Tumgik
#{so it kind of hits like a truck lmao when something starts to blossom and he HAS to face it}
cursefelled · 3 years
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when do you get your soft, italicized, "oh."
THE UNRELATED MOMENT
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You tend to be more preoccupied with practical things, to the point you’ve been blinded to matters of the heart. Sure, you’re close with this person; you like being close with people. It is rewarding to know and be known in return. You leave realisation no choice but to sneak up on you. They’re not even in the room when it happens. Someone or something else spells it out for you, an observant friend’s passing comment or a particular sentence you were reading in a book, and suddenly it hits you, what it all means. The person your feelings have been building themselves around. Oh. It’s them. It’s time. It’s them and you, here and now, and you have to decide what to do at the crossroads. Luckily, you’re practically minded.
Tagged by: @lovesake​  💖 💖 💖
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morgana-ren · 4 years
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Hell and You XI
Summary:  After being abducted but somehow escaping a horrible fate, your life has been turned sideways. It's been months now and you're still trying to recover and cope with the traumatic events that occurred in that dark basement. Your friend and roommate, determined to get you back into the groove of things, convinces you to come out for a night on the town despite your better judgement. What's the worst that could happen? After all, it's been months, and Strade is long since through with you, right?
Rating: HA HA HA holy shit look if anything bothers you, just don’t. Stay far the fuck away. R+. 
AO3 Mirror if you prefer to read it there
You heard it right, folks. Chapter 11 is finally up and ready for business on a newly re-edited version of Hell and You, my dumpsterfire of a magnum opus. Gods I need to reevaluate my fucking priorities lmao
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“Wake up, little one!”
An involuntary grunt pushed itself out of my throat, voicing my reluctance to oblige the command. It took me a full moment to drag my heavy eyelids open, only to be greeted with Strade’s predatory grin beaming down at me. The foggy veil of sleep lifted from my brain and reality hit me like a fucking truck. I realized exactly where I was and what was happening. My groan turned into a long, drawn out whine and I did my best to turn from him, only to quickly be reminded of the shackles around my wrists with a sear of pain as they grated my skin. The renewed need to get away from him was tearing me apart, inside and out.
“Come now, liebling! You’ve been asleep for hours now. It’s far past the afternoon!” He placed a large hand on my ribs and shook, digging his fingers in a little too deeply to be comfortable.
I hissed, shaking him off. I tried to remember even falling asleep, feeling violated by his presence, both conscious and not. “What time is it?”
“Almost three now.”
I almost jerked up, held back only by the stinging pain in my wrists again and a warning flare from my sore shoulders. “What day is it? How long was I out?”
A condescending smirk slowly made its way across his face. “It’s still Sunday, häschen. Why? Expecting something?”
A slow, deep crevice carved down into my stomach. Acid crawled up my throat, and I resisted the urge to hurl.
“What do you want, Strade?” I closed my eyes, if only so I didn’t have to look at him. I wanted to tear those golden eyes out with my bare fucking hands.
“It’s been a while since you’ve eaten.” He pulled something from his pocket and thrust it into my face. I forced myself to look at it, only to be greeted with a broken, crumpled energy bar held between his meaty fingers. “You should eat. Keep your energy up.” He twisted it around, shaking it slightly as if to entice me.
Between the smell of stale grain, the raisins that were dangerously close to fermenting, and his horrid, wolfish smile, something inside me broke.
Despite the obvious danger I was in, I almost choked on my own spit laughing. It bubbled up from deep in my chest, breaking through a barricade of self-preservation and sanity. The overwhelming need to be petty overrode my better judgement. “Is that the only thing you ever eat?”
He stared at me blankly, a sliver of curiosity breaking through his stoic façade. My anger boiled over, and I cackled even louder, tears brimming in the corners of my eyes.
“Holy shit. I knew you were pathetic, but this really takes the cake.” The words came out like vomit. I knew this would be a big mistake, but I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to spew some of his own bile back at him. I closed my eyes again to keep the tears from falling.
“You technically have an entire house, including a fully stocked kitchen, and you still choose to live off those cheap fucking energy bars.” I began digging my nails into my palm to ease the mania, trying to bring myself back down to reality, but it just kept coming. “You have no idea how to even take care of yourself, do you? Too busy taking people apart and reenacting your bullshit slasher fantasy to learn how to take care of yourself even on a base level?”
I opened my eyes briefly, enough to see him scowl, face darkening as he narrowed his eyes on me.
I stopped laughing.
“Such a sweet girl,” He bared his canines at me as one of his hands shot down, grabbing my jaw and yanking it towards him, pulling my face far enough to tug on my restraints and forcing a small cry from me. “Offering to make me food. Is that what I heard?”
“Mhmm!” I nodded fervently. “Okay, okay, let go!” His fingertips were digging into my already sore jaw, pushing my cheeks and lips into a pucker.
“What was that?” He leaned in, cocking his head, clenching his hand even more. “One more time?”
“Please!” It wasn’t so much a sentence as it was a mushy worded plea. “Strade, please stop!”
He pulled his hand away but kept his face close. I could already feel his handprints bruising into my flesh. He stroked my hairline as I moved my jaw back and forth, trying to ease the ache. “Kind of you to offer.” Reaching behind him, he pulled his knife. “Now be a good little pet and don’t move.”
