing with soft strands of blonde hair, if she was dreaming about a glorious conversion. If she was dreaming that she was leading Jada up the path to righteousness; their hands clasped together as they smiled, trotting towards Joseph like a pair of lovebirds ready to breach the gates to the garden. It was a funny picture, if a terrifying one. Jada didn’t like to think about what would happen if Joseph found out about his sister’s heretical…indiscretions.

She wasn’t the first woman to bear the name Faith Seed. Jada found out, felt consumed by a sense of hope and a powerless drive to share that information. To say: “Here, Rachel, I know what he’s done; you have to get out of here.”

So she’d done just that, because, again, she hadn’t had a choice. She was pulled back into the Bliss as if on a string, and she’d delivered herself to the siren with a fistful of letters and little else. The frenzy in her eyes, the half-crazed insistence in her words…it hadn’t made the difference she’d hoped it would. After she’d finished, Faith had brushed the evidence out of her hands and laughed, giving her a tight hug. The arms that wrapped around her brought forth Faith’s signature Bliss perfume; made Jada’s head spin and her knees weak. Maybe it wasn’t just the Bliss–she was getting more used to that. In all likelihood, the jelly-feeling in her legs was probably coming from Faith herself. Honestly, Jada doubted she’d ever get used to that, and that scared her even more than the Father himself.

“I know, silly,” Faith giggled, almost chided, like she was talking to her fondest friend. She cupped Jada’s face in her hands. “It’s different. I was made to be Faith Seed. The fact that you’re here is proof of that.” Jada’s tongue had been stupid and hard to control, and in a rush of anger about being so stupid as to think he hadn’t brainwashed her that far, it’d spat something out she now wished it hadn’t. 

“What if the fact I’m here is proof you shouldn’t be?” She said quickly, the urgency still lingering. She still had hope that things could change. That she could break through the parts of her that Joseph had blocked off and finally have Faith–or Rachel, or whoever she really was–in full. “You can be better than this,” she added, a little breathless, caught in eyes that went on forever. Eyes that, for once, didn’t look sympathetic or condescending. She felt like she was looking through time, back at Rachel Jessop. Before Joseph had gotten to her, when she was empty and in need of something.

It wouldn’t last forever, because Faith wasn’t just someone empty who needed to be filled up with love. She was full of horrible toxic shit; the stuff Joseph had crammed down her throat until she was full of it. She needed to be lanced–the poison needed to be drained–but in that moment, Jada’s empathy was enough to tamp down everything else; it was enough to make the girl warm for a second.

That moment was enough to keep Jada there, relaxed, unarmed and waiting. She really wanted Faith to be free and happy, and that was what was going to kill her.

This time, she was safe. This time, the girl inside the siren had welled up and nearly spilled out; she was so desperate to crawl to the genuine kindness offered. Not the slippery snake-oil kindness offered by Joseph and his ilk, but a real, desperate need for things to be better, for her to feel loved. Jada felt like she was nothing but a pit of extremes, and her drive for vengeance and dominion over the Seeds was exchanged–in Fatih’s case–for endless second chances and silly hope.

Faith was still a human being; she had a lot of things about her that made her perfect for the charming, surface-level perks of Eden’s Gate. She was kind, sweet; she sought recovery and help for her followers, she kissed like an angel and wrapped her arms around Jada and told her she could be so much more, too.

Jada was used to talking in violence and conflict, but Faith spoke a different language. Around her, at least. It was softer, but it hurt a lot worse. She whispered butterfly kisses down Jada’s neck and screamed so sweetly underneath her. So loud, so sweet, she thought it sounded almost like church bells.

If there was any niggling doubt that Joseph was just playing her through Faith’s false love, the way they were when they were together really dispelled it for Jada. There was no way that could be faked, especially not when Faith looked at her like she was the world. For once, she didn’t spout off a quote from the mad prophet or a sob story or blow Bliss into her face. She just looked at her, smiled, and whispered three little words. Jada never said them back, but it didn’t matter. The absence of three little words didn’t mean shit when she kept running back like she didn’t care if it would kill her as long as she got to Faith one last time.

It was pathetic, and if anyone she knew were more in the know about it, they’d agree. They already had some idea–Jess’s blank look whenever Jada said she was going back to the Henbane; Sharky always worrying about where she was going when she ran off in a hurry. She was nearly crippled by her fear of disappointing them, of letting the resistance down. 

Not crippled enough to resist making her way back to the river, though.

Faith stirred in her arms, sighing awake as she nestled closer. 

“You’re thinking,” she whispered. Even scratchy, her voice was sweet. “I can hear it.”

“I’m always thinking,” Jada mumbled, moving to trace patterns on Faith’s bare shoulder. “I think Sharky and I should burn down some Bliss this weekend. A few fields. Then, if we’re up for it, maybe we’ll set up a sniper’s nest and start picking off–” Faith hushed her, the sound coming as an exhausted breath as she pressed a small kiss to Jada’s collarbone. “I remember when I first saw you. In the church. I remember when Joseph told me you were more than the snake. I was so happy.” “See, and I just wondered what a pretty girl like you was doing with a family like yours.” She laughed, and Jada felt accomplished; the nasty attempts at lashing out smothered in her chest, dead on her lips. Faith was just too damn sweet, her laugh was angelic. Everything they said about her…it was all true. The good things, at least. 

“I wonder, too, what you’re doing with all those boys in the sheriff’s department. With Charlemagne Boshaw. They’re no good, Jada. They’re bringing you down.” “See, you think my family sucks, I think your family sucks…wanna just cut and run?” Jada’s thumb traced down Faith’s soft cheek. The words were dead things that smelled sweet. Nothing would happen. Nothing would come of them. Faith still smiled to hear them, and Jada smiled back.

“Do you want to run?” Faith asked, craning her neck to look at her properly. “I thought you were stubborn to the end.” “Well, yeah. I can be stubborn about different things, though. I could be stubborn about you, about getting you out. We could start our own little cult, a cult of two. We’ll just sit around all day and worship each other.”

“That sounds good,” Faith agreed. She didn’t say anything about heresy, about her purpose–for a minute, they were just quiet. All either heard was the other’s breathing and it was nice just to be like that. Almost like they were people. But they weren’t; they were a siren and a deputy, so the moment they had–like every other one they had–passed.

“Maybe,“ Faith proposed, in a small, low voice, “I’m in this family so that I can bring you into the flock.” Jada closed her eyes, brow furrowed. “Does there have to be a holy reason? Can it just be?” “It already is. You can do good, Jada. You want to, desperately. If you let us help you, if you let yourself see…”

There goes the pillow talk. Anger welled in the deepest part of her throat, and strained her words.

“Does nothing I showed you matter? He killed those women. What makes you any different?”

There was a small moment of silence, and then Faith was slipping away. Jada closed her eyes, already nursing the sting of losing another battle, when the warmth beside her moved and a weight settled above her. Jada opened her eyes and all she saw was Faith–the Siren, Rachel–straddling her hips and staring down at her. 

Her mouth was dry, and she swallowed, resisting the urge to gasp when Faith’s too-cold fingers grazed her ribcage. 

“The difference?” Faith asked, and her eyes shone. She smiled slightly; she looked entirely too serene for the places her hands were moving to, and she leaned down close, hair falling and veiling them both from the world. 

Just shy of a kiss, she whispered something else, and Jada had no chance to respond to it before their mouths touched. And then that was it. She had a war to fight, but that evening, she lost one more battle. They things they did together were sweet, left Jada weak as a kitten. Usually, it would have left her satisfied and comfortable, but not this time. This time, when Faith collapsed breathing heavy, Jada stared at the ceiling and felt hollow inside. 

She couldn’t not wrap her arms around Faith; she had to, because she was there. That, and parts of her still believed that a tighter embrace had more of a chance of changing anything. She closed her eyes tightly again, felt white noise behind her eyes but kept the tears in. Faith fell asleep, and Jada held her as long and as tight as she could.

When the sun poked up above the purple horizon the following morning, she absconded; she peeled herself away from Faith’s warmth and her sweet Bliss smell and her kisses, her smile, and her eyes.

Boomer was waiting right outside the door, and barked at her as she woke him up. She shushed him, hopping on one foot and then the other to pull her boots on. She felt like a teenager, and he was tattling on her. Only worse; she was trying to escape her enemy, who she might’ve fucked again. 

No one stopped them as they slipped back into the forest. If anyone saw, it was one of those “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” things. It was always like that, even when she finally made it back to the jail. The sheriff nodded, said he had a job for her. Said something about a jacked-up moose-judge in the woods, but she wasn’t really listening. She’d get it done.

Some of the freedom fighters were oblivious. A few weren’t, and they looked at her funny. They trusted her; they doubted the rumors, but were almost waiting for her to blow herself up while professing her love for Faith Seed and the Father and all that jazz.

She didn’t. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

Later, she and Sharky were clomping through the forest, and she almost had her mind off of things. She was busy looking at a set of tracks while Boomer barked at nothing–Should’ve brought peaches–when he broke the rule.

“Chica,” he began cautiously. “You…being smart?” She froze up at that. Sharky Boshaw was possibly the second biggest dumbass in the county, second only to Hurk. He was the one who told her to throw the pipe bomb and take two steps back; he carried a flamethrower around and blared disco to attract angels. He didn’t question whether or not she was making good choices.

“I’m on your side,” she snapped; a bit too harsh and abrupt. She looked up to see him nodding, as troubled as she’d ever seen him. 

“Alright, dude, sorry. Just…shit.”

“…yeah.” She sighed, closing her eyes for a minute. “It’s not gonna happen again.” “How many times is that now?” “I haven’t been counting.” “Betcha she has.” She gave him a sharp look, and he held his hands up, defensively. 

“Look, I get it,” he said, “but you of all people know she’s bad news. I don’t want you to get hurt. Feelings, or…other. Y’know?” She deflated a bit, felt bad for being defensive at all. What the fuck are you doing? He should have said. Stop fucking the mass murderer. It sounded so easy in her head.

“Yeah,” she said, voice thin, and after a too-long pause. “I know.” And she did. 

“The difference?” Faith had repeated, after Jada asked her about her predecessors. She’d come so close that the words were just for them; they were so low, so intimate that no God above could’ve heard them.

“The difference is that I won’t fail.”

That confidence had driven Jada out of bed that morning, made her swear off the Seeds entirely, and for good. 

Sharky sensed that she was thinking too hard, and huffed. “Look, use ‘em, abuse ‘em, lose ‘em, right? Girl power. Kinda hot to picture, too, I mean–” “Shut the fuck up.” “Yep, yep yep yep. Let’s go start a forest fire.” Very confidently, he started off in the completely wrong direction, and she felt an unbidden smile tug on her lips. Sharky was dumb as bricks, but he might’ve been the smartest guy she knew. She started off after him, content to spend an afternoon on a simple hunt-and-kill mission. In the front of her brain, she tried not to think of it. Pushed it away; Faith was gone with everything else.

Except she wasn’t. She was still there, and Jada thought about the letters, the evidence, the truth. She’d offered Faith everything. She’d offered her anywhere else and as much love as she had; she’d slipped between her warm thighs and laid it out bare. Dozens of times, sure, but this time had felt different. Because everything she had wasn’t enough; she didn’t compare to Joseph and Eden and war and death and suffering.

She believed that Faith loved her; she’d said it often enough. She’d softened into a human under Jada’s keen eye. But Jada was quickly coming to the realization that it might not have been enough. Something felt settled. Something felt finished.

But Jada was still a fucking fool at heart, and Faith had called it; she was stubborn to the end. And while a growing part of her suspected that particular end would be a lot more painful than sneaking out of bed at sunrise, the rest of her wasn’t about to give up on anyone or anything worth fighting for. For what had to be the hundredth time, she hatched a brand new plan for bringing Faith home. She also steamrolled the familiar voice in her head that promised her it was a lost cause. 

It didn’t matter, because she was gonna fix the county, and Rachel Jessop just had the misfortune of living there and being as sweet and hot as she was crazy. 

Boomer came to trot beside her, and barked at her, like he was judging her for her decision.

“Oh, what do you know?” She grumbled, notching an arrow as the moose came into her sights. “You’re a dog.” So are you, Boomer’s sweet, judgemental eyes seemed to say. We both come when we’re called.

Or maybe she was projecting. She let her arrow loose, and decided not to worry about it for a while.]

[veinereastath]

FC5 Birthday Bash

Here we go! Today, on 27th March Far Cry 5 celebrates it’s first birthday! I still love this game and try to make new content for it, just like many other people. This one-shot is a present for @unclefungusthegoat <3 Big thanks to @edensgay for having this amazing idea to make gifts for other people in the fandom! I hope that my giftee will like it. As you prefered, here is John Seed x Holly pairing, with drama, angst and more sad and disturbing stuff, as you (and me as well) like ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

I love everyone in this fandom – it’s the best one I’ve ever been in!

Word count: 2075

Pairing: John Seed x Holly (well, kind of). Warnings: Angst, drama, disturbing stuff.

She waited for him where at the same place as always - in the southwest of the ranch, by the river bank. So far away that they would not risk being noticed, yet close enough that they would be able to return or call for support if they encountered a wild, furious animal. John may have been bold and brave, but he was not his big bad brother. Jacob would be able to fight off a cougar or a bear. The Baptist – not really.

He never told his people why he was going there, and they, obedient and believing in his every action, didn’t ask any questions. They could be extremely sensitive to the safety of their herald, but they also believed that the Seed family was surrounded by God's protection and no one could touch them. No one could harm them. No one could kill them.

Maybe they were right.

She heard the soft crackling of small branches and leaves as he approached her. He was careful not to hook his valuable clothes on shrubs; he always took care of his appearance, no matter what the situation was. Holly sat on a large boulder, watching him with curious eyes. The man approached her slowly, with natural and delicate elegance. The right corner of his mouth rose slightly in a charming smile, and blue eyes glittered. The night was extremely bright - no clouds obscured the stars and the moon. Everything was transparent, beautiful, mysterious.

