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vasiktomis · 3 years

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Pomegranate, Chapter 18: Quiet Earth, Part II.

John Seed x Female Deputy

Rating: Explicit.

Read it on Ao3 here! Notes: Co-angels @honeysides, @shallow-gravy, and @lilwritingraven all provided immense support while I toiled over this chapter, which I am forever immensely thankful for. Never would've been able to give people second-hand embarrassment like this without y'all enabling me. As always, thank you for reading!

WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence. Sexually-explicit content. An angry cult leader with performance anxiety. You know the drill.

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The comparative tranquillity of Seed Ranch had a way of making Cora feel like time was moving slower than it should have. In all seriousness, the chain-reaction of their escape from Fall's End was still firing, but without the gunshots and the shouting, approaching the property felt more like being in stasis. It was too still. Too unassuming.

The Project members awaiting John on the steps of the property were vigilant about a thorough, yet strangely distant reception of the man, as if they’d been hard-wired to anticipate his moods; warmly welcoming him home, but giving the man such a wide berth that one might have assumed he was carrying a live grenade.

Cora supposed he was at least consistent in his inconsistency; just as volatile toward his allies as he was his enemies. She wondered if the serenity of the ranch was a natural element of John's sect; whether they simply cared enough about the man to know his boundaries to the inch - or whether such a light-hearted environment was manufactured deliberately and specifically around his temper.

The Deputy’s presence did well to break the façade, however. It brought with it a range of cautious exchanges from the followers that ushered them into the home; some in fear of re-living the bedlam of her bunker escape, and others casting stern looks between her bare midriff and their leader’s refusal to leave her side.

She noticed it, too - how he stuck to her like Velcro.

It was only after she was administered pain medication and had her wound dressed (they’d been gracious enough to re-dress the haphazard bandaging on her hand, too) that John abruptly took his leave, excusing himself to apparently more pressing matters. Cora was simply confined to the foyer, drifting in and out of snoozing consciousness on one of the couches in front of the fireplace.

All in all, the mental and physical exhaustion of conceding defeat to the Project proved in all honestly a little boring. The blonde had expected she might break down once she was left alone. It seemed about the right time for it, and yet, all she felt was tired. Was it the cult who had done this to her? Run her so ragged that only anger remained?

Ideas of escape waxed and waned with cultists moving in and out of the space periodically to check in on her, lessening in their hostility with each passing visit until their warnings not to cross them turned into beratements over her refusal to sit still, for the love of Joseph.

In her restlessness, she sorted through thoughts and memories, deciding on the conclusion that while yes, today had been devastating, she’d long since thrown away her capacity to recognise it. It had been so long since she’d spared herself any emotion beyond rage that everything else felt only vaguely different. She might’ve broken down, had she not forgotten how to do such a thing. Trying only gave her a stomach ache, and so she resigned herself to waiting it out, growing more and more impatient with how undramatic this aftermath had turned out to be. How her captor had left her so unceremoniously after being declared victor.

Maybe he was similarly nonchalant about all this.

...No. That was impossible. He'd probably just excused himself to go dance a celebratory little jig. Perhaps he'd stepped through a hornet's nest in doing so, or been ambushed by coyotes. Something beyond mere choice that warranted the excuse to disappear like that.

The skylights in the ceiling changed hues over the course of what felt like hours, however, and John did not return.

It felt weird, being in his home without him present. It felt weird being fussed over by house staff who muttered for her to stop picking at her bandages while she lay across his furniture, warmed by his fire. It felt weird that her exposure to Sharky and Jess had finally led her to identify that the strange smell she’d always detected in the Baptist’s home was unmistakably raw cannabis.

Eventually, the clatter of plates and bubbling conversation drew the Deputy away from the couch and around to the other end of the foyer. The gigantic table she’d only ever seen stacked high with bibles in the past now carried an assortment of food, picked at by passing cultists like a barbeque line while they chattered away.

Watching them almost felt like watching her family back in Brooklyn. Waiting out the messy crossed streams of conversation in hiding until the coast was clear and the kids could swarm the reward of food without the labour of having to hang out with the adults. It was strange, how they mimicked a family, when the only similarity Cora could gauge between them were the logos printed on their clothes.

The spying didn't last. One pair of eyes flickering to her quickly became ten, and Cora's heart rate skyrocketed. Instinct kicked in. Eyes combing over each Peggie around the table for weapons. Hands reaching for her own absent holster and emptied pockets.

The group did not respond in-kind. Apparently, they were too preoccupied with loading up their plates to deal with a leader of the Peggie-killing movement in their space.

Cora didn’t buy it. Not straight away. Not until her gaze darted around the rest of the room, weighing up which of the Baptist’s gaudy home decorations might be most effective at bone-crushing and-

“Look who’s got her colour back.”

…

What?

The same cultist who spoke up - a woman - one of the group who’d been at the church earlier, gestured at the table. “Hungry?”

What?

One Peggie with a particularly heavy beard slid a plate over the table toward Cora. Two younger girls over his shoulder giggled to each other.

“Do you think we should offer her a shirt?”

“I’m not that brave. Leave it to John.”