One of his hands slipped the blade just under my chin, and the other went to unlock my handcuffs. I thought about rushing him as I felt one of my hands fall free, at least until his knife dug into my chin hard enough that I felt a small drop of blood dribble down my throat. He looked down at me almost knowingly as he immediately grabbed my other free hand and slapped the constraint back on, only in front this time.
Motherfucker.
He pulled himself up from the bed, yanking me up by the chain of my binds as well. I opened my mouth in a wordless cry, letting him drag me upwards by my raw wrists from the mattress. One of them began bleeding anew, letting small crimson drops fall onto the carpet as he led me out the door and down the hallway, jerking me along by the small amount of slack he allowed. This carpet is so beyond ruined.
When we reached the kitchen, I was breathing deeply and clenching my fingers. My wrists were raw and bleeding, my arms aching and shoulders barely able to move. Either oblivious or uncaring to my pain, he shoved me towards a counter, letting me catch myself against the harsh granite with my forearms.
I rubbed at my joints, trying to scrape off some of the dried blood as he lumbered over by the fridge, stopping halfway as he spied my knife block. He looked at it for a few seconds before he picked up in his hands, turning and smirking at me as he placed it on top of the fridge and pushed it back where I couldn’t reach, doing the same with our silverware drawer and anything he deemed a threat to his personhood.
“Oh, fuck you, you fucking prick.” I spat, coaxing a small giggle from him.
“If you want me to reach anything for you, you just have to ask me nicely.” He reached over and ruffled my hair.
“Strade, will you please hand me that big ass knife?”
He pursed his lips and gave me an annoyed look. “Cute.”
“Okay, genius, you go ahead and tell me how I’m going to cook anything without any silverware.”
He looked to the side for a few seconds as he pondered it, chewing on his lip. He looked around again briefly before turning and stalking back over to the fridge. He yanked it open, pulling out a carton of eggs and throwing them on the counter. He then proceeded open and slam a few drawers before pulling out a spatula and holding it towards me.
“Eggs sound nice, don’t they? And I don’t think you could do much damage with this.”
I yanked it from his hand, lip twitching. “You want to test that theory?”
“Oh, süße. Don’t bring a spatula to a knife fight.” He grinned, palming his blade.
“One of these times, I’m going to get that thing away from you, and I’m going to dig it into your fucking eye socket.”
He gave me a coy look, running his tongue over his teeth and biting his lip subtly. “I was planning on just eating a little food but talking like that makes me think you have something else in mind.” He went to reach for me again, and I jerked out of his range, holding my hands up defensively.
“I’ll make the damn food, just don’t touch me.”
He kept the predatory smile on his face, leering nearby. “Playing hard to get, hmm?” He pulled his knife out, tapping it playfully on his lower lip. “That’s fine, for now. But you might want to hurry. I am hungry, but I’m also feeling a little... under stimulated.”
I backed away from him, showing him that fear I’d tried so hard to keep down. I had to draw this out as long as I could. I just had to hold him off until someone came home. I knew what under stimulated meant for Strade, and I knew what that meant for me.
Pain. Lots of it.
Something about the way my hands were shaking or maybe my terrified expression must have excited him. His face blossomed into a deep shade of red, and he ran his tongue along his teeth. “Keep looking at me like that and I might not be able to resist.”
I swallowed down hard, turning from him as quickly as I could. Shakily, I looked around in the upper cabinets for a bowl I could crack the eggs in, which was much harder than I’d like to admit in handcuffs. The rest of my efforts went to pretending I couldn’t feel his horrid stare on my backside. “Is scrambled okay?”
He made a small humming noise which I took as acceptance. He had taken to leaning against the opposite cabinet nonchalantly, using his knife to clean out underneath his fingernails. I started cracking the eggs in the bowl, trying to focus on the cooking instead of him.
I wasn’t sure how many he’d want, so I just used as many as we had left. I used the spatula as best as I could to beat the eggs into a yellow slurry before reaching down and pulling a small pan out from underneath the oven and putting it on the stove. Something so simple seemed so terrifying with the knowledge that Strade was so close.
It did occur to me that I might be able to use the pan to fend him off, but frankly between the stunted movement of my arms and his overbearing form, I decided against it. He’d probably just take the pan and knock me clean over the head with it. If I was going to play the attack card, I needed the advantage.
I noticed he was being uncharacteristically quiet, which was exceptionally unnerving. I didn’t know where his mind was wandering, but whatever it was, I had to put a stop to it. If I could steer his mind somewhere that didn’t involve more of my blood, I had to do it.
“The um...” I paused briefly, not entirely sure what I wanted to say. As I poured the eggs into the pan, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, he was staring pretty intently at me, waiting for me to speak.  “The cut on your chest is pretty nasty. You should probably clean it.”
I turned over my shoulder and looked at him. He had a surprised look on his face, eyebrows raised and slow blinking. He stared at me for a few moments before looking down, prodding at the shreds of his black undershirt and across the deep, marred flesh that crossed his chest courtesy of me. He rubbed his fingertips together, trying to dust off some of the dried blood that wiped on his fingers. It looked like he had managed to patch up his arm but didn’t have time to get to his chest before I woke up.