“You didn’t have to wait too long, I hope?”

His voice was velvety, extremely pleasant to the ear. It mixed gentleness and charisma, but all this seemed to be just a cover for the truth - and the truth took the form of a barely audible, though certainly present note of the threat that passed through his tongue like a snake wrapping around a flower twig. She melted whenever he spoke, although it was impossible to say that she actually loved him. Their secret meetings served rather to kill loneliness. Somewhere deep down, Holly was still devoted to her ex-husband, even if at the end he became a monster and she was forced to take his life away in order to save herself. In the beginning, however, it was a relationship formed out of pure love and the woman still clung to this early memory. John was just a sort of escape and relief for her, but nothing more. At least she was telling herself so.

“I didn’t even feel the passage of time, honestly.” She admitted, smiling gently, looking at the calmly flowing river reflecting the light of the stars. This night seemed to be taken out straight from the poetic world, but somewhere deep inside it still carried something disturbing. Holly felt it, but she tried to ignore the strange feeling. “I like this place. It seems to be far away from all the problems.”

John chuckled melodiously and came closer, looking at the river, more focused on the water surface than the woman sitting next to him. He leaned his fingertips against the cold stone, tapping on a specific rhythm, which Holly could not recognize in any way.

“Did anything interesting happened lately?”

The woman shook her head after a brief moment of consideration. "No. My life is usually calm, you know that. I'm..." She hesitated for a moment, her head lowered. "I am far from the chaos that is currently around.”

It would seem that Holly was afraid to mention the situation in the county, especially when John was nearby. And although there was a note of something dangerous in his eyes, as though some negative memory had passed through his head - maybe one, maybe a few - he just nodded his head in understanding. She heard how dangerous his mood swings were, but he seemed to be careful around her. She hadn’t yet had the opportunity to be an actual witness to his anger and sincerely hoped that it would remain so.

"Surprising how just one person can turn our peaceful garden into a war zone, isn’t it?"  The question was rhetorical, so Holly didn’tt answer. She knew exactly what circled John's mind in this moment, and she didn’t want to drill it down. It was pure caution. No matter how well he might look, how charming his smile could be, she knew that he was something more. She just didn’t say it out loud for obvious reasons. Most of the people in Eden’s Gate knew the truth as well – but they were either too fanatical or too scared to do anything with it.

“You okay?” She asked cautiously, looking at him searchingly, but not keenly. John lowered his head and looked at her too. And as usual, all his thoughts and worries were covered by his characteristic, enigmatic smile, combining warmth with something disturbing.

"Just thoughts. They haunt us all at any time. There's nothing to worry about. They're a natural part of our existence." He responded with his typical eloquence, grabbing her gently by the palm of her hand, brushing her skin with his fingertips. She returned the touch with due care, letting out air from her lungs. John gave her a sense of security, letting her forget about everything for a moment - but she never forget who he was and what was he doing. She still heard all those screams of people kept in his bunker, begging for mercy, trying to understand what is happening and where are their families. Holly wanted to ask him multiple times – was it truly necessary? Why did they have to act with such brutality towards other people?

“Something is bothering you.” John noticed, watching her closely, investigating her every reaction. Seeing every flash in her eyes, muscle twitching, unevenness in her breath. He took a step backward, still holding the woman's hand, ordering her to get up. "Is there something you want to talk about? Something to confess, my dear?"

Holly shivered slightly, then looked into his eyes. They almost seemed to shine. A bright blue light that blends in perfectly with the man's characteristic blue shirt. His eyes seemed to flawlessly pierce her through. One look was enough for John to know what the person was thinking about. No one could hide the truth from him.

Well, almost no one.

“You can think about it for a while. Come with me.” His attitude, until now quite tense, seemed to change rapidly. He relaxed, leading the woman to the bank of the river. She felt the cool water on her legs and sighed quietly. John's grip on her hand gained some strength. "This time I want to confess something to you. And to God. Because something is bothering me.” He paused and looked at her. She could swore that for a brief moment she saw something change in him. He seemed nervous. “Will you listen?”

Holly was surprised by this turn of events and needed a moment to speak and whisper a delicate, barely audible "Yes". John smiled subtly at the corner of his mouth - this smile, although gentle and beautiful as ever, carried a note of something unsettling.

"Come."

She followed him into the deeper part of the river, feeling the water wrap her waist. She took a moment to observe the droplets of water, sparkling gently in the moonlight, running down her hand. They stood side by side in silence, until he spoke again. “I wanted to confess this for a long time. It took me a while to realize what is happening with me and what I’m feeling. I had to find a courage to say it out loud. To show it. Because no matter how hard we try to fight our sins, they always come back. It is to be seen either we can fight them off, or are we going to lose.” She listened to him, curious, fascinated by his voice. So silky. Like honey. Sweet, sweet…

Venom.

“Can I trust you?” John finally asked, looking at her cautiously. Waiting for the word he loved so much, the word that was his private bliss. And he heard it.

“Yes.” She whispered, and he ran his tattooed hand over her hair.

“I always loved my family. My brothers.” He started, sighing slightly. He looked dreamy. Peaceful. “Even when I was separated from them, I still loved them, because I felt them somewhere deep inside of me. Yes. I loved them more than anything else; or perhaps I actually never loved anything apart from them. I met many people. I gave them my body, and they were giving me theirs. But it was never out of any feelings. It was just a need. Lust.”

He paused for a moment, running his fingers over the water's surface, painting patterns that lasted no more than a second. “Joseph teached me how to fight it. I confessed all my sins and I atoned for them. Felt the pain that I deserved. It felt so wonderful. I was free. And then...” His eyes glittered and he took a long breath. “And then I realized that I love someone. It took some time. Few years. Everything changed. I love someone who isn’t part of my family. I opened my heart to an intruder, but the price for it is truly horrific. Because my love is unreciprocated love. And I tried to fight it for some time. But I failed. I admit it, and you know what?” John looked at her, and there was nothing mild in his gaze anymore, even though he was speaking calmly, in tthat beautiful manner of his. “I surrender.”

Holly swallowed hard, thinking about what to say. Or should she say anything? Would it be wise? It seemed like John was on the edge of patience, that he might lose the fight with his own anger and frustration. But she found the courage and finally spoke.

“Loving someone is not a sin.” She murmured, trembling slightly. “It’s the most pure thing in the world.”

“My love is not pure, though.” John countered. “It is love born out of hate. It’s not pure, it’s not good. It is the child of wrath and lust. Deep love, but it doesn’t change the fact that it is toxic. Jealous love.”

“And you want to atone for it?”

She was sure what the answer will be. She knew how much he loved this word, he loved how it danced on his tongue, like a ballet dancer on stage.

“No.”

Holly blinked and felt a chill run down her spine. “Then what do you want to do?”

“What is necessary.” He explained, then put his hand on her chest, tracing the line of her collarbone with his fingers. “I need to get rid of everything that makes me feel insecure. I need to focus on the person that is responsible for my torment. You, my dear Holly, know too much about me, and in order of everything to work out perfectly, I need to get you out of my mind.” Her eyes widened as she understood what he was aiming at. Her heart beat harder when fear pierced her body.

“I am sorry. But know that I’m doing it because of love.” John took a deep breath, an then his hand clutched around woman’s throat. “Love for the devil, caged in a body of a mortal woman, that is currently destroying everything my family worked for.”

Oh, sweet Deputy, you broke the first seal, and I’m breaking the second one.

His hand ached painfully on her throat, while the other with a violent force pushed the woman underwater. Holly only managed to moan, then the cold water began to pour into her mouth, depriving her of the possibility of breathing. She grabbed the man by the arm, desperately trying to push him away, or at least dissuade him from the current decision. But John remained adamant and still held her under the surface, ignoring the pain that her nails left, digging into his skin painfully.

Struggle. Splashing water. Silent chaos, fight for survival.

And then silence. Release.

He let her body flow down along the river, watching it for some time, and then left.

When John was standing by the door to his ranch, he heard a loud explosion in the distance. A cloud of smoke was painted on the morning sky. Another silo.

There was only one person brave and stupid enough to do it.

[themusicplayedherlife]

Take a Chance (Part 13)

pairings: steve Rogers x reader

word count: 3,000+ kill me

warnings: fluff and angst

summary: AU! after a one night stand at a friend’s wedding, you gain something that could possibly change your life and views on life for the better or worse.

Prev||All Parts||Next

With the wedding so close, you find yourself feeling more and more pressure. Everything has to be perfect, according to your mom. Everyone has to be accommodated, Sarah says. You need to take a deep breath and relax, your sister advises.

The only good thing that has come out of this has been the fact that you’ve barely had a chance to think about your newfound feelings for Steve. It’s a very good thing.

“I’ve asked the DJ to play Spanish music at your request,” Sarah says to your sister, who lets out a relieved sigh. “I gave him your number so he could get in touch with you.”

“Thank you,” you sister says, sifting through the RSVPs along with you.

You're at your mother’s again, this time joined by Wanda and Natasha, as well, who are helping you with the RSVPs and sorting them out.

Steve is somewhere in the house fiddling with his camera along with Bucky. Lately, he’s been using it more often and has been asking his friend for tips. You don’t know why, but if it keeps him occupied and far away from you, you’re glad he’s found a hobby.

“Are you sure you don’t want to invite your father, dear?”

It’s a question you’ve been dreading. Steve hadn’t avoided talking about your dad, but he knew better than to ask you about him and if you were inviting him. Sarah, on the other hand, didn’t know a single thing about him and why he’s not in the picture, so you were expecting it, you just wish she hadn’t asked.

Eyes are on you, and you know they’re waiting to see how you react. Smiling politely you shake your head at your soon-to-be mother-in-law. “I’m sure, Sarah. And even if I wanted to invite him, I wouldn’t know where to send the invitation.”

Her smile falters and her eyes move from your sister to your two friends. “Oh--oh, I see. Well, that’s fine.”

Natasha is quick on her feet to change the conversation to Wanda and her twin brother, who is back from his trip to Sokovia, but the damage has been done. You and your sister move through the invites slower than the others, her head on your shoulder and your heart dipping low and hurt.

“Invite Pietro over,” your mother tells Wanda.

After finishing up today’s tasks, Ben came home with a bunch of meat fit to feed a party, and declared it Family Bonding BBQ night. Sarah had asked if she could invite Joseph, and after calming your sister down, you and your mother agreed, knowing that it’s about time you learned to get along with Steve’s dad. That’s where your mother got the idea to invite Pietro over, after all, you haven't seen him since he left to Sokovia for some kind of charity organization.

The evening sun is setting and your house is full of people occupying the backyard; burnt charcoal and grilled meat still linger in the air, a smell you've missed. There’s music playing in the background, courtesy of Ben, who never misses a chance to showcase his good taste in music.

You’re sitting on the loveseat placed on the patio, Wanda and Natasha sitting at either side of you as you watch your family and Steve’s interact. Your mom is a little stiff as she regards Joseph, but Ben is relaxed, seemingly having taken a liking to him. Which is a little strange. he’s very protective of you and your family, and takes no crap from anyone. But Ben has a good sense for people, knows how to weed out the good from the bad, so if he’s relaxed around Joseph, that means he’s not as bad as he made himself seem that dinner so long ago. He also seems to like Sarah, cracking jokes with her and even teaching her basic Portuguese at her request.

Steve’s boisterous laugh catches your attention. He’s standing by Bucky and your sister, who are laugh as well, a beer bottle hanging from his fingers with one hand in his pant’s pocket, and his camera hanging from the strap around his neck. He’s leaning forward and Pietro is patting his shoulder, not giving him a chance to recover by telling another joke. How is it that someone can be so good looking? So good and pure. “It’s so strange,” you murmur.

“What is?” Wanda asks, her eyes drifting from whatever she was looking at to you.

“This. All of this. I’m getting married soon, me to him.”

Natasha smiles and brings the bottle she was nursing to her lips. “I don’t think it’s strange. I honestly thought you’d be the first to get married out of the three of us.”

You scoff, rolling your neck to look at her, but before you can say anything or they could, the soft music that had been playing suddenly changes to something more upbeat, and you immediately recognize the iconic voice of Elvis Crespo filtering through the speakers.

Without missing a beat, Ben grabs your mom’s hand and pulls her to the middle of the two groups, making one of their own and grabbing everyone’s attention. Their hands finding their places and their hips swinging to the beat.

Wanda and Natasha waste no time in joining, asking if you want to join them too, but you decline with an excuse, urging them to go on. That’s all it takes to start a chain. Pietro charmingly asks Sarah to dance, who accepts with an exuberant laugh. Vicky, without waiting for permission starts tugging on Bucky's hands and it makes you burst out in laughter when Steve makes a show of not having been asked.

Your sister motions in his direction and you shake your head pointing to your feet and you smile, trying to get the message across that she should dance with him instead. Immediately understanding, she nods and pulls Steve out to the makeshift dance floor, not even giving him the chance to reject her.

You laugh softly, watching Steve awkwardly move his hips as your sister keeps telling him to loosen up. He sends you a pleading look over her shoulder and you shrug, causing him to pout.

Someone clears their throat, your eyes moving from Steve to the person who has joined you on the patio, Joseph. You unconsciously lean away from him; if he notices, he doesn’t mention it.

“They all look like they’re having fun,” he says, his tone awkward and wavering.

“Uh, yeah,” you murmur.

The laughter of your friends and the music playing fills the silence that falls between you and Joseph. Your mind running with unnecessary thoughts. Why did he choose now of all times to talk to you? Actually, why did he have to talk to you at all? Is he going to threaten you again while no one is listening? God, you hope not.

“Steve and Sarah speak very fondly of you,” he says faintly, but you somehow manage to hear him over the noise. “Ripped me a new one after the things I said, always telling me that I should give you a chance. And I realized that it’s not me that should be giving you a chance, it’s you that should be giving me a chance.” Where is he going with this?