“Anything fresh is all from the garden.” The bearded Peggie spoke, pulling Cora’s scowl away from them with a smile.

She inspected the table. Undersized apples and strawberries. Home-grown, by their imperfections. Multi-coloured silver beet and slightly burned sweetcorn. Homemade bread piled an end of its own, surrounded by a selection of preserves in blank jars. All of it, against her will, served as a reminder that she’d only ingested coffee today. This was bizarre, but she was hungry. Not to mention the Resistance diet consisted mostly of canned spaghetti.

Gingerly, the Deputy picked at one of everything, and while the group of cultists continued chatting, she stood awkwardly by on the side-line, trying to figure out the most efficient means of eating corn while still maintaining a hostile air about her and lot letting slip that it was fucking delicious.

Apparently tearing into the thing wasn't adequately frightening. The same talkative man split from the party to approach her, ignoring the roll of her eyes. A spot of shine glided over his bald head while he moved around the table, and as he neared, he gave her a moment to squint at him.

There was something familiar about that overbearing air.

“We’ve... -”

“Met.” He confirmed. “Briefly.”

“When?”

“Months ago now. I, uh, almost baptised you.”

Cora chewed the inside of her cheek, considering that. Somewhere in the back of her mind the memory of wet rocks beneath her feet swelled with the lapping of shallow waters. Just tap my arm if you need to come up for air.

He shrugged at her silence. “You were pretty Blissed-”

“No, I remember you.” The Deputy mumbled, turning her attention back to her food, intent on keeping it there. It didn’t last long. A hand stretched out before her, and with a laboured, full-mouthed sigh, she shook it.

“Andrew. Glad to see you again.” He offered.

“Okay.”

The silence was as painful as she’d hoped to make it, but tragically, he was resilient.

"Andy works, too-"

"Andrew's syllabically identical and perfectly sufficient. Where's your boss?"

“Upstairs, working.”

“And he’s asked not to be disturbed.” One woman interjected. “So don’t get any ideas.”

Cora blinked at that. Then, plate still in-hand, she spun on her heel and made for the staircase.

Behind her, the group exchanged a collective look of panic.

"Ma'am?"

"Sister?"

"Hey!"

“We’re not allowed up there!”

“Perfect." Cora grumbled back, already ascending the steps. "Then you don’t have to worry about following me.”

The second storey of Seed ranch was dead still in comparison to downstairs. A hallway presented a quiet stretch of closed doors and branching hallways that led out to balconies, part way between residential space and tactical efficiency.

Back in the day, she’d assumed the Baptist just had a thing for doors. Looking around at the space now, it was clear that John was well-aware of how many enemies he’d generated thanks to his work.

The crackle of a radio up ahead drew the Deputy’s attention, and as she drew closer, a hushed curse.

“Pick up. Come on, pick up.” John murmured. Then, in a brand new tone: “Joseph. Brother. I need you to call me back. Please, it’s been - just...whenever you can. I’ll be here.”

She found him beyond a cracked doorway, hunched over a desk. His fingers smoothed through damp hair hair, tugging, jaw clenched and brow furrowed.

The door creaked as Cora pressed against it, and in the time it took for her to cringe at the noise, John had sat up straight, shifting out of whatever private mood she’d spied him in. He blinked up at her, inhaling deeply, reeking of uncertainty.

She felt it too. Of all the scenarios to catch him alone in, the blonde hadn’t expected that she’d be brandishing sourdough.

A moment passed. Both of them trying to feel out this new territory.

“Hey.” Cora eventually muttered.

John exhaled. “Hi.”

“Brought food.”

He looked away. “Deputy, pleased as I am that you’re making yourself at home, I asked for privacy.”

“Since when did you value privacy?” Cora asked, pushing into the room and seating herself on the desk. The tired irritation on John’s face when she set the plate in front of him was worth the day of boredom already. He glanced up at her, and she responded with a wolfish smile.

“You have corn in your teeth.” He mumbled, relenting, posture slackening. “And you’re getting blood flakes on my desk.”

The Deputy tried not to look so hurried about picking. “Isn’t that a garnish in Japan?”

“That’s fish. You’re thinking bonito.”

“I know what I’m thinking.”

Another pause.

“Is that what you thought you were filleting in the church? Bonito?”

Annoyed silence.

“It was Nick.”

Finally, John scoffed, glaring at her, offering a reluctant nod when she flashed her teeth to confirm she’d gotten rid of the food in her teeth. “You are so funny.”

“Thank you. Eat something.”

Cora watched the man regard the plate in front of him.

“How generous of you to take a bite out of everything first." His gaze landed on the shredded corn cob. "Except for that. That, you demolished."

"Yeah, well." Cora plucked up the same piece of bread he'd been reaching for. "Why're you hiding up here? Thought maybe you would've starting laying on the torment by now. Not...brooding."

"Brooding."

"Yes."

"Pardon me for needing to adjust to having a murderer in my home."

Cora hummed at that, casting a look around the room. "Took you about 2 seconds to adjust to a murderer's tongue in your mouth-"

"Deputy." John spat, pushing the plate away from him in a final display of denial. "Please, leave. I'm busy."