“I suppose you’re right, Schatz.”
I was moving the egg batter around in the pan but stiffened when I noticed Strade approach the sink beside me. He chucked his knife aside, turning the faucet on and digging his fingers underneath his tank top. He yanked it over his head, chucking the discarded clothing in the sink under the running water.
He was completely shirtless now, and I tried to recall if I’d ever seen him quite this naked before. It was odd to say the least since we had technically slept together (if you could call it that) but there was something too familiar, too personal about seeing him do something like this. I don’t think I’d ever seen so much of his skin, let alone his bare chest. Then again, we didn’t have the most normal relationship.
It was strange. His stomach was dusted with tufts of hair, particularly on his upper chest and then kicking back up again near his happy trail where it thickened again. Considering his heritage, that didn’t surprise me, but what did strike me is how tan he was. I guess I hadn’t really noticed it before, with the torture and all. While he was definitely a bigger guy, he was also fairly built, large muscles tucked away under the layer of chub on his tummy and arms. All things considered, he would have been a very handsome man, were it not for his dirty little secret.
His golden eyes peered intently downward, lip gently clenched between his teeth in concentration as he palmed water in his hands and washed over the crossed, jagged slices on his chest. They looked painful, but it didn’t seem to faze him. He ripped a few paper towels, dabbing the wounds gently and wiping away at the excess blood.
“Your attention is flattering, Hase.” His gaze slowly turned up to mine and a deceptively soft smile curled across his face.
“I wasn’t staring, I just-“ What was I doing, exactly? “That looks bad. I was going to offer you a bandage or something. You might want to wrap it.”
His grin turned patronizing, lowering his eyelids and tilting his head. “We can pretend that’s what you were doing if you want.”
I scowled, turning back to the eggs that were beginning to cook. “I take it that’s a no then.”
“Don’t worry, little one. Of all the nasty little injuries I’ve seen in my days, this one barely holds a candle.” He scoffed, waving his hand around before picking his knife back up off the sink. “You are quite good with this knife though. Knew just how to make it hurt.”
“Good.” I huffed out under my breath.  
“See?” Strade chucked the bloody paper towels on the counter and stepped toward me, playing with a lock of my hair in his fingers. “There you go again. You know what that kind of talk does to me.”
I rolled my eyes, making a noise of disgust as I turned my attentions back toward the food. I pretended not to notice that Strade pulled away from me, opting to stand menacingly in my peripheral watching me for a few moments before moving back behind me where I could no longer see him.
That made me anxious. Very, very anxious.
It wasn’t until he pressed himself against me that I began to panic. I could feel him leaning down, his breath on the back of my neck. I almost jumped when I felt his hands on the low of my hips, the metal handle of his knife pressed against my hip bone.
Fuck me.
“You know, you’re precious like this.” His free hand crawled up my stomach, making its way to my ear where he pushed the stray strands of hair back behind it. I had to swallow down the bile when I felt his upper body fall against my back, his mouth right in my ear. “Cooking me breakfast. Worrying about me. My little domestic hausfrau.” He let his arm wander down and rest on my shoulder, curling around my neck slightly. “A man could get used to that.”
“Could a man get used to having his head smashed repeatedly with the heaviest object his ‘frau’ can find? Because that’s what you’re going to get.” I hissed through my teeth, scraping the forming egg clumps from the bottom of the pan.
Another dark laugh bubbled up from deep in his chest. His grip on my neck tightened uncomfortably, and he allowed his full body weight to push into me, trapping me between him and the hot stove. The thing that made me almost swallow my tongue, however, was the unmistakable hardness I felt from his pelvic region pushing against my lower back.
“I can think of several better uses for your mouth rather than sassing me.” The hand with the knife slowly crawled upward, trailing the edge up my stomach and neck, pushing only hard enough to sting slightly. When he reached my face, he turned the blade, pressing the flat bit against my cheek.
“Strade-“ I started, the gravity of the situation setting in. Very hot stove in front. Very dangerous stab-happy man in back. This had to be the world’s worst threesome.
“Let’s play a little game, Hase.” He pulled the knife from my face, opting to grab my hand that was holding the pan straight instead, clenching his fist against my knuckles. “Put your hand on the stove.”
“What? No!” I almost tried to buck him off, but he dug the blade into my joints, letting a small stream of blood drip down onto the ceramic. I whined in pain, looking over at him pleadingly.
His maniacal smile was back, and he bumped my backside with his hips, sending my upper body lurching forward as my legs collided with the oven. “I wasn’t asking.”
“Strade, please, I need that hand to cook your food with! I can’t cook for you if my hand is burnt to shit!”
He gave me a faux look of disappointment, wrapping his fingers harshly around my hand before slamming it down in the middle of the stove; thankfully away from a heating plate. “I thought we were becoming so close. You know I like to give you a choice in these things. You might not even get hurt at all.”
The literal pain in my neck from his romantic idea of fellatio said otherwise.
Whatever it was he wanted, I knew it was pointless to fight. He was getting excited, breathing heavy and beginning to sweat heavily from his chest and neck. I could feel his front beginning to stick to my back from his overexcitement. I just needed to get it over with quickly. I could take it. Just handle him until they got home.