He takes a deep breath, turning to face you completely and blurts out, “I—I want to apologize.” You were not expecting that! Your eyes widen, your head snapping in his direction as he continues to apologize. “I said some things—horrible things,”—alluded you want to tell him, he didn’t exactly say it outright, but you digress—“that I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven for, not by you or my grandchild, but I hope one day you will find it in your heart to.”

The fact that he’s apologizing to you is great, but the fact that he called Shrimp his grandchild and is apologizing to them too means a lot more to you. He could have easily pretended he didn’t say those words and acted friendly with you, but no, he chose to come to you and apologize and honestly, that’s all you ever wanted from someone that has wronged you. And you’re truly grateful to this man for having done so.

That doesn’t mean you're going to forgive him so easily; however, “I’m willing to try.”

He’s taken aback by your smile, a genuine one, and he returns it, and for a flash, you can see where Steve gets his smile from. “That’s all I ask.”

The music changes, it’s still upbeat, and very much dance-inducing. It reminds you of your childhood, nights spent playing in the corner with your cousins as the adults danced the night away. “Would you like to dance?”

“What—oh, no, no, I’m not—“

“Willing to try,” you repeat, almost mockingly but very much teasingly and his jaw drops open, until finally his smile returns and he nods, following you to the dancing group. Your mother sends you a smile that you return and she goes back to focusing on dancing with Ben and talking to Sarah and Pietro.

Meeting Steve’s eyes as you teach his dad how to dance to cumbia, your heart skips a beat. He mouths, “Everything okay?” and you nod, mouthing back, “Perfect.” He beams and you stifle a laugh when he almost trips and your sister scolds him for not paying more attention.

Halfway through the song, your sister, claiming to be fed up with his horrible dancing, asks if you could switch partners. Joseph nods, saying he needs to apologize to your sister as well, and after seeing the pleading look he sends you, you agree too. Before either they can get the chance to switch, your sister makes a show of grabbing your hands and dancing with you for two steps, spinning you like you usually do when you’re dancing together and pulls away from you to dance with Joseph.

Steve chuckles as you send a glare her way, which she blatantly ignores.

Steve grabs your hand, and that simple touch alone sends your heart in a frenzy. Ignoring the flash of hurt in his eyes when you pull away harshly. “We don’t have to be so close to dance,” you explain.

“But your sister said--”

“Well, she lied. You can dance this without holding your partner.”

You avoid looking him in the eye, forcing yourself to focus on the music instead. Slowly, you start getting back into the groove of the music, your feet moving and your hips swinging, your arms bent. You surprise Steve by sidestepping him with a turn, your eyes find his again and you smirk, challenging him to do the same. He does, but it’s a little awkward and you can’t help the laugh that escapes your lips.

He pouts in response, and soon he’s loosening up, his hips no longer stiff and he’s matching your pace. Natasha makes a loud, crude comment that has him blushing and shaking his head and you mouthing the lyrics to make it seem like you’re singing instead of telling her, “Es mio.” She throws her head back, laughing loudly while Steve watches in confusion.

Before you know it, the song ends and in place, a slow song starts playing, the soothing guitar filling the space. You’re about to leave, but Steve’s hand around your wrist stops you. Your eyes fall to his fingers wrapped around your wrist to his blue eyes that are on you.

“Dance with me?” He says it so gently and unsure that it makes you want to say yes, and so without thinking about it, you do. He smiles brightly and pulls you to him, a hand coming to rest on the small of your back. You freeze, not meeting his gaze as he tries to catch your eye, and he has to move your hand to his shoulder, his other hand lacing with yours and bringing your connected hands to his chest. “This I can dance,” he whispers, his voice close to your ear as he sways to the music.

You try not to think about him, about your feelings, but with the way he cradles your body against his, it’s hard not to. The warmth of his touch and his breath are so close that it drives you insane. You want to pull away, excuse yourself before you lose yourself, but you can’t. It’s as if you’ve found the missing piece to your incomplete puzzle and that’s what’s not letting you go, because for once in your life, you feel complete.

“What’s this song about?” he asks, as you stare straight ahead at nothing.

“About a woman assuring the man she loves that she’ll be devoted to him in the years they have left,” you say, trying to keep your voice leveled.

He hums, his voice vibrating and soft. He quirks you so effortlessly, his hands on you never losing their strength as he continues to hold you against him. “What is she saying here specifically?”

Clearing your throat, you listen to the lyrics. “She’s saying: how can I prove to you that I’m not who I used to be. Only time will tell you if you really have faith in me. There's nobody who will love you as much as I have. Tell me this isn’t the end. It sounds much more poetic in Spanish, I promise.”

He chuckles. “I believe you, doll.” Your eyes widen, spine tingles, and your breath hitches. Doll. Doll. He called you doll. He’s never called you that before. It’s always been your name, nothing else, no nickname and suddenly he’s calling you doll? “You okay?”

Did he not realize what he called you? “I—um—yeah, there’s an English version of this song, but it isn’t the same.”

“Really? How so?” He asks, intrigued and completely unaware of your racing heart and inner dilemma at being called doll.

“It’s—um, the English version is about her wishing they’d be lovers, about her knowing he loves her too and it’s time they both give in because what they have can be beautiful.”

“Which one do you like better?”

“The Spanish one,” you answer without hesitation. “It’s what I grew up with. It was the first Gloria Estefan song I ever heard. My mom really loved that song and would play it all the time. But the English song is just as beautiful.”

“It is,” he agrees. “It’s very beautiful.”

The song ends, Gloria Estefan’s voice fading with the last notes of the guitar and you can’t pull away from Steve any quicker. Taking a quick glance around you, you notice that everyone is just off to the side, their eyes never meeting yours—pretending to be plating up food that you’re pretty sure has gone cold by now (they’re not good actors, at all). Except Vicky that is, who flashes you an adorable thumbs up, well, it would’ve been if you didn’t know what she was alluding to.

“Do you mind if we talk inside for a moment?”

Your gaze snaps in his direction and this time, he’s not the one meeting your eyes and you nod. As you pass by the large group, you catch Natasha’s smirk and Wanda’s proud smile, and you hold back the groan that threatens to emerge.

The inside of your mom’s house is quiet, unlike the lively backyard that is soon filled with noise after you and Steve leave. “So what did you want to talk about?”

His tongue swipes out between his lips, wetting his bottom lip. “My dad didn’t—he didn’t make you uncomfortable did he? Didn’t say anything—“

Seeing him so worried and nervous eases your nerves, making you smile. “I danced with him, didn’t I? And don’t worry, he apologized about that night.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Really? And you—you forgave him?”

“I said I was willing.”

His shock slips and is replaced by something else, something you can’t quite read, but still managing to make the butterflies inside of you flutter. “I’m glad.”

“Yeah… uh is that all you wanted—“

“No, there’s something else. I, um, I noticed I haven’t given you a ring yet.”

The ring that Sharon returned to him comes to mind and you grimace at the thought of it. “Oh, it’s fine, you don’t have—“

“No it isn’t—I want to give you—“

“Steve, it’s—“

He pulls out a tiny block box and opens it to reveal a beautiful, engagement ring that looks nothing like the one Sharon had. This one is simple, a gemstone that doesn’t look like a diamond—too iridescent and blue to be a diamond—being the showrunner of the piece. On either side of it are two diamonds, small compared to the middle gemstone. All connected by a leaf band.

You gasp, your hands covering your mouth. “Oh my god, Steve! This is—its so beautiful.”

“You—you like it?” You nod dumbly, your eyes never straying from the ring. He plucks it out delicately and reaches for your hand that you give him and he slowly slips it on. “It used to belong to my grandmother,” he confesses. “She used to love moonstones, so my grandfather went through hell to get her this ring.”

Your eyes move from the ring on your finger to Steve, his own eyes, soft and narrow, glued to the object. “And you want to give it to me? Why? You could’ve given me any ring—hell, even Sharon’s ring, yet you’ve given me something so—”

You don’t finish your sentence, not when his lips turn down and his face falls, the clear heartbreak written all over his face. And suddenly, the elation of having been given such a beautiful ring—of having danced such a beautiful dance, is gone. His next words crushing your heart in his palm as if it were nothing. “I can’t—I could never give you that ring.”

And of course. Of course, he could never give you that ring— that ring belongs to Sharon, the woman he loves. Not you. Not the girl he is being forced to marry. Not the girl that he knocked up. Not you. Never you. “Right. Of course.”

He says your name, so gentle and it hurts. It hurts because while you avoided thinking about your feelings for him, you also avoided thinking he could never have feelings for you. Calling you doll was a fluke. Giving you this ring meant nothing. You meant nothing. You’re only the mother of his child and that’s all you’ll ever be.

Eyes on the ring, you move away from Steve. “I think… I think I’m going to stay with my mom until the wedding.”

“Wait—Why—“

Ignoring him, you go down the hall, escaping into her room, all the while painfully aware that Steve wouldn’t come after you. ay que bello cuando me amas así, are the lyrics you hear from the song playing as you close the door behind you. The irony of both the song and your current situation hitting you tenfold. Ay mírate qué bello eres tú, ay que bello, ay mírame, tócame, bésame tú.

a/n: this has been the longest chapter of this story and will hopefully be the last (longest chapter). i really hope you guys liked this one! it was hard to write but somehow pulled through. there are still errors here and there so I’ll be fixing them later but for now, please do point them out if you saw any of them.

Spanish Translations:

Es mio = He’s mine.

Ay que bello cuando me amas así = How beautiful when you love me like this.

Ay mírate qué bello eres tú, ay que bello, ay mírame, tócame, bésame tú. = Look at how beautiful you are, how cute, look at me, touch me, and kiss me.

Take a Chance tag list: 

@anyakinamidala, @etherealxslytherin, @petiteserpent, @nobodys-baby-now, @pacifikaproudaotearoa, @lady-thor-foster, @on-your-left-marvel, @shelvesandwhelves, @wildestdreamsrps, @daddycevans, @caitsymichelle13, @alyssaj23, @debzybrazy, @jonsnowisnotdeadthough, @meatballevans, @allyp1023, @hollycornish, @bands-and-shietz, @sebastianst-n, @lovemarvelousfics, @trustmeimthehiddlestoner, @renner-hawkeyeloves, @greeneyedthief, @jesslovesfandom, @tragicalchemist, @themanwiththemetalarm, @ailynalonso15, @mysingingheart1301, @fireismysaftey, @lexie-mo , @allmyheart2, @katie27hp, @sellulii @bethanyv10 , @sofipatey

Steve Rogers tag list:

@rainywagonpicklemug

[thefloorisbalaclava]

(honestly all these prompts are good!! but) hello lovely person :) could we do either a 14 or 18 for joseph seed, if you're cool with that?

I used 14 for this one. Maybe I’ll use 18 soon ;)

14. starting with a kiss meant to be gentle, ending up in passion

When Joseph said he had something to discuss with you afterhis sermon you immediately jumped to the worst conclusion. Had you donesomething wrong? You thought back to everything you had done since you joined theProject but nothing jumped out at you as being disobedient.

Unless…

“Thank you for staying,” Joseph said, snapping you from yourthoughts and startling you a bit.

You stood quickly and turned to him. “It's nothing…” Youwanted to say more. You wanted to start apologizing but what would you beapologizing for? It didn’t matter. You couldn’t fathom the thought ofdisappointing Joseph. “I’m sorry,” you blurted.

He looked at you curiously. “Why are you sorry?”

“Well…you asked me to stay for a reason and I assumed thatI’ve done something wrong so…I’m sorry.” You lowered your head and wrung yourhands.

Joseph moved closer to you and lifted your head by yourchin. You were immediately overcome by his aura, his scent. When you lookedinto his eyes, you felt nothing but pure bliss.

“You’ve done nothing wrong. I doubt you ever could in myeyes.” He was still touching your face. His hands were so soft as he held yourface in his hands and brought you closer. You closed your eyes as he pressedhis forehead to yours.

“Joseph…”

“May I kiss you?” You opened your eyes and looked into his.He was so polite to ask but you found yourself unable to speak. “It can’t bewrong,” he said. “I feel as if my heart might burst…”

“Yes, you may kiss me,” you whispered.

It was a soft, hesitant kiss at first but your lips and bodyscreamed for more. You wouldn’t be the one to deepen the kiss though. He pulledaway and looked at your lips which you were sure were swollen now. He touchedthem gently and you nodded a silent answer to his unspoken question.

This time when he kissed you your body was pressed to histightly. His fingers tangled in your hair and you wrapped your arms around him,stumbling backwards as he deepened the kiss. His glasses were pressed to hisface until he pulled away from the kiss to push them up onto his head.

His hands shook as he ran them through your hair, holdingyour head the way he wanted it. His tongue tangled with yours and you gaspedwhen he nipped at your lip quickly. You wouldn’t have ever guessed that Joseph,The Father, could kiss like this. Youhad dreamt of it, of course, but this…thisexceeded your expectations.

He finally pulled away, his hair a mess and you bothbreathed heavily, holding onto each other for balance…for some semblance ofbeing back on earth.

“That…was very forward of me. I apologize,” he said beforepressing the back of his hand to his lips.

“It wasn’t forward. I gave my permission and…I enjoyed it,”you said shyly.

“I do hope you know my heart belongs to you,” he confessed.

“And mine is yours. It always has been.”

He reached out to you then pulled his hand back slowly. “Ishould let you go. If I touch you again I’m not sure what will happen.” Hesmiled and you felt your face getting hot. If he could read your thoughts hewould know exactly how you felt about him touching you, how badly you cravedit. Now was not the time for it though and that kiss had been enough to get youthrough anything the world threw at you.

You took one last look into his deep blue eyes before heslipped his glasses back over them. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Joseph.”

“My day has already been made,” he said with a smile.

“And mine.” You nodded your head once before turning andleaving the church. You were sure you heard him whisper ‘my angel' as the doorsclosed.