“No, you’re not.” Cora bit back. “I want to know what your plan is. Now you’ve got me, what’s next? What’s the point in me sitting around on your couch all afternoon? You don’t leave me alone, ever, and now that I’m here you want me to make myself scarce?”

The Baptist's jaw rolled in annoyance, and when Cora shifted her legs to face him easier, he jerked away from her, avoiding contact. “You’ve grown too accustomed to being in the spotlight." He grumbled.

“Stop avoiding the question.”

“What question?”

“What’s your deal? What's the plan? What happens now?”

“The plan is to get back to work. My apologies if your assumption was that you were the main goal of this valley, but there are dozens of things that require my attention-“

“Like sitting by the phone for your brother for hours?”

John paused at that. Something old and familiar flashed over his expression, and he stood from his seat. “You’re jealous.” He accused.

Cora’s lip curled, ears running hot. “You’re wasting time, and I want to know why.”

“Is that why you're nosing through my business? If I gave you details - what I'm working on - what the next step is - is that a strategic win for you?" His palms slid against the desk, planted on either side of her legs. "Or is my lack of undivided attention so awful to you that anything to help rationalise it would do?"

Something in her celebrated that look on his face. The renewed confidence in his attitude. It enraged her, but it was scores better than his absence.

She scowled, but she didn’t pull away when John leaned down into her space. It didn’t work the way it used to. Now it didn’t feel close enough. Now she wanted to part her legs and pull his hips against her.

It was a discomfort she’d never known before, and now, even with her wounds dulled, it almost felt painful. She wanted to know what the plan was. She wanted to plan an escape. She wanted to have just this one little victory if this was the end of the line. If he was going to convert her, then she could at least undermine him by ruining his faithfulness. It might destabilise him enough that she could find some advantage to getting back to Fall’s End. That would make it okay, if it were all driven by strategy or revenge. Her curiosity would be sated.

But then, as if he could hear her thoughts from the sheer volume of their demands, John drew away from her.

“You should shower.” He muttered quickly, snatching the radio from the desk. “Across the hall, on the right.”

He didn’t look at her as he left the room. He didn’t look back when he disappeared down the hall and made for the stairs.

Cora glared ahead at the space he'd left emptied.

What a fucking coward.

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Despite her soured mood, Cora had done as she was ordered. She spent all of two minutes rinsing the old blood from her skin, and another ten reflecting in quiet judgement over the bottle of 3-in-1 sitting in the shower caddy with her. Maybe she should've allowed herself the opportunity to warrant having to bathe here earlier. Maybe she'd have developed more of a sense of disgust for the man if she had.

The clothes she’d arrived in were still stained, but it was an improvement. Less of a sensory distraction while she sorted through her thoughts, at least.

While the Deputy dried off and re-dressed, the haze of pain relief began to lighten, and she was able to focus on cobbling together some kind of a plan to get herself out of Seed Ranch. She might have conceded defeat, but the hideous tattoo marking her sternum didn't mean she was suddenly going to behave. Especially if her captor was refusing to even the playing field and let her know what the hell they were supposed to do now.

Whatever John was keeping from her, it was urgent enough that his entire demeanour had changed. What did he need from Joseph so desperately? If it had anything to do with the Resistance, or if had anything to do with Joseph coming here, the Deputy intended to put a stop to it.

If John Seed’s intention was to avoid her, he should’ve thought twice before locking her in his home. Ensuring that he’d keep his distance, however, was the easy part.

The real goal would be getting him away from that radio.

Descending the stairs, Cora found John in solitary silence in the foyer. There was no sign of the Peggies serving up supper anymore, and the dining table had been cleared.

John was alone, sitting on the couch by the fireplace with his head in his hands, no less agitated than when she’d first found him. The hand-held sat close by on his left. In front of him on the coffee table was a landline phone that hadn’t been there previously.

He didn’t notice her at first. To his credit, she didn’t announce herself until a creak of the stairs did it for her. Then, the snap of his gaze toward her was instant. Hyper-vigilant.

Cora reached the first floor. “Where’d everyone go?”

“Minding the perimeter.” John answered, making space for her to take a seat but keeping himself faced away. “You’ll be pleased to know that your troop is still yet to be captured. Little doubt they’re aware that you’ve been brought here. Even less that they’re on the hunt for you, given the state Fall’s End was in when we left. Boshaw seemed happy enough to blow up half the town to get to you. Shorty."

There was no mistaking his bitterness at the nickname.

When she approached, Cora found a folded Project sweater sitting where she intended to. John’s jaw rolled when she slowed to glare at the thing.

Still, he refused to look at her.

“Put it on. You’ll freeze.”

“I’d rather not look like one of you when the Resistance comes to rescue me.”

“You are one of us, now. Almost. Once you’ve pledged yourself to the Project, they needn’t consider it a rescue effort any longer.”

Cora huffed in response, pulling the sweater over her head and slumping into the couch. “You sound a lot less happy about that than I’d expect.”

“I’m fine.”

Stonewalling. Now she was beginning to understand how annoying it was when she did it.