“O-okay. I’ll play.”
“Nettes Mädchen.” His grip loosened on my neck, clawing down and making a point to grab and knead my breast before moving down and playing with the band of my shorts. “I want you to beg.”
I was taken back a little bit. Begging, in the grand scheme of things, was easy. If he wanted me to beg, sure.
“Strade, please.”
He laughed, nipping at my neck. The hand on my lower body started teasing down the elastic, slipping down to my private areas. I squirmed, feeling his hands dip low, violating me.
“Eager, hmm?” One of his feet harshly kicked my legs further apart, rubbing his groin on the back of my shorts. Two of his fingers found their way between my folds, stroking gently. “Good.”
I sucked in a breath. His calloused fingers, as much as I hated it, felt good. At least until I felt a sharp pain in my hand and yelped, seeing him dig the knife far enough into my hand to make it bleed. A small bit of blood coated his blade before he pulled away, reaching down to the front of the stove and switching on one of the burners. The one directly adjacent to my hand.
He began rubbing me gently in small, controlled circles. I maneuvered the spatula around, if only to maintain a small amount of control as he manhandled me. I closed my eyes as he loosened his grip, holding back a sigh of relief.
His bloody knife tangled slightly in my hair as he brought his hand up and stroked my head. An uncharacteristically gentle act. “I want you to scream.”
As quickly as his gentleness came, it left. He yanked my hair, forcing my head back, letting the tip of the blade run along my scalp. “I like when you scream for me. Scream for my hands, or the knife, or even the burn. But you will scream. And you can even choose!” He sounded giddy for a moment until his voice darkened. “Or I will.”
I didn’t need to see his face to know the look on it. The same one he gave me when he pulled out the knife the first time. The same one he got in the alley way. Pink and flushed and needy. Enthusiastic. Excited in anticipation of what was to come. Or who.
“You’ll come undone by your hands,” he picked my hand up and held it by the burner, reveling in my uncomfortable worming for a moment before returning it back to its original position. “Or mine.” His fingertips stopped rubbing me, finding its place at my opening.
“Understand?” He leaned his head down by mine, pulling on the strands of my hair tangled in his fingers.
I swallowed, trying to think about the situation. There wasn’t an answer but yes. Strade did not take ‘no’ for answer. Even if I entertained the notion, he’d either cut me or burn me anyway. There was a part of me that felt him beneath my bottoms too, understanding that just letting go and giving over to him might be the best option.
For my pride? No. For my well-being and continued breathing? Absolutely.
I nodded, swallowing down hard and trying to finish the food in front of me. I can do this. I’ve survived Strade before. I can do this.
“Let’s play then.” He whispered in my ear, slowly pushing a thick finger inside me. I couldn’t help but gasp as he worked his way in, keeping his thumb padding against my sensitive nerves. I hadn’t been with anyone, not since the last time with him, and it’s like I had somehow been expecting him. My fear only served to heighten the sensations he gifted me.
I could feel the heat of the stove against my free hand, understanding the consequences if I disappointed him, but his actions were already making my knees weak. I couldn’t help but grind into his hand, trying to push him deeper, work him further against me.
I felt him smile into my hair, adding in a second finger. A moan left my lips as he nudged it inside as well, curling his fingers slightly as my body yielded to him. I tried to mix the eggs again, seeing the slight burned brown beginning to appear on the bottom, but I couldn’t focus as his fingers began thrusting harder, his thumb actively circling my clit.
I let my head fall against his shoulder, breathing heavy as his finger fucked into me. At least until I felt my alternate hand maneuvered close enough to the burning stove to panic me. The heat wasn’t quite so intense as to hurt, just enough to for me to feel waves rolling off the burning metal and onto my hand. Squealing, I tried to rip my hand away, only for Strade to hold it down in a cruel grip, never stopping his ministrations.
“You like it, don’t you?” He giggled, curling his fingers further and dragging them against my walls, coaxing a loud noise from me. I was acutely aware of the danger I was in, but it didn’t stop me from thrusting my lower body against him, trying to give him deeper access. I exhaled, letting my head drop and allowing him to do to me what he wanted. He obliged me, pressing his thumb deeper and oscillating his fingers, rubbing his growing erection against the thin layer of fabric that was my shorts.
I bit my lip, refusing to answer him. If I had to cum for him, fine, I guess, but there was no way in hell I was going to admit that I actually enjoyed it. He continued regardless, pushing his fingers deeper inside me until I could feel the dripping wetness leaking between my thighs and onto his palm.
“See? You don’t have to say anything. You tell me everything I need to know.” He licked across the clotted wound on my neck, delighting in the response he had elicited from me.
“I-it’s a fucking-“ I breathed out, trying to keep my voice even. “Uncontrolled r-response. It doesn’t mean I want this.”
Wow. Even I didn’t believe me. I might as well have said ‘Fuck me Strade, fuck me now.’
“Whatever you have to tell yourself. You can’t lie to me. I know you.” He removed his other hand from my wrist, releasing me from the precarious situation my hand was in near the burner, opting to reach back up to my breast instead. He yanked my top down, rolling and harshly tugging my nipple between his fingers. Liquid fire shot straight between my legs, and a loud mewl escaped my throat as I bucked into him.