[thehauntrpg-blog]

Name: Reilly Joseph Carmody Age Range: 32 Gender: Male Pronouns: He/Him Occupation: Priest at the Church of St. Anthony of Padua Status: TAKEN by jules

You are a Shepherd of God’s flock, and you lead yours lovingly, no matter how small your flock may be, no matter how far they stray. Sallybrook is a town further from God’s light than you had ever thought possible, but nevertheless, you persist. You always thought your faith unshakeable, a concrete foundation built on the skeletons you hide, protecting you from the world — God’s light keeps you pure. Following the Godly path was the less frightening of two evils, and you’ve always been more petrified of telling the truth than preaching it. You wrapped yourself in a clerical collar and locked out any truths you couldn’t bear to face. Maybe that makes you a hypocrite, but you’re still doing good work, God’s work. You want to save souls, but this place… this place is wicked, wickeder than you’d ever imagine, and when tragedy strikes, a tragedy that, for a town like this, is as inevitable as the sunrise, you start to wonder if there are shadows even He cannot reach.

Isaiah: You hate to think of anyone as a “black sheep”. No one is truly lost, just… led astray. And to you, they’re a member of your flock that’s wandered, that’s gotten lost, that needs love and guidance and faith to come back to Him. You’ve got a little collection of stray sheep, and it started with them. Your door is always open, and they’ve crossed that threshold several times, looking for spiritual guidance, spiritual conversation… solidarity. You can’t offer them as much as they need. You can’t offer them everything you have, and that makes you feel guilty — and you think, maybe they can see through you. Not clearly. You’ve learned how to keep different things close to chest, smothered under your clerical collar, but you think they’ve spotted some of your hypocrisy. If you want to serve Him, you have to bring them back to God, but you don’t think you can bring them back to God without betraying Him, and that’s an impossible choice to make.

Alice: They welcomed you to Sallybrook with open arms, making you feel at home in one of the most alienating places you’ve ever been. You held their hand while they held his, and handed them the paper that would make him theirs; you also held their hand as they waited for him to return, letting their nails dig into your skin when he didn’t. They’re devout, and that draws them to you, but you’re the same and worlds apart all at once. They shook your faith, and now, you can’t preach honestly. You've never hesitated in telling your flock that God is Good, God is Kind, God is Gracious — but how can you look them in the eye and say that when you know, firsthand, that what they've experienced is a Godless act?

tw: Internalized homophobia, religious homophobia, religious conflict.

You were the fourth of seven children — “Seven’s a lucky number, you know,” is what your father said when someone commented on his brood. Seven might’ve been lucky, sure, but it was an odd number, and you were the odd one out as long as you can remember. Your eldest siblings, Kiara and Dylan, the twins, were closer than close. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, your mother would tease affectionately. You remember hours of car rides spent listening to them bicker about which one Dum was. Your older brother Jamie was always popular, well-loved and athletic, playing hockey and football as soon as he could walk. Your little brother Conor was quiet but intense, as good a hockey player as Jamie, and took to mechanics even better than your dad. And then your two little sisters, Catherine and Chloe, close in age and in general, were too young for you to really relate to, and even if you tried, they seemed to speak their own language. So you stood alone.

Growing up, you weren’t… good at making friends. Not with other kids, at least. You were too sensitive and too independent for your own good — you sat inside with your Sunday school teacher, doing advanced bible study by yourself, while the other kids played outside, laughing and screaming so loud you thought it’d make your head explode. You always got along with older people, though. Your Sunday school teacher, your reverend, your regular teachers and your boy scout leader — they all adored you. But other children thought you were strange. When you were seven, your father told you why, and you’d never forget what he’d said: “You’re too soft. You’re too sensitive. You’re too… you. Be a little more like the rest of them, think a little more like the rest of them, that’s how you’ll get on.” He was right.

You were too sensitive when you were little, but you were smart enough to learn how to use it. Feeling for others was overwhelming, until you turned the dimmer down on your feelings; you built up a dam to stop it from flooding you. You quickly discovered that there was a power in knowing how others felt without feeling it yourself. You learned how to blend, how to act like they did, smother your own impulses and desires to follow the crowd, and combined with your quick mind and quirky charm, you started to lead the pack. You were never good at sports, but you were good at other things, and got as much as you could out of that — your magnetism and wit made you an ideal class president, and you were, six years running, all through middle and high school. You lead the school’s bible study, and was the go-to tutor for Religion class, your own devout nature making you a walking encyclopedia when it came to Biblical questions.

Devout was both an understatement and an overstatement, a duality that’s split you open your whole life. You were, unquestionably, a Catholic family growing up. Big, Irish, Godly. Church every Sunday, Confession like clockwork. You always had your shoes shined the shiniest, your hair the neatest, your smile the brightest of all your siblings, and your parents loved you for it. As far you fell short of their expectations, you were always their most faithful son. You’d never tried to miss Church, and you were always more than happy to participate, going from altar boy to leading the youth ministry. And you were a believer — how could you not be? You were raised to. God was in everything; He was ingrained in the fabric of your world. You truly believed, and you wanted others to feel as strongly as you did. But — you were also good at it.

You liked reading the Bible growing up. Your father’s den had a massive bible on this ornate golden stand, one you’re certain he rarely read, but one you spent countless hours flipping through. You liked hearing about Jesus’s teaching, liked reading the stories and learning the lessons. More than that, though, you liked the rules. You were the boy who always read the instructions booklet before starting a board game, who read the whole manual before daring to take a new toy out of its box — you liked to know. You liked boundaries, you liked guidelines, you liked how every piece of life could be codified, an answer to (almost) every question — it made sense, and it made a complicated, frustrating world make sense.

You were good at it, and you liked it, too. The pews of your church was more home to you than your living room couch. You never truly felt like you were part of your family — your father and siblings made sure of that. You were close with your mother, but she was exhausted, raising seven children, and only had so much time. But you were the only child who showed up early to Mass and returned late, just because you wanted to talk to the reverend for a little while longer. The parish staff became a second family; Mrs. Byrne taught you how to play the piano like she did for each hymn, and you would talk through lunch and halfway to dinner with Father Murray, asking question after question about anything you could think of. They paid attention to you. You realized you could find love, family, acceptance through the Church.

It was hardly a surprise when, at only fourteen, you first brought up entering the priesthood. It was a big decision, but it seemed almost natural for you, a born Biblical scholar. Your parents were encouraging, though your mother hesitated before embracing the idea fully. She, more than your father, asked you to consider your options carefully; to become a priest was not a decision to be taken lightly, it wasn’t just some job. She told you not to make any choices until after high school at least, though urged you to wait until you finished college before committing fully. You took her concerns to heart, and spent most of your four years of high school trying to make up your mind.

The final push came when your childhood best friend came out as gay. There’d always been something between the two of you — you had few friends, but he was your first, if only because of proximity. It started as the inevitable friendship of same-age next-door neighbours, but blossomed into something more; a meeting of kindred spirits, maybe. He was bookish and smart like you, but sweet, more easygoing than you’d ever been. You complimented one another, and that’s what made your friendship good. You first kissed at fifteen, tearful and afraid on the floor of his bedroom, door blocked by a chair. It was grazing touches, close-lipped kisses, so innocent it made you feel perverse. You couldn’t handle it. You couldn’t handle him telling people about him, because it could trigger assumptions about you — and if that happened, everything would come crashing down. The framework of your world, the rules you organized yourself around, would fall to pieces. For years, you kept the part of you that loved him and the part of you that loved Him completely separate, but when he came out, you had to give one up. You sacrificed him to stay in God’s light.

You’ve only acknowledged yourself as gay once. It was in your last year at Brown, applying to Harvard Divinity School. You were both an obvious Ivy Leaguer and absolutely not made for it at all. Your classic, Christian, all-American look and solemn, bookish nature masked the desperation you suspect lived in all of your classmates, the need for acceptance and prestige and recognition. You needed to go to HDS. You needed to become a priest. It was a key part of maintaining the elaborate net that was your life — if any strand broke, it would send you plummeting. You put a pen to paper, and for the first and only time in your life, you wrote: “I’m gay.” Maybe it was bullshit, pulling out your sob story, trying to use it to maneuver yourself to where you wanted to be, but that’s how you operated, and it worked. It worked, because you built from a kernel of truth. You did want to know how to balance your Catholic faith and your gay identity, you wanted to know how you could love God and He could love you when you also loved other men, you wanted to ask if there was a place for gay men in the Church, in the ministry, in the pews or in front of the parish. You wanted to know if there was any way for you not to hate yourself without losing your faith.

You wanted to know all of it, and that, you think, is why they let you in, but you weren’t brave enough to be the one to ask those questions.

Still, you excelled, and once you graduated with your MDiv, you started working in congregations around Massachusetts. Your first was in Cambridge, as a youth minister in one of the churches you did your practicums in; they loved you so much they demanded you do your practical training there. You excelled, your focus being reaching out to at-risk youth, providing programming, support and resources. From there, you moved to a congregation in Boston, and started an at-risk youth program that provided housing, food and educational supports in a faith-based environment. Your interest in social justice and social work made you a natural fit for that kind of environment, and you led with grace. Your superiors recognized your natural aptitude for working in difficult environments, and commended you for letting your faith lead you to those who needed you most. The first time you led a sermon on your own, your entire family drove all the way to Boston to see you, to pray with you, and you’d never seen your father so proud. It filled you, reinforced the feeling that you were doing the right thing. You saw your parents, your brothers and sisters, your nieces and nephews, all sitting in the pews, looking up at you with so much pride, and you realized this was the only path you could’ve taken. There never was any other option.

You spent six years in Boston, and whenever you came home to visit, you were your family’s pride. After all, there was no greater joy in a Catholic family than to have a priest for a son. You devoted your life to fulfilling a Godly path — and it wasn’t like your parents ever had to worry about grandkids, your siblings more than happy to take that on. The heat was off of you. As long as you kept the collar on, you would be the best son they could ask for.

Last year, your Bishop pulled you aside to speak privately. You felt a rush of panic when he asked to speak to you in confidence; while you’d gained the attention of your superiors within your church, you’d never been singled out by someone so powerful in that way, and for just a brief moment, you were afraid. You were afraid they found out… what? You were afraid they found something, anything, that could bring it all down — but it was just the opposite. Despite your youth, they wanted you to lead your own parish. The reverend of the congregation in question had just retired unexpectedly, and this church was… a special case. It required a delicate hand. Terrible things happened in this town, ungodly things. Witchcraft and devilry abound. You were surprised; you didn’t think this could possibly still be an issue anywhere in America, but he was gravely insistent when he asked you to take it seriously, and consider whether you were spiritually prepared to take on such a difficult task. You’d seen fifteen-year-olds come to you overdosing, helped countless homeless kids, watched your flock disappear to the streets or worse. You’d seen some terrible things, and you were still stronger in your faith than anyone thought possible. You were the only one they could think of to take on the Church in Sallybrook, and you agreed.

When you moved to Sallybrook, you weren’t expecting it to be… what it was. It was a normal town, sleepy, picturesque. But you knew what they meant. This place was out of God’s light. You felt a darkness as soon as you stepped foot in your new parish. But a woman greeted you, introducing herself as Alice, telling you she’d be your guide. She was your first friend, and helped you fall in step with this little town. You got to know your congregation quickly, and realized that it was an uphill battle you had to fight. People were afraid, they were grieving, they were hurting, and you didn’t understand any of it. You weren’t privy to a full understanding of the Haunt until it happened. By then, it was too late. You’d become entangled in Sallybrook’s weeds, and you couldn’t leave. Not after he disappeared.

Sam Davis was a sweet boy, one you saw often in Mass, heard running around the school. He’d grown close with Alice, and because of that, you got to know him too. He was part of the Church’s foster program, and it was your approval (in a committee, of course) that allowed Alice to adopt him properly. You handed her the papers yourself. And then, he disappeared. Whisked away, vanished without a trace. Gone, like he’d never been here in the first place. You stared at his empty seat in the first row of pews, the first Sunday mass after he went missing, and your voice shook. You spoke about God’s strength, His love, His plan — but for the first time in a long time, you questioned your faith.

It took you the year to build yourself up again, but now, you feel the same creeping fear as the rest of Sallybrook. You might not know quite what it is, or believe in the stories surrounding it, but you know it’s getting closer, and it’s going to take another child, ruin another family, whittle away at the hope and faith of this town. You’ve never known loss like this, and you can hardly bear being embroiled in it. You don’t want another one of your flock picked off. You don’t want to lose them. But you don’t know if you’re strong enough to lead.