“I’ve made enough of a career out of it to know what you look like when you’re not fine.” The Deputy remarked.

“I think I preferred it when I was asking all the questions.”

“I think you preferred me when I was tied up in a basement.”

That comment caught a glance. Amusement, unnoticed on her part.

“So, what - you’ve been sitting beside a radio all day and somehow weren’t inclined to terrorise me? Or were you just that busy arranging flowers for my Atonement?”

“Are you feeling stood up?” John asked. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were projecting, Deputy.”

Her ears flushed hot. Immediate rage flooded pitted in her stomach, but as much as the blonde would have liked to get up and stomp elsewhere, she had little other option without any better ideas.

Right now, this was all she had.

Channelling her inner Adelaide.

Cora inhaled, swallowing back a cursory retort. “Both work.”

In her periphery, John ceased all movement, staring straight ahead.

All she had to do was pressure him enough to move away. Then it was over. She’d been rejected by him before - anticipating it happening again shouldn’t have needed to feel as gross as it did.

“Maybe I think you got scared, not having me under your control.” She went on, finding the words already prepared on her tongue as she turned toward him. “You seemed like you were enjoying it when it was you-”

“-and then you punched me in the face.” John cut in stiffly.

“Didn’t deter you.”

“We shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it’s against the rules.” The clip in his tone signalled a warning. Then, an impatient sigh escaped his nostrils. “And you said it yourself: it was a mistake.”

He wasn’t going to look at her. There was no pulling at his attention while he could hide her in his periphery.

“Is that why you’re upset?” She made a quiet move to touch her fingers to his forearm, but he pulled away with a scoff.

“If you’re trying to buy time -”

“Are you frustrated?” Cora pressed on. His shifting had given her enough leeway to get herself between him and the phone, and she took her opportunity, sliding down to kneel between the couch and the coffee table. Directly in front of him. “Knowing what people say about you?”

John finally inclined his head to sneer down at her, but if he had anything he was intending to say, it was silence by the bob of his Adam's apple. A gulp. His breathing was the only audible sound in the room, barring herself; shallow and staggered.

Almost there.

Cora kept her eyes on his. She wouldn’t lie - despite sitting at his feet like this, she could still gauge the power that she held. That while, yes, there was a spark of disappointment that came with watching him ignore her advances, there was also some odd thrill in watching the man who’d made multiple attempts on her life struggle so much. Knowing that, even with her unarmed and kneeling - even with all his connections and soldiers, and everything he'd done to her - he was powerless.

He’d taken her freedom, but she could get that back. She’d compromised his loyalty to dogma. Nearly made the tallied notches on his arm into a lie. He'd have to start again from the ground-up. He'd be middle-aged before he found the same progress.

“Now that I’m atoned. Now that no one’s watching.” She sat up, drawing closer to his thigh, inwardly cursing at his refusal to move away this time. “All that work you put into catching me, and now what? Nothing?”

“Deputy.” John growled, low and dangerous.

“You want this.” Cora concluded, watching the flush of red bloom from beneath his collar and the flex of his jaw while he grit his teeth.

“There are bigger things at stake right now-”

“And even now that you have me, you’re too scared to do anything about it.”

John inhaled a swift breath, averting his gaze. “That’s beside the point.”

“You want this."

“Would you quit it? You’re wrong.”

Finally, the Baptist shoved himself out of the couch, back-stepping several paces until he was half-way across the room. Once he’d gotten himself to a safe distance, he regarded the Deputy once more, gaze cold and angry while she cycled through unknown victory and equally unknown disappointment.

He wasn’t going to be made to give in.

“You haven’t been atoned. Not yet.” John breathed, turning on his heel and marching into the kitchen.

Cora stared at the doorway he'd escaped through. Now was her chance.

One...two...three...

Okay. He wasn't coming back in a hurry. She'd successfully scared him off.

There was no time to waste.

While the faucet ran in the next room, Cora twisted around, snatching the phone upside down and hastily unclipping the cable from the device. The dial-tone cut to silence. Communication blocked, but cord hooked up to the damn thing was already conspicuous without evidence of tampering. She couldn't just discard the cable.

There was no way John wouldn’t notice its absence when he returned, and so the Deputy did what any effective home invader would do.

She bit down on the cord, close as she could to the adapter, chewing hard until grinding wire snapped between her teeth. When she plugged the cable back in and set the phone straight again, the machine remained dead, but intact.

Good. That'd buy some time.

The radio was next. Rather than switch the device off, Cora tuned it a few notches, finding a dead station and placing it back right where John had left it.

Done.

Sabotage successful. If Joseph had any intention of making a call-back soon, he’d be going unheard. There was no telling how long it would last, but unless the Baptist was stocked on landlines, half of his communications were disabled entirely.

Cora exhaled, inviting in the momentary relief. Being kept here was one thing. Having to be in the same room as Joseph Seed was another dimension entirely.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” She called, rising to a stand and following the Baptist’s trail.

No response.

When Cora entered the kitchen, John was dabbing his neck with wet hands. The moment he sensed her, he grumbled a sharp curse, bracing his hands against the counter to keep from facing her.