He chuckled, groping and kneading as he continued pumping his hand. I could smell the eggs burning, and I knew somewhere in my mind that I needed to stir it, but I couldn’t bring myself to move, too busy laxing into him and losing myself in his touch.
“Move your hand closer.” He muttered, trying to give the strain in his pants some relief against my thigh.
“Mmm?” I stuttered out, eyes closed and mouth slightly agape. Fuck it felt good it felt really really good and-
“Näher!” He seethed, bumping my arm with his body until I lurched into the stove again. My hand. He wanted me to move my hand.
Shakily, I moved my hand even closer to the rim. The heat was intense now and leaving it here for too long would dry my skin into complete rawness, slowly weakening and cracking the skin. A slow burn. Seems fitting. It was beginning to hurt, but the sensation wasn’t nearly as overwhelming as his fingers invading me.
“You’re getting close.” He huffed, practically dry humping me into the stove.
“I can see that.” I mumbled, glancing down at my hand through heavily eyelids.
“Not what I meant.” He began maneuvering quicker, and I threw my head back on his shoulder, whimpering pathetically. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to plead for him, urge him to go harder, faster, cry his name and cling on to him.
“J-Jesus fuck-“
My cursing only spurred him forward, thrusting me very rapidly into oncoming orgasm. I could hear my breaths getting more and more high pitched, abandoning the eggs and clenching both my hands on the warm porcelain as I threw myself forward. I was on the peak, about to go off the edge, just a little more, fuck just a little more fuck fuck fuck!
That’s when I heard it. The sound of the front door opening.
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radiojamming · 6 years
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hey. hey. i just wanted to say the angel fic with the guns for hire? it was So Good. im eagerly waiting for part 2, which i hope (first of all that this doesn’t sound demanding lmao) includes the pastor, or maybe the marshal? since they both have their own preconceptions of angels, or in Burke’s case ‘angels’. alternatively joey and staci or whitehorse? just cause they’re fun
OH HECK SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. hopefully the length of this makes up for it.
so this one is jerome, burke, pratt, and whitehorse. the rest of the guns for hire + hudson (i have a special aside thing for her, and mostly i was burning out on this section) will be in a part 3, plus a few other NPCs like eli. :D
also, part 1! in case anyone hasn’t read it.
- - -
Jerome makes his guesses when the Deputy arrives in Fall’s End. And truthfully, how can an entire town suddenly liberate itself through the intercession of one save for divine intervention? He’s been praying about it whenever he has a moment to spare; prays for wisdom, prays for deliverance, prays that all will be well and restored to rights. Finally, finally, there is an answer to his prayers.
He tries not to think too hard on it as they’re piecing the town back together, wrenching plywood off windows, sweeping up rivers of broken glass, tending to the wounded, and what ever else needs to be done. These are his neighbors, his friends, and even though the word feels soured by Eden’s Gate, his flock. They come first, and his musing on the Deputy needs to be secondary. 
But he can’t help but wonder when he watches their hands when they apply a patch of gauze, or how they softly console those who grieve. Jerome has prayed for a miracle; the kind that would bring an end to all this suffering. And when prayers haven’t felt like enough, he’s taken up the sword even when the book of Matthew promised he would perish by it. 
Now with the Deputy there, he thinks. He guesses. And he doubts until he remembers that Thomas doubted and Peter denied. 
When the Deputy finally comes into the Spread Eagle, sweat dried on their skin, dirt forming freckles on their face, looking more human than a miracle should, Jerome doesn’t ask. It doesn’t feel like the right time, right when Fall’s End shakily gets back on its feet and tries a hand at normalcy. Instead, Jerome clasps hands with the Deputy in gratefulness, and thanks them with very human honesty.
“You helped a lot of people,” Jerome tells them quietly, once they have a moment to speak without everyone in the bar asking them for more help.
A shy smile spreads over their face, and they nod. “I know,” they say. 
And so does Jerome.
- - -
Burke doesn’t know until he’s in the Bliss. 
His legs carry him through the soft, shimmering green mist, and he follows Faith’s soft humming across fields shivering in a warm wind, down to trickling brooks of crystal clear water. He smiles when his hands brush over clusters of wildflowers, their petals perfect, their colors vibrant. 
In here, he’s happy. Nothing hurts; nothing bothers him. There’s no stress in the Bliss, no sense of looming deadlines or expectations. At some point, he hardly remembers his old life, and outright laughs when he looks down and sees his kevlar vest. It doesn’t have a use anymore, save for being a comfortable, familiar weight against his chest. Why did he resist what Faith offered him for so long? Why did he fight this? He can’t think of anything close to an answer, so he laughs and laughs. He hasn’t laughed like that in years.
And then, Faith’s singing stops. The stars in the Bliss seem to freeze in midair, shining uncertainly. Burke’s laughter dissipates like mist in the sun.
He watches as something moves in the distance, like a heat mirage dancing among the twisted shapes of a grove of oleanders. The shape resolves itself into something vaguely human-shaped, and Burke squints against the too-still Bliss to try to see what it could be. Vaguely, he registers what sounds like someone screaming, but for all he knows, it could be miles away.