[selfdulgent-selfinsert]

Caught in the Middle. (A self-indulgent, reader insert) Chapter 4:

Joseph couldn’t believe that you said yes, all the teasing he had undergone from Sebastian all since texting you was worth it. It leads to him anxiously contemplating over his small closet. What to wear? Something formal maybe? No. You were just going out for coffee, there’s no need to be formal; but what did he have for anything close to casual? He guessed an old pair of jeans and a V-neck would have to do. It was a little embarrassing honestly, Joseph hadn’t worn anything but a button up out of his house since joining the KPD detective department. It had his favorite show Unusual things emblazoned in its 80’s neon font, hopefully, you’d either like the show or consider it not too casual; he wanted to look like he cared about this date, but not too much. While you didn’t want to overdress, you certainly looked more elaborate than your plain white nursing gown and minimal makeup. You were stunning, your coat, dress, tights, and shoes matching perfectly; Joseph stopped dead in his tracks before he could move closer to you. In his eyes you could rival any model; your cozy, simple attire flattered you in all the right ways. The small kremmogorgon hanging off your purse was just a bonus and he felt better about his choice of shirt. While waiting your fingers played with the keychain nervously, worried Joseph wouldn’t come. “(Y/n)!” He called snapping out of his amorous stupor and walking up to you. “Sorry, I’m a little late. I hope you’re not too cold after waiting for me.” “Ah! That’s okay Joseph, my coat is really warm, and so I don’t mind! I’m glad you came!” Now it was your turn to admire him and while his slightly disheveled hair made you wonder how soft it was and his shirt was a cute look for him there was something wrong. “Joseph, aren’t you cold?” Shit. He forgot his coat at home in haste; he shivered. “I’ll be okay inside the coffee shop (y/n), so how about we head inside?” His cheeks were starting to flush from the cold. “Let’s go get you warmed up Joseph.” So said while turning to open the glass door. The smell of coffee hit your nose as you stepped in after him. The doors bell ringing as it swung shut; you crinkled your nose. Coffee wasn’t really your thing, you’d do a mug when working long shifts but the smell of the beans and pure fresh coffee made you a little queasy. Tea was more your speed, and this shop had the best hand-blended selection in Krimson city; any amount of unpleasant smell was worth a cup of their earl grey latte. “I’ll get the coffee (y/n), my treat. Or an apology for being late if you will.” “Oh, Joseph you don’t need to do that.” “I want to.” He cut you off, whatever emotion that was in his eyes made you feel something powerful. The word sploosh echoed around your head as your cheeks flushed. Damn you have been single for a while, especially if just this was all it took. “What kind would you like?” He punctuated his offer with a rosy smile. “Thank you, Joseph, this is really nice of you. I’d like an Earl Grey Latte if that’s okay? But I’m paying next time!” He nodded and turned to the Barista. You moved to stand closer with him at the drink-window. “Warming up okay Joseph?” “Yes, good company always helps” he winked down at you and chuckled “especially when they're beautiful like you.” GOD WHY DID HE HAVE TO BE SO FUCKIN LIKE THAT. You weren’t going to let his out flirt you now, so you took advantage of the weather; you took his hand in your own and pulled his arm into your coat and against your torso. “Well if you would like warmer company I’ll gladly accommodate.” There was a quiet moment before you both burst out laughing. “That was so bad Joseph I’m sorry!” You cried in-between laughter; “No, (y/n) I walked into that one!” you both held onto each other while laughing, both your nerves finally coming to a head with a hearty laugh. The night went wonderfully after shedding your nerves, taking your drinks to the sofa and snuggling together for the remainder of the outing. Exchanging interests and personal ideals. You learned how Joseph liked to stick with the rules and his love for old 1980’s horror films. He, in turn, learned about your love for art and video games. Mutually gushing over Unusual Things and your favorite characters like the Kemmogorgon and the main cast of kids. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t having a fantastic time, but sadly the shop had to close and you parted separate ways. Not before you made sure Joseph would take a cab home to shield him from the chill of late autumn. You looked forward to the remaining weekend while walking home, you were walking on air after the date and a quiet weekend home gave you so much freedom. The prospect was extremely inviting and your head swam with ideas for tomorrow; though it was only hours away. The alarm blared Monday morning. Had you slept through the entire weekend? No, but it went way to fast. Your chores and hobbies consumed you for 48 hours; spending hours painting and texting with Joseph on his breaks. You already had plans to go out again next Wednesday evening for dinner. God, you wished it was here already. You rolled onto the floor and shambled into the kitchen, turning the kettle on and standing in front of your open fridge; debating what the hell you would eat. Deciding on a protein bar instead of cooking again so you could dress while eating. Your nursing dress was outdated as the other hospitals in the city mandated the use of scrubs for every staff member, but Beacon was different. Some old-thinking higher-ups were what you guessed. While annoying to have to buy hard to find scrub dresses instead of your plethora of modern scrubs, you did admit that since you were little the dresses were your favorite and you had always wanted to wear them. A double-edged sword if you had ever seen one. Remembering your lunch this time, you locked the door to your apartment and headed out for the day; making sure to message Joseph, wishing him a good day. Perhaps you were both moving a little fast but you really did not care. Your current communication with him had you thirsty as fuck and god damn you wanted this to go somewhere.

 “Good morning Leslie,” you said, waking Leslie from slumber and handing him his daily medications. “Did you have a good weekend? I hope you and Carrie had fun this weekend.” He smiled from under his blankets. “Tired, tired, tired…” Mumbling as he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. “I know Leslie, it’s early, but you can sleep some more after you take your medicine okay.” A cocktail of pills was handed to him via small paper cups. You were amazed at how brave he was for taking such large capsules, they were always so intimidating. Tucking him back in you then reached over to pull his little teddy bear closer and tucking it in right beside Leslie. “Sleep as much as you want Leslie, I’ll be back to check on you in a bit okay?” He nodded and snuggled the bear.

Leaving the room you opened Leslie’s door to walk straight into a slender chest; Dr. Ruvik was standing right in front of the door. Was he watching? “(y/n) I don’t mean to intrude but I’ve come to ask for your assistance and didn’t want to barge in.”

“Oh, of course, DR. Ruvik, let me just shut the door and I’ll be right with you.

“Wonderful.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I’ll be waiting for you in my office, it’s in the basement with the lab.”

You turned to the door as he walked off, the electronic clock making a slight click. Giving an experimental push to ensure it wouldn’t budge. One of the grim reminders that you were in fact, in a psychiatric hospital; some clients have the habit of wandering off when not occupied, supervised or locked down and Leslie was one of them. He never went far, just out front to see if his passed family had come to take him home, though it would never happen. You peered through the doors small window to give one last check on Leslie before hurrying to catch up with the doctor and managing to catch him before he entered the main elevator. Dr. Ruvik smiled as you stepped into the small room with him. “What exactly did you need help with Dr. Ruvik?” He hit the main floor button. “I have many patients as you know (y/n), and as with research they have helped me accumulate a mass of paperwork and cassettes.” He tapped his pocket, assuming he was checking to see if it was still there. “I request your help with organizing such a large collection as it would take too long to accomplish this myself.”

Your interest was piqued, a chance to be snoopy on what exactly was going on with Leslie or perhaps the machine as a whole was exactly what you didn’t know you wanted. You could almost taste the delicious answers dangling right in front of you, and all you had to do was help. “I have scheduled another nurse to care for Leslie for the rest of the day.” BITCH WHAT. You turned quickly to face the doctor as he stared ahead at the doors. “This is a confidential task as you and Dr. Jimenez are the only ones involved with medical training, I require your specific aid. I’d much rather work with you then that snake Jimenez anyway.” Staying silent, you weren’t sure if it was pure shock and concern for Leslie or perhaps jealousy. He was your clients and hell you’d become kind of protective over him. Your silence didn’t seem to faze the doctor as he stepped off the elevator, calling back for you. “Come now (y/n) we have work to do.”

Without much of an option, you followed. Like a sheep, you followed the wolf into the bowels of the hospital.

[darkling-er]

Hope’s Savior ( John Seed x OC ) | Part 8

Summary: Trinity-Hope Johnson finds herself in the middle of a holy war, leading the Resistance, while having a complicated relationship with one of the cult’s herald. And she thought her first case would be easy. Oh how wrong she was!

Pairings: John Seed/Fem!Deputy, John Seed/OC, Earl Whitehorse & OC ( uncle&niece ), Joseph Seed/Fem!Deputy ( kind of ), might add more later

Warnings: mild language, violence, eventually smut, masturbation, oral sex, you know guys the usual, use of drugs ( bliss and other, thanks to Sharky ), fluff ( does that even need a warning? ), manipulation, angst, mention of mental illness ( insomnia, depression ), mention of child abuse ( from John’s side ), torture, I think that’s it? I swear it’s not so bad!

Word Counter: 5141

Notes: Onlyyyyy youuuuuu! ♫♪ If I made up some words, that made sense in my mind but have no real meaning, I’m sorry, haha !!Also warning, light smut ahead!!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 |  Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | MASTERPOST for the others

Hope hears screams as a person carries her on their back. At least that’s what she thinks as she can see legs and shoes, being upside down. A red carpet, wooden floor. A man standing at the end of the corridor. Then blackness again, she doesn’t want to wake up, not yet, when it was so peaceful and calm in the blackness of dreamless dreams.

But she wakes up again, she doesn’t know how much time she lost while she was asleep. But the uncomfortable position of sitting in a chair, and her hands being tied to it, making her wrists hurt wakes her up.

She opens her eyes and sees a light, illuminating in the background and right in front of her a man’s silhouette. As her vision starts to clear she opens her eyes wide. Staci! He’s the one tying her to the chair, but why?

“You shouldn’t have come for me. You should have run.” The man whispers to her but she has no words to speak. So Jacob has Staci. But how is that he’s free and not being kept hostage like Hudson. He doesn’t seem like he’s high on the Bliss like the Marshal either. So why doesn’t he run? Maybe there are guns pointed at him, which she can’t see from this position?

He looks tired, huge circles under his eyes, like he didn’t get enough sleep. He looks like he took some punches as well, but other than that he looks fine.

A clicking noise can be heard from her left, a projector’s sound. It’s a presentation, she realizes. Seriously? Did Jacob hunt me just to show me his evil presentation? Staci looks up over her shoulder. Hope can’t turn her head and look over there. Pratt quickly leaves her side and all she can see is a white board... or wall? In the dark it illuminates, coming from the projector which is standing next to her on a shelf of somekind.

A dead deer... Wow...eww... And behind that two words can be seen painted with black paint? Or maybe even dried blood? ‘Only You’. Two other resistance members are tied up, just like her. She wants to call out to Staci, but a man starts speaking. Jacob...

“The world is weak. Soft.” For a second the dead deer disappears, leaving the room black as another image appears: a wolf eating flesh, and Jacob Seed’s silhouette can be seen as he starts walking before the wall.

“We have forgotten what it is to be strong. You know our heroes are used to be gods.” Blackness, then another picture of another wolf eating meat. Jacob Seed is still facing the wall, not turning around yet, to face the deputy or the other two hostages. Staci is standing right next to him, like keeping guard. Why is he not fighting or running? “And now our heroes are godless. Weak, feeble, diseased”

Black and another picture: a weird photo of a deer’s corpse, standing on it’s legs like it’s still alive. Fucking morbid... Jacob turns around, his body covered in the picture as he stands in it’s light.

“We let the weak dictate to the powerful and then we are shocked to find ourselves adrift.” A picture of a white wolf, eating it’s prey. This guy is a furry, or something? Jacob is not looking at her, and honestly she’s happy about that she doesn’t need the attention of yet another Seed.

“But history knows the value of sacrifice. Of culling the herd, so that it stays strong.” He looks at the woman on the left side then the man on the right. “Over and over, the lives of the many have outweighed the lives of the few. This is how we survived... And we’ve forgotten.” An angry wolf looking right into Hope’s eyes. Jacob slowly makes his way toward Hope and tries out her wrists, but the ductape just won’t let go.

“...and now the bill has come due.” As he stands right in front of the deputy, she feels even smaller than usual. The man is a giant and with her sitting he’s even much taller as he normally is. He’s towering over her, but as he grabs her chair and pulls it toward him and he leans low, so their face can meet Hope would rather have him standing up again. Why do they always want to get to close to me? Have the Seeds ever heard of personal space?

“Now, the Collapse is upon us, and this time the lives of the few outweigh the lives of the many.”

His intense stare makes her uncomfortable. His blue eyes reminding her of John’s and Joseph’s ones. Each and every one of them carrying something behind their clear blue eyes. Jacob’s face is covered in scars, rashes even. But that’s not what scares Hope about Jacob.

“And when a nation that’s never known hunger or desperation descends into madness, we’ll be ready.” He smiles at her, not breaking eye contact, not even blinking once as he leans back, and getting something from the desk with the projector on.

“We will cull the herd.” It’s a small wooden box, a music box! He gets it ready to play as he speaks. “We will do what needs to be done.”

He shows it to her, opening the box and immediately her body starts shaking, her vision turning red and she feels like she’s having a seizure. She feels blood trickle down from her nose as the pressure grows inside her body. Filling her head with anger, she’s trying to get free, but it’s impossible. And her view turns to black or did she close her eyes? She can’t tell, as she has a view again.

She’s free from her hair, standing before the table she was sitting next to, a gun on it. The whole world is red, and it reminds her of blood, blood, blood. The building is collapsing and music echoes in her head, an agonisingly slow version of Only You by The Platters.

As she hears a tower bell and the two person stands up from the chairs she just knows what she has to do.

“Call the herd.” Jacob says from somewhere and she grabs the gun from the table and shoot at both of them as they vanish into smoke as the bullet goes right through them.

“Excellent.” Jacob says and she runs through a door, grabbing an SMG which was placed just for her.

She moves forward, building falling apart, broken wooden walls all around. People raise their guns at her and she shoot all of them. With each shot Jacob shouts:

“Train. Hunt. Kill. Sacrifice.”

She shots a man above her on a wall and Jacob talks to her again:

“Good, cull the herd.”

She doesn’t think, she doesn’t feel anything, just pure anger and pride as the eldest of the Seeds praises her moves. Why? Why?! She doesn’t know, as she runs fast opposite how the song slowly plays for her. It’s like she’s in a maze as she goes, she doesn’t even know where, but she rushes forward. ‘Kill, kill, kill!’ Jacob’s shouts can be heard and she just does that. Killing everyone who even stands close to her.

She picks up an AR-C as she reaches a yard. A gate of metal saying ‘St. Francis Veterans Center’ in front of her, as she shoots. It’s so surreal, object floating in the air, unmoving like they are hanged by strings. But she doesn’t think, she runs through the front door into the building, killing a man runing towards her.

“Yes, sacrifice the weak.”

She kils the man standing on top of the walls as she climbs. She has to ignore the fire below, get away from it. Fire is bad, fire is bad! Don’t be weak, be strong!

There’s a slide coming up and she takes it as the music suddenly plays faster, and the clock that has been ticking while she ran stops. And she doesn’t land as the blackness surrounds her.

When she opens her eyes, she’s still in that chair, tied to it, as she lays with it on the floor. Dead bodies around her, and her vision is blurry. Her mouth feels dry and Hope feels like she can’t move. There’s still blood under her nose, dried to her face, making her smell the irony scent of blood.