“Is this the plan? We just sit and wait?”

His shoulders seized. “...Yes.”

Cora stalked past him, finding a counter of her own to lean against, finding her own patience dwindling. Coiling irritation at the very notion of Joseph having so much sway over the Baptist that he could seemingly halt time.

“So what’s the point in taking me? In bringing me here?” She spat.

“Disregarding our personal rapport, it’s no small matter, having you here.” John ground out. “My family will want to know-”

“Have you tried calling Jacob?”

Something twitched in John's expression. A button, pushed. Dispelled rage.

“The Father will-”

There was no holding back the snarl that brewed in her throat. Hitting its boiling point. He did have that much sway over the man. They were sitting here in stasis, all because of him.

“Are you that fucking sad? We’re stuck here just because you need to hear Joseph tell you how well you did? A whole fucking resistance effort just blew up half of Fall’s End. You caught me. Dozens of people are dying, and all you can do is sit by the phone?” Cora demanded, scowling while his muscles trembled. “Are you serious?!”

“WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO, CORA?!” John bellowed, head snapping around to fix her in place, eyes blazing. The sheer volume of him froze her to the spot. "Did you assume that you were somehow different from anyone else the Project takes in? That your place here; that you're even alive had anything other to do than Joseph requesting it? Did you think that you'd somehow slipped through every possible crack in the system for any reason beyond this path being carved specifically by the Father? Because, frankly speaking, YOU HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!"

The Deputy didn't reply. She couldn't.

Not that it would've mattered.

John, it seemed, was far from finished.

“You're so selfish. One moment you insist on making your own salvation impossible. The next, you assume you can simply start calling shots." He bit, voice already hoarse from yelling, but with no less poison. "You think I enjoy waiting around for whatever order comes next? That I enjoy you waltzing around my home, eating my food, whining that I'm not doing enough for you? After all the wrath you’ve wrought - after all the death and the destruction - you’re still so fucking entitled to assume that I’d throw aside my loyalty to the Father. All just because you’re here, and not even by fucking choice.”

Cora swallowed, calming the nerves that egged her on to snap back at him. "I didn't - I don't - "

After a moment, the hostility thinned. John's shoulders sagged.

"I know it's not optimal. It might not seem like it, but we're lucky. Things could be a lot worse for both of us, but on Joseph's order, they're not. It's his wisdom that made you being here even possible. So yes; the plan right now is that we sit and wait."

John turned toward her, then. He looked positively miserable.

“What happened last night…can’t happen again.” He explained. “It doesn’t matter that you’re here now. I’m the Baptist. Joseph is my brother. There’s nothing he doesn’t know, and there’s nothing he won’t find out. We need to do everything we can to stay on his good side.”

He did have a point. As much as she wanted John to be the last of her enemies, he was only one of three, and likely the lowest ranked of the Project's leaders. Pushing John to defy a higher power was unwise.

Her job was done, anyway. There was no more need to pursue him. Curiosity didn't matter. Want didn't matter. No meant no.

“Okay.” The Deputy croaked finally, nodding.

John raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She attempted a smile. "Water under the bridge."

He returned the expression. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Great.”

“Cool.”

They both stood still, watching each other for a long moment.

Then Cora’s heart sank, and she felt herself detach from the counter. John did the same, marching toward her while she advanced on him with equal urgency.

Her fingers found the front of his shirt just as his found her face, and his mouth was on hers in a heartbeat. For all her rationalisations, the blonde reciprocated immediately, clutching him closer, humming into his kiss with a pitch she’d normally find mortifying.

“I’m sorry.” John breathed, hardly breaking away long enough to put the words together before he was kissing her again. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean that."

Cora nodded, barely able to formulate a response against him. Every word she reached for melted on her tongue, completely enraptured by the heat of his mouth and his desperate hands not knowing whether they wanted to grip at her hips or keep cradling her jaw.

She didn’t even know she’d been walked backward until she felt the cold countertop hit the small of her back, and then - much more pleasantly - the warmth of John’s body pressing against her front. She gasped, winding a hand into his damp hair and slipping beneath his shirt with the other, pawing at whatever skin she could access and drawing another one of those pitiful sounds she’d pulled from him last night.

“Wasn’t - ah, fuck,” the Deputy choked, not anticipating the Baptist’s impatience when he dipped his head to kiss her neck, arms coiling tight around her waist, “Wasn’t a mistake.”

"Fuck no." John moaned against her throat, tongue barely darting out to taste her skin. “Won’t hit me this time?”

“Not this time.”

He pulled back then, leaving a half inch of aching dead space between them. Swallowing back a pant and looking at her directly. Like he was weighing up every possible pro and con about this scenario. Cora stilled, trading hesitation with the man, sobering for all but a few fearful seconds.

“If you don’t-”

“Don’t.” John breathed. “Just let me commit this to memory.”

“I mean it.”

“Deputy, you have no idea - how many times I’ve -...how much damage this could do."

Cora shifted under his gaze, searching impatiently to find which direction his resolve would fall. "I can keep a secret."

Amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, breaking through apprehension.