Then, he sees.
The Bliss makes it a strange thing, beautiful in a way that only the Bliss could manage. The being is crowned in the twisted stars of white oleander blossoms, and their body is formed of twisting, flowering vines of what must be a hundred different species. Purple and blue flowers fall over them like robes, and orange and red blossoms hang from their shoulders like a cape. Their eyes are two enormous gold lilies, and their lips are made of snapdragons. When they breathe, Burke can smell freesia and lilac, which seem to cleanse the air of the rotting-sweet smell of the Bliss flowers.
“Cameron Burke,” says the thing–spirit? He isn’t sure what to call it. “Let me help you.”
He stares at it, watching their right hand (made of twisting grapevines) rise, and pink-violet alstroemerias shimmer outward from their fingertips. Under their hand, the Bliss cleaves in two, an earth-colored void yawning open and forcing the green haze away.
The screaming gets louder, turns into wails of agony. Burke just blinks in confusion, unsure, uncertain.
Then, the Bliss leaves him. It doesn’t just fade or trickle out of his head. It disappears. It’s gone like it was never there, leaving his head hollowed and his body aching at its loss. He staggers at the sensation, and looks up to see–
The Junior Deputy. Rook.
Burke almost cries at the sight of them.
They’re standing in a clearing at the edge of a copse of trees, a small creek burbling quietly beside them. It must be just after sunset, since there’s still some residual light that allows Burke to see them. 
“What–” he starts, but Rook quiets him by putting their hand on his shoulder, a much warmer, reassuring weight than the kevlar.
“Later,” they say. “Let’s get you somewhere safe, and I’ll explain everything.” 
Burke nods, and something inside of him (close to where that happiness was) tells him that it’s best to stay close beside them, that everything will be alright.
- - -
Pratt finds out in a way that feels a lot like being blindsided by a semi truck.
It’s only a few days after Jacob has all but disappeared from the Whitetails, and rumors have been flying about how Jacob must have been murdered, his body out rotting among the ferns and prairie grass. But no one comes to the bunker to reclaim it or blow it up, and even when the number of Peggies at the bunker gets lower by the day, Pratt can’t seem to force himself to leave it. It’s as if something has locked him in place, like Jacob’s placed an invisible chain around his ankle. He stays, staring at cement walls, listening to the low whine of fluorescent lighting, the repeated messages on loudspeakers that might as well be done in the voice of a ghost.
Then (and it might be three or four days; time is strange down here), there’s a cacophony of noise that erupts on the floor above him, and Pratt clenches his eyes shut, arms shaking at his sides. This is it. This is how it’s going to end. Some Peggie is going to come into the room and finally put a bullet through his head.
The bullet never comes.
“Pratt,” someone says. There are hands on his arms, gentle and warm. One hand goes up to his forehead and pushes his hair away from his face. “Staci. Hey. Hey.”
They stroke his hair, and he feels their thumb go over a cut above his eyebrow. 
Pratt finally opens his eyes.
He nearly hits the ceiling when he realizes he isn’t in the bunker anymore. He’s in a place he doesn’t recognize, save for that it looks like a prison. There are bars on the doors and bars on the windows, cots lined up against the walls; but there are also open boxes of pizza that smells so good that his stomach nearly lurches clear out of his body, and little trinkets scattered around like duck lamps and baseballs and those stupid singing mounted fish. Pratt nearly faints.
Rook (holy shit, Rook) catches him before he hits the floor, hoisting him up with their right shoulder before helping him walk to one of the empty cots. He falls onto it, wide-eyed, gasping for breath, looking around while his head spins and his entire body feels like it’s on a different axis than the rest of the world.
“What the fu–” he starts, coughs, licks his chapped, split lips, and tries again, “What the fuck?”
Rook kneels in front of him, smiling apologetically, of all things. “Sorry,” they say softly. For fuck’s sake, they sound like they’re trying to coax a pet out from under the bed. “I didn’t want to have to do that, but you’d be in there so long. I couldn’t think of anything else to do.”
“Where am I?” Pratt croaks, casting a weary look around.
“Hope County Jail,” Rook replies. 
The jail? That’s– Pratt can’t precisely think of how far away Jacob’s bunker would be from the jail, but the distance would be impossible to cross in under an hour, let alone a few seconds. 
He’s definitely going to faint.
Rook jumps up as Pratt lists hard to his left, their hand darting out to keep his head from hitting the metal frame of the cot. Vertigo seizes Pratt so hard that even if he had hit his head, he doesn’t think it would matter.
Somehow, Rook manages to maneuver him onto his back. They pull a thin linen sheet over him, and of all the stupid things to think, Pratt wonders at the smell of fresh laundry. He’s been so used to smelling every bodily fluid known that laundry of all things smells like heaven. His eyes close on their own volition, exhaustion and a headache dragging him low enough that it’s a wonder he hasn’t collapsed before that point.
“Rest,” he hears Rook say, but their voice sounds like it’s coming from another room. There’s a gentle pressure on his forehead, and the feeling of fingers stroking through his hair. “You earned it.”