The music still plays, somewhere from the room. Am I dead? She thinks, and it hurts to think. She can still hear Jacob’s commands in her head: ‘Train, hunt, kill, sacrifice’. And for some reason she feels like she should be doing exactly that.

The Deputy sees movements and for a second she thinks Jacob is back, to call her weak. But she hears an unknown voice of a man.

“What a mess. Wheaty, check those chairs.”

“Jesus, the smell...” Another voice speaks and she wants to call out to them but her throat hurts like she swallowed knives. Her vision at least becomes clear as she sees a bearded man. Oh, god, is he a peggie?

“Been stewin’ in their own filth for days...” For days?! “Walker, get some windows open!”

A young man comes to her view, so called Wheaty if she heard it right. A third voice replies, so that must be the guy called Walker:

“Y-y-y-yessir!”

“Someone shut that music off!” The man who has the beard and has been commanding the other seems to be their boss, or leader. Thank God, yes! Turn it off! She thinks and her head gets a lot clearer as the music stops, no more Jacob’s praises or commands.

Wheaty crouches down to the body next to her, checking the clearly dead man’s pulse. The dead guy’s eyes and nose has been bleeding. Just like hers, but she’s still alive.

“Christ, it’s Sully. When did they get him?” The young boy says and he stands up, annoyed. “Why are we even bothering with this? They’re all dead.” No, no! I’m not dead! She wants to scream, but she can’t even blink, feeling paralised.

“Check ‘em anyways.” The leader says and she’s thankful for his words. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

The boy still seems annoyed by his job as he comments:

“Why am I always stuck on corpse duty?”

He turns her chair and she groans out at the sudden pain in her head as she’s being moved. The boy facing her gets so scared he drops her, causing even more pain.

“HOLY SHIT!” Wheaty lands on his ass, being so startled by Hope not being as dead as he thought.

“What?” The boss turns to him and comes closer, as Wheaty says an ‘oh fuck’ as well.

The boss looks down at Hope as she finally blinks, her eyes hurting as she does so.

“Live one!” He quickly crouches next to her. “Walker! Go get the truck!”

“Y-y-y-y-yessir!” The man stutters, seemingly only to know one sentence.

Wheaty comes into view and if Hope had any energy left she would find this situation actually funny, feeling like they’re in a comedy movie:

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry...” The boss pushes him away.

They grab Hope and the leader’s voice is nice and smooth, but still low and it makes her feel comfort.

“Gimme a hand, kid.”

She groans again as they set her chair, so she’s sitting in it. They face each other and Hope wants to say thanks, but only manages a low and painful moan out.

The leader gets out a knife with the intention to free her, but Wheaty looks at the man:

“Eli..is this...?”

“Yep.” The man says simply as he frees Hope from the tapes.

“What the fuck is the Deputy doing here?” Oh, look, I’m famous. How nice...

“Jacob took a shine to ‘er same as us.”

She wants to laugh at that but it turns into a cough as she does. I didn’t drink for days... Yeah, I can feel it...

“You’re gonna be okay, Hero. Whitetail’s gotcha now.” The Whitetails! Oh thank God!

They help her to her feet and start to walk, well more likely drag her body with them. She feels like going back to sleep again, feeling dizzy from the exhaustion.

“We’re bringing her back to the Wolf’s Den?” Wheaty asks.

“Where else?” The leader asks back. I like him, I always like people who save my life, defying the others.

“Tammy is not going to like this...” Well, I’m sorry, but Tammy has to bear with me until I can get up to my feet again.

Their voices become blurry as she falls into sleep again.

“Don’t worry about Tammy. She’ll be fine.”

Hope feels a soft surface under her and it feels so comfortable, her mind not wanting to get up soon. But as she hears voices she opens her eyes. Wheaty comes into view, a boy who can’t be older than her. He gently grabs her neck from behind, pulling her head up as he places a water bottle to her lips.

“Take it easy, you’re OK. Need you to drink this.”

Hope greedily swallows the water, some of it trickling down her face, getting her shirt wet. She had been changed into new clothes, a man’s oversized sweater, no jeans. She should feel ashamed, knowing that someone had to get her clothes off, but right now she doesn’t care.

Hope coughes as her throat becomes soft and slimy again, not feeling like a desert anymore. A woman comes into the room, looking down at her laying form and she turns to the man, the leader who brought her here.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Oh, I have a feeling this is Tammy.

The man is so calm it wants to make Hope laugh. Like a teacher, trying to get his students behaving without screaming at them.

“Now hold on. Wheaty and I agreed--”

“Oh you agreed?!” The woman turns to the kid standing next to Hope.

Wheaty holds up his arms, defending himself from the accusation.

“Woah, woah woah! I was at best an impartial observer.”

Tammy looks and points at Hope:

“This is stupid and this is dangerous.”

Hope silently comments but her voice is ragged and nobody seems to hear her:

“I can hear you, you know?”

The woman continues with her anger:

“You both know better!”

The long bearded man approaches her and he still sounds so calm:

“What was I supposed to do?”

The woman raises her arms, like it’s so damn clear what they were supposed to do with Hope.

“Leave her to die.” Wow, nice, thanks...

The man scoffs, faking out a laugh and looking down at Hope apologisingly:

“Tammy...”

“They’ve been in that room for God knows how long. I’ve seen what it does to people. You haven’t. You can’t trust this one.”

The man turns away from the junior deputy lying on the couch and turns to the all-too-angry woman:

“That’s what everyone said about you! But luckily, I didn’t listen.” Only now he starts raising his voice. “This is not up for discussion. We need her. That’s all there is to it. Understand?”

She makes a grimace and looks down at Hope, like she wants to kill her right here right now. Then she leaves the room. Wheaty comments:

“You’re right. She took that real well.”

“Out.” He doesn’t even turn his head away from the Deputy as he orders the young man out of there.

As he leaves Hope can hear him comment under his nose:

“I didn’t even do anything...”

The young girl smiles at that, a gesture that makes her face hurt a bit, but doesn’t make any painful sounds.

Eli walks around the couch right next to her, placing his hand on her leg and only know she feels a bit too exposed.

“I meant what I said, we need you. Let’s get you some rest.”

He helps her lay her head back down to the pillow and though she wants to stay awake she quickly falls asleep.

Hope wakes up at the sound of a radio. Music is playing, not the type she usually listens too, and it’s loud enough to shake her out of her continues dreamless dream. She moves around the couch and she puts her naked legs on the rug. She sits there for a while, getting ready to stand up on her legs,

A man is watching her, reading a book, looking at her naked thighs and she tries to pull the sweater down as much as she can. Yeah, I need pants ASAP.

She doesn’t feel cold that much, and her aching body is much less exhausted as before. She doesn’t have dried blood all over her face either. They took care of her, that’s for sure.

“Oh, shit y-y-y-you’re up. Eli needs a word with y-y-you.” The man says and Hope remembers his stutter from before, when the whitetails found her.

“Where should I go?” She asks nicely and smiles at the man.

“Head d-d-down the hall. Eli’s waitin’ for y-y-y-ou there.” He points to a direction and she nods and thanks him with a soft smile.

She takes some turns in the bunker, she figured it’s a bunker, since it looks a lot like Dutch’s. Then she sees a whole bunch of monitors, just like Dutch’s. And there it is the man, the one who saved her from that filthy place. He looks up at her from his map and smiles:

“There you are. Been tryin’ to track you down, Deputy. Dutch speaks highly. Look I get right to it. I know what you did down south. You got the Father thinkin’ twice now, and that’s good for us. We’re bleeding bodies up here, no two ways about it. I don’t know if we’ll be able to hold out more than a week at this rate. Times are desperate to say the least. I’m trying to get some footholds back, so I sent a handful of whitetails out to sabotage the Visitor Center. The cult’s been using it as a depot for that Bliss shit... But our guys walked right into a fucking trap. They’ve been taken hostage and we’re up against the clock. If I just send another group in there, we risk losing everything... but you! You’re something that cult ain’t expecting. You’re the only one I got around here who can handle this, Dep... only one I trust to handle this. I’m countin’ on you.”

The man says and Hope’s head start to feel heavy as she tries to understand him and she raises her hands, stopping the man from further speaking:

“Okay, slow down a bit. Look I...” She stands there awkwardly looking at the man’s confused eyes. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. But I don’t even know your name and you’re saying that you can only trust me on this?”

She feels like an asshole, but her veins are filled with this odd feeling, a rage, hiding behind her small form. Hope doesn’t even know why she’s angry, and she tries to hide it as much as she can. This man did save her life after all.

“Oh, I’m... I’m sorry.. Name’s Eli, Eli Palmer.” The man says, clearly feeling just as awkward as the young girl.

“So Eli... Umm... you have any pants that I could borrow. Can’t do much of anything if I’m not dressed like I’m going outside.”

He looks at her naked legs, just realizing she’s without pants or shoes and turns to Wheaty:

“Hey, Wheaty, get some pants and shoes from the shop, will ya?” He says and the boy goes down the corridor, dissappearing. “I’m... really sorry about that.”

She nods, trying to make this scene less awkward as it already is.

“Didn’t you guys by any chance found my backpack? Or my radio? Or any of my weapons?” She asks, though she doesn’t dare to keep her hopes up.

Eli turns around and grabs a bag, filled with her stuff:

“Actually, we did, here ya go.”

After getting some clothes from the whitetails and getting her backpack on her back, her pistol in her holster and the rifle around her shoulder she stands before Eli. Hope feels much less exposed now.

“Look. I don’t know if people have been looking for me or not. And I know you need help, and I will help, that’s a promise, but...” She feels ashamed of what she says next. “... I need some time away from Jacob right now.”

Eli does seem dissappointed, but nods kindly.

“I get it, kid. I’m just desperate, you know? And you’re like the Hero of Hope County at the moment, I hoped you could help out.”

She feels bad about this and gets her map out of her pack and folds it out on Eli’s desk.

“Look, point me to the place, and I will look into it, okay? I’ll even bring some help, people who I trust and are good at what they’re doing. I am very grateful for what you did for me, I am. And I want to repay you by helping out, but right now... I’ll head back to the Valley, check out on some friends. I’ll be back and take care the peggies for you.”

Eli nods and marks the place on her map. She gets some angry looks by Tammy as she leaves and a kind smile from Wheaty. Well, she can’t be friends with everyone, right?

She uses one of the choppers from outside the Wolf’s Den to reach the Valley, it’s night time again and only now, looking at the constellations and the moon realizes how long she had been out.

“Hey, old man. I hope you’re not sleeping yet.” She says through her speaker, while flying over Dutch’s island.

“I never sleep, kid. Heard from Eli, that they got you out of Jacob Seed’s grasp. You’re gonna stay there, help out?”

The raven haird girl sighes and replies:

“No, I’m heading back to John’s region. I still have some distress calls from there. I want to check on the church, and than the airstrip at the Rye’s.”

Dutch murmurs something and she’s happy she didn’t catch what he just said.

“Okay, kid. It’s your call. Just don’t forget to help out in the mountains as well. I know Jacob Seed might look scary for ya. But we still have to fight him.”

And there goes Hope’s calm night:

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

Dutch sighes and tries to save the conversation:

“All I’m sayin’ is that you had a meetin’ with Jacob and now you’re running back to the Valley and--”

“I’m running back to the Valley?!” She raises her voice and almost losts control over the chopper in her anger.

“Look... I’m just sayin’ the facts, no need to get angry at me for being honest.”

“For being honest?! Who the hell says where I should help out? You weren’t there you don’t know what he did to me!”

There’s a moment of silence and for some reason she feels like she shouldn’t be telling about the Platters’ song to Dutch, or to anyone for the record.

“Why, what did he do to you?” He asks suspiciously.

“Forget it Dutch, I’m tired, I want to land my chopper safely and help out at the Valley. I will go back to the mountains once I gother a little team to help me out. I’m only one girl, not an entire army...Hope out.”

She turns off her radio and looks down at the hills of the valley. The ‘YES’ say illuminating in the night, she has a new idea as she lands near the bottom of the sign.

She gets out of the chopper, once landed properly and walks up to the Hollywood styled monument.

She sits down at the bottom of the ‘Y’ and looks down at the valley. From up here it’s so peaceful, so calm. I wonder how cool Hope County was before the cult...

There are lights appearing in the distane, near the airstrips and she first thinks maybe someone blowed up a bunch of silos, but as she looks into her binoculars she sees fireworks.

There’s a smile appearing on her face as she looks at them. Who is partying right now? It has to be Resistance, right?

She picks up her radio and dials Pastor Jerome to get some information on this.

“Hey, Jerome? Who is helding a party tonight? I see fireworks in the sky.” Her voice is calm, cheerful.

A moment passes and she hopes she didn’t wake up the man. An unpleasent answer comes from his end, clearly not happy about the cause of celebration.

“John Seed is having a birthday party tonight.”

Hope can’t contain her laugh as she asks:

“For who?”

The Pastor sighs:

“For himself...”

Hope laughs and she can’t believe that days ago she was being held captive by Jacob Seed and now the youngest of the brothers is having a party for his birthday. It’s just too surreal and funny.

“Oh wow, did you buy him something?” She jokes and the Pastor chuckles at that.

“I’m pretty sure he has everything he wants, Deputy. Good to have you back in the Valley, there are still some folks out here needing help... I heard about Jacob Seed. If you need to just talk to someone, you can always come to me.”

It warms her heart, and she smiles softly.

“Thanks. I want to check on Boomer too. Did he behave while I was gone?”

The Pastor chuckles, no longer the dissappointment for the Seeds in his voice:

“He did try to eat my bible once. But he has been acting good. He misses you, I think. He perked up his head and started wagging his tail as he heard your voice now.”

Hope imagines the dog trying to eat Pastor Jerome’s Bible and she’s happy someone is not acting weird around her, asking her to do this or do that. Just having a nice and normal conversation.