“You want this.” She murmured.

“God, yes.”

He kissed her deeply, holding her steady through the shiver sent through her as his tongue slid across her bottom lip. Then, as soon as it felt like they were picking back up where they’d left off, he pulled back again. The grin he flashed at her frustration pulled a little noise of protest out of the blonde, and when she chased his mouth, he held her still.

“For the sake of being on the same page,” He began, “you do, too, right?.”

What a ridiculous assertion. What kind of answer was he hoping to gain from that? He already had her consent; did he really need the pride of knowing how badly she wanted this too? It wasn’t even something she’d actively considered, anyway. She’d have to think about-

“Yeah.” Cora breathed, ragged. “Yes.”

John settled into a more comfortable smile, and while the eye contact wasn’t something she could uphold for long, Cora mirrored the expression.

Then, a sigh rolled out of the Baptist. “Thank fucking Christ.”

She didn’t have time to chuckle at that.

His mouth was back on her in a instant.

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“What’d I tell you?” Jess hissed, looking Sharky up and down while she waded toward him through torn up asphalt and cement debris. “What’d I tell you about making a fucking idiot of yourself?”

Sharky traded a look with Hurk at that. The man was nearly unrecognizable from all the dust clinging to him.

“I thought we did pretty good.” The arsonist defended.

“The town’s half blown-up, dipshit.”

“We did real good.” Hurk weighed in.

He wasn’t wrong. They didn’t even kill nobody they weren’t supposed to. There’d been bumps in the road, sure, but all in all, things hadn’t been a total disaster. Once you translated that into the kind of situation they were in, total disaster was actually kind of...well, awesome. Especially once the Cougars had arrived.

Sharky hadn’t heard word from over East since they’d left, but things must’ve been mighty fucking boring up there at the County Jail for a whole fucking convoy to come charging through town.

He’d never seen so many baseball jerseys in one place, let alone jerseys toting assault rifles.

There wasn’t any chasing leftover Peggies out of town once they’d shown up. It was a purge so quick and so direct that the blonde understood a little better why Shorty had been so pissed about not getting the extra help earlier.

Everyone had found their way back to each other pretty quick once the chaos had died down. As luck would have it, Kim had been walking Boomer when Eden’s Gate had arrived. She’d managed to get a couple of the general store clerks to safety and found a cattle shed to wait out the fight about a mile up the road.

It might’ve been the adrenaline getting him going, but Sharky could’ve sworn her tits were even bigger than yesterday.

Grace and Mary May reunited quick, but disappointingly did not start making out. Instead, they helped Kim cart Nick and Pastor Jerome off to Dr. Lindsey.

After they’d rounded up any remaining hostages, the team made their way back to Sharky as the stand-in replacement for the Deputy. That part didn’t surprise him. He was best mate, after all...after the dog, at least. The part that did surprise him was that the Cougars seemed to do that same.

Tracey surveyed the wreckage on her way toward the group with Sheriff Whitehorse and that tight-lipped Marshal in-tow.

“Jerome says Stammos got carted out with John’s people.” The woman announced. “They took the road down to the airport.”

“Then unless they’re plannin’ on looping back around, they’re probably headed to the ranch.” Adelaide replied.

“Probably a smart move after last time.” Hurk added.

The Sheriff inclined his head, incredulous. “Last time?”

“Long story.”

Sharky watched the disappointment pass over Whitehorse’s face. Must’ve felt shitty; losing all of his employees to the cult.

“I tried chasin’ ‘em down, Sheriff.” He said.

“And given how you’re dressed, Boshaw, it’s no surprise they were so quick to leave.”

“Okay. Ouch.”

“So what’s the plan?” Jess asked.

Tracey was already turning back around, headed for the truck she’d arrived in. “We keep liberating.” She answered. “Stammos called us to take back the valley, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“John’s ranch is almost the Southernmost point before the border.” Whitehorse elaborated. “If we do everything right, he won’t have many friends left to help him cross it once he gets word of us coming.”

“Sounds like the same plan as last time.” Adelaide commented.

“No stone unturned.” He affirmed. “Same as last time. Take care of John the same way we took care of Faith and bring our girls home.”

The Marshal, however, didn’t look as happy about that option. Dude always hated taking the long way around. “And what if John’s taken care of your Deputy before we get there?”

Sharky exchanged a look with the others.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

John’s fingers tangled in Cora's hair, hurriedly tugging out the damp tie and wincing when a caught snag caused the Deputy to hiss. “Sorry. Sorry.” He muttered, breathless.

“You’re - you’re certain this is okay.” She huffed against him. If there was any acknowledgement of the apology on her part, it was only in how she clawed at his vest, dragging his mouth back to hers.

“Not at all.”

“What about your -” A gasp briefly did the trick of silencing her, but then: “What about your brothers-”

“Please don’t mention my brothers right now.” John whined.

Cora eyed him. “Door’s locked?”

John stifled a chuckle at that. “No, why would it be?”

Cora eyed him dangerously.

“I’m kidding." He defended. "What, you think I let people walk in and out of here unannounced?"

“Fucking prick.”