Pratt falls asleep to Rook’s soft voice and the feeling of their hands. He dreams of walking over the tops of clouds, with a sky full of blinding starlight above his head.
- - -
Earl Whitehorse has seen a lot of things in his career that he can’t explain, and he knows better than to try. He’s seen people get mowed down by cars, only to get up and walk away like nothing happened. He’s seen little old ladies lift steel pipes off little kids. And he’s seen a quiet, polite man rise up to become a nightmarish cult leader, turning a picturesque western county into a warzone.
But he has never, never seen anything like Rook.
Maybe he should have known back when they were hired, how quickly they took to the job, seamlessly fitting themselves in with the ranks of Whitehorse’s most trusted. And hell, maybe he should have known in the church, when they cast him a quick look that was full of foreboding and concern.
Should we really be doing this? they seemed to ask.
God, he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to. He can’t even count how many times he’s asked himself if things would have been different if they had walked away.
And maybe he should have know when they escaped the burning wreckage of the helicopter, only to blaze a trail across the county in every cardinal direction, cleaning up a mess that’s been over a decade in the process. 
But it isn’t the battle between good and evil, or even so much as a skirmish that finally convinces Whitehorse that his guess is right. It’s a quiet moment at nearly one o’clock in the morning, right after Rook’s arrival and subsequent rescue of the jail.
It’s been a long day, full of no holds barred fighting and the added stress of trying to get the jail back up and fortified. Virgil and Tracey have been nearly running themselves into the floor trying to get things back together. Whitehorse has been barking orders until he thought his throat would go numb. And Rook has been delivering ammunition to the towers and walls, checking up on people, helping where they can.
By one in the morning, Rook and Whitehorse sit at one of the picnic tables outside in the courtyard, sipping at styrofoam cups of burnt coffee. Whitehorse hasn’t said much to Rook outside of a thank you and some orders. There hasn’t been time to get sentimental.
But now, he can see something in Rook’s face. It’s apprehension, maybe something like guilt. They shift around, adjusting weight, sipping at the coffee even though both of them need to rest up for tomorrow. 
Finally, enough is enough, and Whitehorse sighs. “Spit it out, Rook. You’ve obviously got something on your mind.”
Rook sits up straight like they’ve been reprimanded, their eyes wide. Then, they relax again, and look a little sheepish. “Sorry, Sheriff,” they say. “I just… I think there’s something wrong with me.”
Whitehorse doesn’t say a word or do so much as raise an eyebrow.
Rook grimaces. “Things have been so strange lately. I mean, aside from the obvious. But– Shit, you’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“No, Rook,” Whitehorse replies with a laugh. “I’ve seen crazy, and out here, I think anything goes.”
They offer him a weak smile, and take the opening where it’s offered. “It’s just, I can’t… I can’t die. I’ve been shot, literally shot so many times. And all of those shots should have killed me. One Peggie got me in the stomach with a .50 caliber bullet and I walked it off. I got stabbed in the neck in Holland Valley, and I got an arrow in my kidney up near Jacob’s.” They shrug helplessly, like being functionally immortal is something to apologize for; like it’s inconvenient. “And that’s not the weirdest part! Things just keep happening around me. Animals follow me around, and weird plants pop up. I swear to God, I watched a star move. Like, literally change position in the sky. And it wasn’t a satellite or anything.”
Whitehorse watches them get progressively more frantic. They start detailing the sort of people who talk to them, bring them gifts, cry in their presence, and how a hummingbird landed on their hand the other day. They talk about how a hive full of bees just started droning around their head, but pointedly avoided stinging them. By the time they talk about a woman who started crying at them in something that sounded like Hebrew, Whitehorse puts one hand up to stop them.
“Rook, I’m gonna tell you something right now,” he says, and Rook looks like they’re ready to get an earful about how, yes, they do sound absolutely out of their mind. He takes another swig of coffee before clearing his throat. “Listen, there has always been something different about you. I knew that back when you signed on. And whatever this is–” He gestures to all of them. “–probably won’t surprise me. You’ve got something special about you. Now, I can’t say for sure what it is, but I do know you’re using it for good. And as long as you keep that up, there’s nothing wrong with it or crazy about it.”
It might seem dismissive, but after the Seeds and the Bliss and everything else, Whitehorse thinks that Rook–whatever they actually are–is the best thing that can happen to them.
There’s a long silence that follows, full of the crackling of barrel fires and the soft orchestra of late summer crickets. Then, Rook smiles. 
Eventually, Whitehorse is sure he’ll find out the truth about Rook. Until then, there are a lot of people they can help, and the very real possibility that they can take the county back and fix what’s been done. For now, that’s what matters.
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arsyeong · 6 years
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i got this right | kyg.
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t w o  /  t h r e e  /  f o u r  /  f i v e
prompt: a woman has been dating guy after guy but it never seems to work out. she does not know that she has been dating the same dude, a shapeshifter who has fallen in love with her and is sure that he'll get it right this time. word count: 1,264
a/n: i added a something to the plot — this time, he won't be shifting but will be using his own body. the rest of the times he shifted was him switching through the rest of the boys lmao.
Kim Yugyeom had been reading away his heartbreak in a library when you walked through those doors and waltzed right back into his life.