“I’ll be sure to make a visit to Fall’s End tomorrow.”

“Alright, take care, Deputy.”

They end the radio call and Hope continues to watch the fireworks go on for a while. John Seed being so fucking extra, as always. She smiles to herself, shaking her head. It’s weird thinking about how a man like him had to be born once, was probably a child, just acting normal. Makes one wonder how they ended up being like this...

She lays down onto her back, looking up at the stars on the night sky. Remembering most of their names. She memorised them all, when she was a kid. Her parents painted her room’s ceiling like the night sky. She misses them, even though she never actually met them.

Her heart aches and she tries to think about something else, and she ends up thinking about the Cleansing. How she actually thought in her Bliss drugged state that she was a star. How John Seed’s eyes seemed to be glowing, beautiful blue amongst the white dots in front of her...

She feels an itch in her body, one that she haven’t felt since she got into this holy war. She slides her hand down her body, between her legs as she moans out into the night, only the crickets knowing what she’s up to. She teases herself through the fabric of her jeans and after some minutes like this she slips her had into her jeans and she touches her clit, crying out in pleasure.

 And then her radio crackles to life, like God knew what she is doing and wants to stop her:

“Deputy, I heard you came back to the Valley. How delightful.” John Seed’s voice is cheery as always, like he knows when he can annoy Hope.

She doesn’t answer, the heat in her loin growing and she just wants to have some private moments to herself, without listening to John Seed, but God, that man loves his voice more than anything.

“I was wondering about one of our conversation just now. Do you remember, what I said to you, Deputy?” His voice sounds so smug, she can almost imagine the smirk on his face.

She groans out, letting her hand find it’s way out of her jeans and underwear. With an annoyed voice she click down the button on her radio to talk:

“No?” She keeps it short, because her breathing was just becoming faster when the man dared to intterupt her, so she doesn’t want to give herself away.

“Oh, my dear. I’m sure you remember. You know what, I will give you a moment to think. Get the blood back to your pretty little head...”

She looks confused and angry at her radio, not wanting to play John’s games right now. Then his words hit her, and her heart stops beating for a moment. ‘I have cameras everywhere, Deputy...’ he said a while back. Oh my god...

She quickly looks around her surroundings, her face getting red from the embarrasment if the man meant what she thinks he meant by that comment. His next words comfirming her fear:

“You know, Deputy... Lust is a sin.” With a muffled ‘oh my god’ she buries her face in her hands.

“Don’t be so full of yourself, I wasn’t putting up a show for you.” She replies to him, trying to save the situation, but she’s deep in it now.

“Are you sure?” Comes the teasing tone of the Baptist. “And here I thought it was your birthday gift for me.”

If she wasn’t flushed already, she sure as hell is now. And without even wanting to think about it, how it might be a gift for him, how he might mimiced her movements, touching himself at the sight of her... NO! Stop thinking about that! But the thought sends a wave of pleasure between her folds.

“Oh, no!” She cringes at herself and him. “In your dreams, Seed!”

She tries to keep her cool, but what he says next sends her over the edge.

“If this was my dream, you would be right here with me, beneath me.”

She did notice something was off in his voice, she thought it’s only exhaustion or something, but now she thinks it might be from something else. She gulps as she asks:

“Are you high right now?”

A chuckle comes from the other end and it sends a pulse into her clit, begging to be touched.

“Maybe... So what do you say? Care to pay me a visit?”

This is crazy. He’s crazy, this whole situation is crazy. But the most crazy thing is, that she actually stops thinking about his offer.

A/N: ehehehehe *evil laugh*

Tags: @onl-you

[fandoomedforlife]

When You Didn’t Say ‘Yes’

Who: John Seed/Deputy/Joseph Seed Concept: John Seed baptizes you in hopes you will just say yes, but he is interrupted by Joseph Seed. Warnings: Strong language Notes: The Deputy has no gender attached. There’s not really any romance in this, but I enjoyed making it anyway. This is the first fanfiction I’ve done for Far Cry 5, so I hope they’re in character! Enjoy. (I am also taking requests, and I have more stories I’m writing now!)

          “You believe you’re on the righteous path, you believe you’re 

                                     a force for good, but you’re not.”

“I will tear your sins from your heart and soul; I will make you confess. No matter how small, how petty—I will make you atone,” his low, almost growling voice spun circles around and through your head, successfully corrupting any thoughts and plans of resistance.

You want to fight, you want to resist, but your eyes can’t focus on his face, the Bliss making you see double—no, triple. If you can’t even control your eyes, how are you going to successfully do anything else?

‘God damn Bliss.’

Bliss is something short of magic; it’s a drug produced from a plant and abused by man, but its effects are extraordinary, almost magical—almost.

Bliss makes people different; it makes them perceive and live differently, and the couple times you were subjected to Bliss was enough to almost convert you completely.

Victims of The Bliss will perceive a place of eternal happiness—whatever that happiness may be—and freedom where everything is littered with rose petals and drenched with sunshine. What they don’t know, and what they will never know (unless miraculously saved by some legitimate force of good), is that they are living a lie, forever mesmerized by addictive hallucinations—manipulated to get them to follow, “convert,” and obey.

Hell, half of them are so far gone that they’re considered ‘angels,’ unaware they are given that title because they’re stuck so far up Faith’s ass—

“Wait. This one’s not clean yet… I’ll handle them.”

Your buzzing thoughts are interrupted when an affirmative grunt came from one of the Peggies as they went off to shore, praising the cleansing and singing:

“Now that this whole world is ending,

A new world begins.

Let the water wash away your sins.”

You involuntarily mumble along, earning an excited glance from your captor while you become annoyed at how easily the music taints your ears, hauntingly sweet, like honey oozing through a burning nest.

The rising of your chest quickens as he flashes a menacing smile—a smile that screams for you to fuck all and attempt anything to escape—but the glint in his wild blue orbs told you to stay as still as possible.

Either way, you know this won’t end well because John always has a way of making every outcome unbearable, and you recognized that pattern three captures ago.

‘John fucking Seed… bastard.’

You two always found your way back to each other, and that would be quite romantic if he wasn’t him and you weren’t you.

John Seed is the youngest of the Seed family, and he’s the one who captures citizens to convert them through beatings, torture, and baptisms in lakes of Bliss—all of which you’ve gone through, and, honestly, you tend to think you only survive because the eldest of the family, Joseph Seed, tells him to leave you alive.

‘She is special. You have to love them, John.’

Joseph’s words ring through your head just as clearly as when you first heard them. Only this time, you feel longing—longing for him to be here, to come save you, to comfort you…

Only because John is so much worse than Joseph’s incessant bible talk.

When you finally decide it’s now or never and take a step forward, you suddenly feel as if you are floating with nothing to tie you to the earth, and, as you blink, seemingly in slow motion, the followers on the land pour more Bliss into the lake.

‘Fuck.’

Your body feels lighter than air, and your mind is clearer than it’s been since you came to Hope County. Every cell that created you now whispers for you to breathe. Relax. Accept.

“You are safe,” John steps closer to you, friendlier, livelier, and his outstretched hands seem to glow with light, promising of a better future.

‘It’s a lie,’ you try to remind yourself, ‘he is a monster.’

‘John Seed is the Devil.’

You attempt to speak and reject him, but a weak whimper is the only sound you can muster, the Bliss making it beyond difficult to produce anything else.

“You are so stubborn,” John’s rough hands grip your shoulders, and he clicks his tongue as he holds you away from him, “Let the water wash away your sins.”

Then, you are underwater, barely any force needed to keep you there as the lake invaded your lungs, replacing any oxygen left.

Maybe you’ll die this time.

‘No, you are being saved.’

That’s what The Bliss is telling you, or more accurately, Faith, the “sister” in charge of The Bliss.

She is reassuring you, whispering that you aren’t going to die, even though your body suffocates with every passing second. She whispers ideas of redemption, saving, atonement, forgiveness—ideas of a new you. Her voice comes from all around you, filling your body with something—a feeling that can only be described as a deadly peace, one that you knew you’d never come out of if you accepted it because it was a fucking lie.

‘I have to fight this.’

Your arms barely began to move when your ears registered singing, distracting you again.

“In holy water, there can be no tears…” John’s faint, distorted voice ripples through the water as he lightly sings his song—it was sure like him to allow himself to be the last thing you ever listen to.

Then, his face clouds your mind, and you begin to find it fitting that he was deemed the Baptist; those deep blue eyes that just so happen to match the darkness of the lake, and that intense, yet fragile, temper that mirrored the way the lake overrides all your senses when you’re down under—the way the lake’s coldness screamed John’s name, filling every hole with pieces of his dialogue, telling you to “say ‘yes’” before it was too late to be forgiven, and his sadistic nature that seemed to mimic the lake’s movement when a body was thrown in…

No wonder he’s the Baptist.

John’s grip on you becomes unbearably tight, and it dawns on you that you have been thrashing for a while now, but you still aren’t scared. Maybe it’s because of the Bliss, or maybe it’s because you’re just so tired, and, as your body fought for survival, your mind admitted its defeat.

‘It’s just any moment before it’s all over.’

Until you are lifted out of the water… again.

Your body aches as you hack up warm water, your lungs struggling to hack and breathe at the same time.

This is not what you asked for.

‘God damn it! Just turn it all off,’ your thoughts plead, ‘I want this to be over, John. Quit playing around.’

“Oh, I’m not playing around, Deputy,” John’s face is only inches away from yours, his breath tickling your ear as he purs, “It can be over. Just say ‘yes,’ and the door to forgiveness will be opened for you. You won’t regret it.” John flashes a small smile, both of his hands holding the sides of your head.

Spitefully, you cough water in his face and flash a weak smile, frustrated you can’t even control what comes out of your mouth and what stays in your head.

You grip his forearms, ready to slip back under, as his facial expression goes from a content smile to a sadistic, angry smirk, “Excuse me?”

“I say ‘no’,” your words seethe with venom as you dig your nails into him, “John fucking Seed.”

He scoffs, bringing one hand behind your head, and yanks your hair so hard you’d bet your scalp was bleeding. Then, his forehead harshly met yours, making your vision dim, before he began speaking,

“You are so,” he pauses, releasing a shaky breath, “so sinful.” John’s forehead pulses against yours and his eyes scan yours, possibly searching for any other weakness, “for fuck’s sake, how many lessons have I tried to teach you, hm?” John’s eyes close for a brief moment as he whispers, “Wrath, Pride… oh, Sweetheart, I’ll have fun etching each and every letter into you.”

He proceeds to shove you in the water to possibly—most likely—end your life, but he stops when he hears his name in a familiar and disappointed tone.

“John,” a calm, easily recognizable voice surfaces, music to your ears, “do not let your sin overcome you—do not let your sin mock the cleansing, John.”

You both turn to face the voice, your eyes lighting up while John’s grip on you releases, allowing you to stand, using John’s shoulder to balance.

“Father Joseph,” you, almost too excitedly, exclaim, before mentally chastising yourself, ‘Father? That damn Bliss!’

John’s hand swiftly moves to your shoulder, and his nails press into your fragile and soaked skin, “I’m sorry, brother.” His eyes glance between you and Joseph before focusing on the water, “I was careless.”

“Bring her to me.”

You couldn’t help but smile as John’s hand rests on the middle of your back, shoving you towards Joseph’s open arms.

‘That’s right, I escaped again, asshole.’

“You,” Joseph rest his hands on your neck, gently moving your head to look at him, “have a gift. I hope you will recognize this,” his wide eyes stare into yours as one of his soft hands trail to your cheek, “and when you do, come back to us, for we pass no judgment here, and I will forgive.”

You lean into his touch; Joseph is so welcoming, and, as bad as it is, you like to be touched by him, especially after being handled by John. Joseph’s heart seems so pure, yet here he is, persuading you to join this godforsaken cult.

“Joseph, I—“

He shushes you before welcoming John to stand beside you, “John, I want you to take care of this one. They’re special. They will have a chance at forgiveness.” Joseph’s tone was stern, yet compassionate, earning a nod from John.

You suddenly wince, the Bliss beginning to wear off and your senses heightening, the cold air like stabs to your chest, and the water cold as ice. You become aware of all the sound around you, ranging from gunshots to cougars to singing, and you know you have to escape before they drug you again.

You grasp Joseph’s arm and fall into him, forcing tears to leave your eyes, “I believe you, I believe you… Please, Father, take me- take me to the church.”

His hand brushes the back of your head, wet hair trapping it like vines before he brings you to his chest, “my child,” Joseph’s breathing remains unchanged, “I will leave you with my brother; John will take good care of you. Once you confess and your atonement begins, I will bring you to my church,” Joseph’s chin rests on your head for a couple minutes until a deep, gruff voice mentions that a van arrived.

“Take this one to John’s bunker. There seems to have been progress,” Joseph nods towards John, who shoots a glare at you before ordering a Peggie to toss you in the van.

You feel like you’re losing your mind as tears pour down your face, sadness and anger mixing to boil your blood, and frustration controlling your muscles as you throw one last punch at a Peggie, the crack of his jaw and exclamation of pain fueling your—

“Wrath! See? There’s been no improvement,” John smirks and commands Peggies to restrain you.

Before you are able to grab a gun, a syringe finds your neck, pumping you full of bliss, almost immediately causing you to collapse.

‘No, no, no, no!’

You desperately begin to crawl as a last attempt until John steps on your hand, crouching before you, a wild smirk on his clean face, “Oh, I’m going to have fun with you, Deputy, and it won’t be over until I have every last inch of you saying ‘yes’ for me.”

You mumble, trying to scream, cuss, cry—anything—but there’s nothing, and you are thrown into the van again, traveling back to John’s bunker, trying to muster up a plan or a fight…

Or maybe you will just say yes.