“Obviously, I’m kidding. You’re a-aaah…” His retort dwindled when the blonde’s hands slid down his front, stopping short of the hem of his vest and creeping back up to his collar again. He pulled back to glare. “A captive.”

“And you’re sensitive.” She replied, simply.

“7 years is a long time.” John’s own hands fell from her hair, slipping down her sides until she couldn’t feel them anymore. “Not sure how much I can...handle.” That last phrase came cautiously. Awkwardly.

The blonde’s fingers traced back down while she listened, more quizzical than apprehensive at the warning.

To her, that sounded more like a challenge.

"What." John grunted at the smirk that played on her lips.

"Just the audacity of you asking for mercy."

A shiver worked its way out of him when she went lower, ghosting over his hips and then back up again. Deliberately avoiding the ever-insistent graze of an erection against her stomach, sporadically tensing against denim confinement whenever her hands got close. Every reminder of it sending a fresh wave of heat through her.

“Seriously-”

“Mr. Seed, either we carry on like this, or you fuck me. Right now.” The Deputy spoke low, watching the Baptist’s pupils dilate more with each word. “Either way, we’ll find out how much you can handle, but 3 years is also a long time. I’d hate for only one of us to break a streak.”

John stared, dumbfounded.

Then, his hands reappeared, tugging around her waist, wrenching her up and onto the countertop. Her wasted no time pushing her knees apart, drawing near enough between her legs that she could reach for his belt, but not close enough that she could find the friction she was looking for. His fingers pawed her thighs, then gripped hard when her fingertips ghosted over the bulge that impatiently jutted between them.

“Ah. Shit.” He shuddered, folding down to balance his forehead in the crook of her neck, holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping him standing. Cora found that she liked the idea of that. Ten times the amount of experience she had, and yet here he was, barely functional.

She pressed her palm against him, content with the hitch in his breath and the little jerk of his hips. A responding, dulled twitch pressed back. Through the obstruction of clothing, it was impossible to get a sense of him, but biology didn’t discriminate. She wanted him in her.

“Doing good.” Cora murmured against John’s temple, running her fingers through his hair in reassurance while his dug into her thighs in a vice grip.

“So good.” He choked when she slowly began to move back and forth. “So - so good. Feels - ah, fuck - let me -“

Maybe a little too quickly, Cora pulled herself closer to the edge of the counter, tugging John’s unbandaged hand further up her thigh and hoping he’d get the message while she busied herself with his belt.

She knew his smirk too well to mistake it for anything else when she felt him hum against her throat.

John straightened, pulling Cora’s attention back up to him. Lo and behold, he was looking as arrogant as ever; as if he hadn’t just been whining at her mercy. “Deputy, have a little patience.”

“After all that ranting about giving, you sure are selfish.”

“Oh, so you were listening.” He grinned, tracing a thumb back and forth over the junction of her hip. “Tell me, what happened to my little ranger who loved to play by the rules?”

“Hypocrite.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Hurry up.”

John flinched when Cora’s hand shoved beneath his still-fastened pants, palming him through his underwear. He managed to hold strong, though, even if his voice near-cracked. “Or what?”

“Or John Seed’s gonna come in his pants.”

Again, he twitched in her grasp, but his movement remained torturously slow.

Realisation hit the Deputy at his resistance.

He was getting a kick out of this.

He was testing her.

“How crazy does it drive you, not having total, complete control?" He asked. His thumb reached the seam of her pants, almost too light to feel. She still throbbed all the same.

"You're an asshole." Cora growled.

“You know, I always suspected you got off on that.”

“Evidence suggests it might be the other way around.”

“Answer me, Deputy.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’ll do just that if you don’t cooperate.” John tutted at her frustrated ineptitude at deciphering his belt buckle. “Are you really in a position to be calling the shots?”

Cora stopped to consider that, locking to his gaze with a scowl. Why did every interaction with him have to feel like a chess game?

Fine.

Not breaking eye contact, Cora simply pulled her sweater over her head in response.

John’s gaze broke immediately. He tried to recover, but the damage was done. There was no picking his composure back up after the attitude slid from his face and left him with nothing but prying eyes and a slackened jaw.

“Well,” He croaked, “when you put it that way…”

“Help me with this.” Cora urged, still tugging at his belt. He acquiesced immediately, although with the two of them hastily fumbling with the same mechanism, the extra help wasn’t much better. John swore under his breath, pulling out of Cora’s reach while she clicked her tongue. “Does that thing double as a chastity belt?”

“It’s not my fault we have a single functional hand between us.”

“You stabbed me first.”

“For God’s sake - fuck - got it.” John sighed, finally unbuckling the monstrosity, rushing back to the blonde’s reach. She dealt with her own belt while he hurried with his jeans, tattooed fingers shaking. The moment he’d succeeded, his hands flew to her waist, revering bare skin and savouring her impatience for him to touch her where she wanted to be touched.

She would have cussed him out, had his teeth not grazed her lip, refreshing the taste of him with his tongue slipping into her mouth - right as his left hand wriggled it way into her pants and pressed.