He turned red behind his book. Seeing you here was unexpected at all, and it kind of emotionally hurt him because you had just broken up with him a few days ago. He was also caught off guard because he was in his original form today; to have you see him in a way he considered himself to be make-up-less was an embarrassing thought for him.
"Uh, hi! Can I sit down beside you?"
He was a frozen tomato. He tried to collect his thoughts behind his book and debated whether he should just go, shift then come back when he looked good enough for you; your voice had that effect on him. He was even overthinking the fact that you asked if you could sit beside him like you wanted to sit beside him and not anyone else.
"Hello?" you call out again. Something about this man had drawn you in and made you choose the spot beside him among the other empty seats. You didn't know why he made you feel comfortable (though he was awkward right now) but you liked it.
He takes a deep breath before saying, "Yeah, sure. Have a seat."
Deep down, he was freaking out and wondering if he had sounded cool enough for you. However, he hoped he didn't sound too much like Jaebeom — the first guy he shifted into, the first version of him that you had met and fell in love with.
You whisper your gratitude to him and immediately sit down. You would usually be too engrossed in a book to notice anything happening around you but this time was different. This time, you spent more time stealing glances at the gorgeous man beside you than comprehending Rizal.
He knew you were practically gaping at him after an hour or so, but he decided to ignore you despite the butterflies in his stomach. On the rare occasion that you were looking away, it would be his turn to stare at you in awe. You two must have looked so much like a foolishly-in-love couple that the student seated across from you moved to another table with a glare your way.
Yugyeom decided that he was done reading (aka humiliating himself) so he stood up to return the book. He may not come back to the library for some time, just in case you would come back; he finished the book anyway.
Seeing him get ready to leave gave you the push to return your book and run out after him. He was already far by the time you exited (the benefits of long legs and a brisk pace). You ran to catch up, all the time screaming after him, "Mister! Mister, wait for me!"
He heard you but didn't stop, instead walking faster. He was just about to lose you when somebody took him by the arm, turned him around and said, "Do you not hear the poor girl? She seems to have something important to say so don't be a dick and wait for her here."
"Wow, that was a run," you pant when you reach him. You bend down, hands on your knees as you caught your breath. "You walk fast, mister."
"Do you want some water?" If he were Mark, he would have been buying you water already. If he were Jackson, he would be joking with you right now. He was also about to add your name at the end but he caught himself just in time, remembering that the two of you were supposed to be strangers (for now).
He was just about to buy already when you spoke up suddenly, "Do I know you?"
"Did you run all the way here just to ask me an obvious question?" he asked back, afraid that he would expose himself and scare you away if he gave you a decent answer.
"You seem so familiar," you argue, not taking no for an answer. "I feel like I've known you for years."
"Maybe I look like a childhood best friend?" he suggests, walking over to one of the stalls to buy you water. You follow him, shaking your head.
"Not a childhood best friend," you tell him. "But a few of my recent exes."
He almost dropped the water he was offering you. You continued, "You remind me of all six of my recent exes, to be exact."
"That's a lot," he breathes out.
"I hope you aren't offended," you quickly say to redeem yourself before taking a sip of the water. "All of them were good men who deserve women better than me."
"Are there women better than one running almost three blocks just to ask you a question?" He couldn't help asking the question, could not help the smile that blossomed on his face, could not help but love you again. It was kind of hard to believe you had just broken up with another version of him.
There was an awkward silence for a while as you just stare at each other. He saw it clearly in your eyes how hard you were trying to solve the mystery she had been presented with. It was then that he realized that he had another chance with you, seeing as he was in a body new to you and you knew absolutely nothing about his shapeshifting agenda.
Maybe he would have you this time — the reality of it hitting him like a truck. It was a new era, and maybe he could finally win you over this time.
"Thanks for the water," you say softly. He focused his vision onto you again and thought that his plan was set. He was going to win you over as Kim Yugyeom. "How much was it? I'm sure I have some money here."
He stopped you before you started rummaging through your bag, knowing that you would probably make a mess (based on his Bambam knowledge). "How about you treat me out instead? I'll call you."
You don't continue your search and instead stare at him, dumbfounded. Did this God incarnate just ask you out? Ask you out in a way that he was implying you pay? Over a bottle of water that probably caused less than a dollar?
"Sure?" You didn't mean for it to come out as a question but you were immediately busied and focused on his smile to think about anything else. His smile was absolutely adorable.
"Yey!" he squealed like a kid, jumping a bit to finish. "I'll call you, yeah? See you soon!"
And with that, he was gone.
"What was that all about?" you mutter to yourself as you turn and begin your walk home. There was something about that guy that made you feel immediately at ease around him.
Before you could like and appreciate that fact, a sense of dejavu washed over you.
Like Jackson, he had made you want to giggle uncontrollably though it was the first meeting. Like Jinyoung, you met him in a place related to books. Like Mark, he had bought you something that would help you. Like Jaebum, he had walked away fast. Like Youngjae, he had made you feel soft. Like Bambam, he had stared intently at your bag and outfit.
Like all your other exes, he made you feel comfortable the first time you met and you can't help but feel sad that maybe this one would end up like all the others.
n e x t
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