[sparklyjojos]

hey i sent you an ask but internet problematic here so i dunno if it was sent? As someone with no experience with neurodivergent people i was hoping you could elaborate what you have previously said about Kars in JORGE JOESTAR (and other characters maybe) seeming neurodivergent. Like, i'd love to know your headcanons about jojo characters regarding this, as well as reasoning for the headcanon's (optional, but i'd love it)

(wow this one sure took me a long time to answer, sorry!)

oh boy, this would be an extremely long post if I included all other jojo characters I headcanon as nd so I’m just going to focus on Jorge (the Japanese one) and novel Kars for now

this won’t be a “this character definitely has x thing”, but just pointing out traits and dialogue that may interest someone who wants to headcanon/write these characters as nd

am I going to be reaching with some of those? yep! but if the Jorge Joestar novel itself taught me anything, it’s that:

so, you know. I see what I wanna see.

(tw: mental illness, trauma, ptsd, suicide - all in the Kars segment)

Jorge:

 – the sheer difference in introductions is telling: English Jorge talks at length about his family, his classmates, his gay puppy crush, and anything else you’d expect to be major concerns for a kid. Japanese Jorge? social life haha what social life, HOPE YOU’RE READY FOR 10 PAGES OF PUZZLE SOLVING

 – no really if the very first thing someone says after seeing all your memories is that you sure spend a lot of time on puzzles then that’s some deep interest you have, a bit of a stereotypical hobby there but whatevs

 – hyperfocuses a lot??

 – (exasperated Kars who’s been trying to get his attention for a good minute:) “You have a bad habit of not hearing when people speak to you.” (Jorge:) “Yeah, if I’m focused on something else. Sorry. What?”

 – tunes out of one phone conversation with Bruno like 3 times

 – figures out how time-based Stands work specifically because he has experience with his internal sense of time getting royally fucked up whenever he’s deeply focused

 – was inattentive (and hyperactive?) as a young kid to the point it affects how the memories on his disc look like: “I was a fidgety child, and the image rarely focused on [Joseph] for long. I wasn’t interested in his story.”

 – visual thinker, good with patterns, can make complicated mental maps and solve slide puzzles in his mind

 – his memory is really good until it isn’t (as far as he’s concerned Funny Valentine’s Stand is called Dirty Whatever)

 – very particular about meanings of words and names, etymology (his arc starts and ends with him pondering over the kanji of his own name, knows latin names of various species like Hydrangea or Ursus maritimus and what they mean literally, that “sorry that name’s taken” line when Rohan calls something a Beyond, etc)

 – doesn’t like (is distressed by?) clutter and things/details being WRONG. (“If details don’t add up right I get agitated, and start searching for a better way. This trait has lead to my room being very clean, and made me a great detective.”)

 – infodumps to Rohan about polar bears of all things, and there’s a moment when he stops talking almost mid-sentence after mentioning they’re called Ursus maritinus and instead of speaking out loud he just thinks to himself that “The scientific name was given by John Phipps in 1774” as if he just realized that’d be Too Much detail to share, I feel you Jorge

 – (after Erina says he has a characteristic soft smile) “I do? I mean, I guess people do say I look like an idiot.”  

 – gets urges to laugh at very bad times (”Cars’ whispered response had an air of such grim realism that I almost started laughing, but he was watching me suspiciously. Whoops.”)

 – sometimes blurts out things, often fails one-liners, even when he pre-plans what he’s going to say something else may come out (“I’d thought of all kinds of things to say, but what actually popped out in that moment? (…) I have no idea what I meant by that last bit but I said what I said and had to live with it.”)

 – sometimes impulsive, like yeah let’s just get up in the middle of the night and search through a 10 km^2 area on a bike for something unprecised while you have several death threats to your name, this can’t possibly backfire

 – (after Jorge quite literally blows himself up by impulsive carelessness) “Cars was still laughing. “You really don’t think things through.“”

 – small point that’s made moot by paranormal things like that being real in the jojoverse, but his tendency to see signs and messages meant for him everywhere and in every event, and insisting on coincidences not being mere synchronicity gives off a different vibe than intended (at least at the beginning before he knows Stands and Beyonds are a thing)

Kars:

 – honestly I could just slap the definition of “neurodivergent = with their brain functioning differently from what’s seen as ‘normal’ in the population” here and point at his backstory in this book and be done with it

 – remember everything I’m writing is on top of his canon image of an asocial genius scientist with poor affect (or, in the anime, varying between stone face and painfully exaggerated expressions) who has a connection with nature and animals, which I guess can? be seen as some type of autistic coding (unfortunately in this case it dovetails into “a loner with autistic traits = snaps and kills everyone” type of coding sooo maybe let’s not go there)

 – novel Kars talks about how when he was younger he didn’t even know that feeling sympathy and wanting to have emotional attachments with others –was a thing– (apparently his race wasn’t capable of it??), and he had to sorta consciously try to understand and learn it through reading human fiction. It came off to me like he relates better to fictional characters (and maybe animals?) than to his race or humans, too

 - ^^(that backstory’s a bit unclear with how it’s told; either just like his race he doesn’t have the drive for social bonding, empathy etc. and his understanding of others is made purely on the intellectual level - that’s relatable for some nd people - or he DOES have those things in a drastic difference from everyone else of his race, which I guess makes him nd by definition. It’s… complicated.)

– on the topic of “consciously learning how to sympathy” - there’s a few times in the novel when he’s a prick not because he wants to be but because he genuinely doesn’t understand why the other person would be upset (”Cars, sorry, but can you put me back at my old height?” “?…isn’t the view better?”), but if that person explains how the thing is upsetting he then backs off like “oh okay” (when Jorge is disturbed about the women’s heads thing - “Yeah. But I just feel sorry for them. I can’t watch this.” - Kars just goes “I see.” and makes them disappear). He still has to work on the “taking your private memories without asking” issue tho

 – that moment in the backstory where Kars became deeply aware of just how flawed and “not up to own potential” he was which launched him straight into unhealthy perfectionism and desire for control and power as a way of dealing with it? relatable

 – and that thing where him becoming much more chill is preceeded by the realization that he can’t ever - and that he doesn’t have to - become an infinitely perfect being without weaknesses, and that he’d still have worth and meaning even when he’s not performing to some ridiculous self-imposed standards?? GREAT, and I love to see lines like this one coming from him: “Cars smiled. “I have no desire to be the leadingman.””

 – he talks about how traumatic events and your emotional reactions to them (“feeling like you’re dying”) can damage your soul. Since he claims to have experience determining soul damage, and the only souls he worked with before belonged to 36 other Karses, we can assume he’s talking about himself as well. (and it’s kinda obvious that having everyone you love die in

 – ^^^also worth noting that even if Kars knew a lot about brains biology-wise, he missed out on practically all of modern psychology after 1939, so of course the way he relates to trauma and mental illness would be different, and more informed by what he learned having spent most of his life around ancient civilizations in the Americas - the concept of soul loss. And it’s not like the book doesn’t wink towards it in other places (English Jorge dissociating during torture is described as him having learned how to remove his soul from his body)

 – Light Dancer Kars speaks about how he wanted to commit suicide, then in the same paragraph says that he and our Kars feel “the same sadness”, which, wow. Earlier there are scenes where you can interpret Kars’s behaviour as passively suicidal; he doesn’t seek death, but if something (burning upon reentry while saving the humans, fighting Dio) did kill him, he wouldn’t mind that much

 – this one is very subjective because you can interpret these moments as just him being very lost in thought / focusing on healing (Jorge sure does), but: when faced with intense emotional stress - like hearing Light Dancer Kars’s existential speech, or almost getting killed because he chose to shield the humans from harm - Kars has a tendency to go non- or barely verbal, motionless, unresponsive to outside stimuli (including people trying to get his attention by calling his name) and staring at one thing / into space, ignoring even a zombie attack or that they’re pressed on time in alternate!Morioh. When I first read it I assumed he just dissociated really hard (ptsd-related?), or was in a shutdown

 – if you pay attention to what traits Kars seems to be holding in high regards - either through saying that X is a good thing about humanity, or bemoaning that humanity doesn’t have X (that he ofc does) - they’re stuff like creativity, perseverance, attention to details, pattern-based thinking, the desire to “figure stuff out”, and good memory. AKA traits often (though not always) increased in autistic people

 - at one point he says: ”In the end, you’re just another human. You see a mystery and think, ‘How odd!’ and put in on a shelf somewhere.” I’m sorry but even in context it sounds like “apparently people can see an interesting thing without instantly getting fixated and wanting to know and understand everything about it right there and then, what the fuck”

 – he tends to be either very invested in what’s going on or bored, no inbetween, and avoiding that boredom is a high priority (”And it seems I’ve run out of time to eat you all… But I wasn’t bored.”)

um yeah that’s all I can think of rn

[notconsolation]

How about, Ode To Sleep, Ruby, Message Man, The Judge, Holding On To You, and House Of Gold?

heh hum hi

also, I’ve given up on trying not to gush about the musical construction of the songs because who are we kidding it wasn’t working anyway

Ode to Sleep

So this song was another one that scared me at first, but also plunged me into the whole idea of a disjointed sound that revels in how it should really clash but somehow manages to be a distinctly cohesive Song rather than a couple of riffs stuck together and joined up by sustained notes. Also the freaking music video !!! the thing is, they had no! way! of knowing they’d be where they are and I just ööihylj it gives me this weird sense of hope and calm that they started so small. The background sounds in the first verse - i honestly cannot tell if they’re distorted voices put through some kind of amp with the feedback and delay turned way up - are so eerie and then it turns into this chorus that has a sound that’s more their signature, which is sort of happy and fast with desperation that’s so damn catchy. Anyway, Thing is I’ve been thinking about what this song is actually about as a whole and I’m not entirely sure, and it’s the only top song I can think of where I feel that way. I mean it’s got some common themes and it’s about a feeling of desperate depression and futility but power at the same time, but it’s so erratic that I have trouble picking favourites because lyrically it’s so many different themes mashed into one. BUT I’ll try to choose. On the one hand there’s: “I’ll stay awake, cause the dark’s not taking prisoners tonight” which I love love love because it embodies a spirit of battle that is there for the rest of the song and also speaks to my periodic insomnia, but I think my actual favourite is:

But I’ll tell them,Why won’t you let me go?Do I threaten all your plans?I’m insignificant.Please tell them you have no plans for me.I will set my soul on fire, what have I become?I’ll tell them.

Ruby

I’m not entirely sure why I latched on to Ruby as strongly as I did. I really don’t know, but I remember at one point coming back into myself (is that an appropriate way to describe it) after a period of depersonalization/derealisation and dissociation and looking down to find that I’d been carving the word “Ruby” into the skin  below my ankle for what must have been about 3 hours. I’m not sure I can put this one into words or pinpoint sections of the song, but three parts of the song stick out:

You’re an angel fallen down, won’t you tell us of the cloudsYou have fallen from the sky. How high? How high?You’re true and pureYou hold the cureWe’re all diseasedYou hold the key

Tell our dad, “I’m sorry.”

The airy bell synths in the intro !! I can’t speak from experience because Logic Pro X is really expensive and I’m still saving up for it but I’d bet a significant amount of money that the patch he used for that is called something like “heavenly bells” or like “cosmic ascent breathy vox” or something. And the interesting drums ! again, the fact that they’re e-drums means tyler can use them much more like another instrument than a beat. like, I feel like he carves out a seperate melody for the drums in self-titled and RAB because he didn’t have a drummer and so he uses drums that work more like any other instrument than as an anchor for the song (which is my personal theory for why the songs only start sounding more cohesive as of vessel unless they had fewer drums or an actual drumkit in them from the start, and this theory is supplemented by the way he incorporates his voice into the drum section in Ruby with all the little “hey!”s)

But also the synths in this song bring out Tyler’s voice the way that lining your waterline brings out your eyes, I think. I can’t pinpoint it, but   , 

Message Man

So I like how versatile this song is for covering it. It’s another one tied up with memories of being on the road. Sort of an odd mix, because there’d be something like this song on shuffle right before it and then it switches to these “eh eh eh” bits and again the synchopated chords in a minor key just sound a bit like a warped, haunted house reggae which has my spine telling all the people around me to shiver, too. but then there’s the sort of teasing snaring drum and bright synth melody that has me feeling like I want to dance on the graves of my enemies. Lyric wise I think my favourite part is probably a tie between “it gets better when morning finally rears its head, Together we’re losers, Remember the future, Remember the morning is when night is dead” and “my people singing” because YES! that’s! me! I! am! one! of! their! people! hi! tyler indirectly calling me one of his people makes me happy

The Judge

Yay! another one that I actually found relatively easy:

When the leader of the bad guys sang,Something soft and soaked in pain,I heard the echo from his secret hideaway,He must’ve forgot to close his door,As he cranked out those dismal chords,And his four walls declared him insane.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I want to read tyler’s angsty teen fiction. Caause. I want this AU. I mean, Light a Match vibes, anyone else? anyway, the organ in this song makes me happy, and combined with the ukulele, sunshiney drums and happy bass tune, is there anything about this song that’s not supposed to make me dance? s-s-so catchy. it’s a Smiling Anyway tune, whatever reason you have for the ‘anyway’ part of that. like, obviously it’s not actually a super happy song thematically because hi, have you met tyler joseph? but. musically. also

JOSH DUN. 

I like that part too

Holding on to You

Answered previously aren’t you glad this post isn’t even longer

House of Gold

This song makes me think of my mom. I mean, maybe that’s obvious and a given and everyone feels like that about it, but I know some people get sick of this one and I just don’t. SO firstly I have this part:

Let’s say we up and left this town,And turned our future upside down.We’ll make pretend that you and me,Lived ever after happily.

Cause my mom and I are really close and I grew up wanting to up and leave with her every other week. And I always used to just close my eyes and pretend the two of us would be okay through everything. The there’s also:

And since we know that dreams are dead,And life turns plans up on their head,I will plan to be a bum,So I just might become someone

Because uhh yeah that’s pretty much my career plan 

sorry I’m taking so long with these, I just have a Lot of Things to Say but thank you so much for asking!