Cora saw white for a second. Untouched nerves awakening in a frenzy that had her gasping into that bastard’s mouth. Jesus, she could feel the grin on his face.

“Hm. Hypocrite.” Came the reminder, followed by a strangled noise when her fingers enclosed around his cock; separated still by underwear, but gripping him all the same. His body shoved against her, crushing their arms between them in the attempt to find his way closer - to find more. “Ah - shit. Careful-”

A knock from beyond the kitchen sent a collective jolt through both of them, and John’s head whipped around in a panic.

“W-...what is it?!” He called, voice cracking.

“John, have you got a minute?” A deeper voice Cora didn’t recognise responded from outside.

“Doubt I’ve got more than ten seconds.” The Baptist hissed to himself. “I recall saying emergencies only! Ask yourself - is this something I need to find John for, or can I find my own way?”

Christ. He spoke to his followers the same way she spoke to hers.

“O-okay. Sorry.”

John didn’t reply. He simply turned his attention straight back to Cora, stroking up and down along the material of her underwear. His cock twitched impatiently in her hand, at odds with his leisurely pace. “You’re soaked through.” He taunted, but the tremor in his voice delivered it as a revelation.

Cora’s brow furrowed. She stroked once, sweeping her thumb over the head of him. “Speak for yourself, Baptist.”

A grunt sounded from the man. His hands moved quickly, yanking her to the edge of the counter and gripping at her pants. Tugging the material down and off her legs while he dropped to his knees on the floorboards. The Deputy’s initial instinct to draw herself together and hide from scrutiny was jarred by the way the Baptist gaped between her legs. Like closing them would be some cruel disservice to him. So, she let him stare. Held still while he drew close, dotting a kiss to her knee and shivering when his beard skimmed her inner thigh.

“Thank you for wearing white.” John murmured, stroking a careful thumb over the cotton, leaving only aching want in his wake.

“That a religious thing?” She tried not to croak, raising an eyebrow.

“Not in this circumstance. Just...thought about it.”

“Oh. You just - casually speculated on the colour of my underwear.”

“Something like that.” He continued the action. Back and forth. Up and down. Trying to find the same spot as earlier. For all his enthusiasm, however, he was still out of practice and just as impatient as she was. He’d draw close, but any hitch in her breath pulled his gaze up to her face, searching for praise and losing his place in the process.

When his mouth suddenly descended upon her, though, fingers giving up their place to yank the material to the side and grant him direct access, the Deputy found herself uncomfortably on the complete other end of the spectrum. From not enough, to way, way too much. A squeak shot out of Cora, and her legs clamped shut on John’s skull just as her fingers gripped his hair in an attempt to pry him away from her. Both actions earned a separate “Ow,” from the man.

John pouted up at her. “What?”

“Stand up.” “I like where I am right now.” He protested. “You’re not shy, are you? I want to-”

Cora tugged at him anyway. “I don’t want you to practice on me. I want you to fuck me.”

John blinked. “Okay - not shy.” He pulled himself back to a stand, averting his gaze while she guided his hips back between her legs. “I’m - er - it’s just…-”

He bit back a resigned curse when her fingers circled his erection once again, passing over the noticeable slick of precum on strained cotton.

“Just what?”

“I'd like you to - enjoy it." The admission came. "And I’m not going to last.”

“Good. I'll enjoy that just fine.” Cora replied, earning a questioning look. “Won’t look so smug anymore when you’re coming in record time.”

John's expression darkened at the challenge, but his hands shook as they swatted her away, struggling to manoeuvre the fly of his underwear into just the right position.

Anger was still the quickest way to get through to him.

“Just you wait." He warned. "I’ll-“

She cut him off with a kiss, pulling his hips against her, and his threats evaporated. They were pressed too close for her to see, but his cock grazed the hem of her underwear, finally pulled free. Then, John’s fingers hooked around the material, pulling it to one side.

The Baptist held her gaze, brow upturned like he was worried.

Was he nervous?

“Ready?” He asked.

He looked...kind of pretty like this. Pupils blown. Lips a little swollen. Hair all messed up. Eye-contact wasn't so uncomfortable when he looked this wrecked.

She nodded. "Yeah." The pitch of his gasp matched hers when the head of him slid with dangerous ease along the wetness of her cunt. All she could focus on was the heat of him. The blunt press, drawing closer and closer to her entrance until he was finally lined up. The ache of resisting muscles and relieved nerve-endings when he pushed forward, torturously slow, concentration and bliss fighting for equal real estate on his face, and okay, he was exceptionally pretty like this.

A tiny little 'fuck' crept out of John when Cora sighed at the feeling, insistently encouraging, tugging. She needed more. It wasn't fair. Didn't fucking matter how long for; she just needed to feel him. All of him.

Then, when he was barely two inches in, another knock at the door pulled her out of her stupor.

“John? I spoke to Andy. He says it’s an emergency.”

John froze. Then, his eyes scrunched shut in a long-suffering grimace, and once again, his forehead dropped to Cora’s shoulder. Frustration radiated from him, infecting her within moments.

"Has he been out there the whole time?" She grunted.

"Christ." The Baptist sounded almost amused at that. He pulled back to offer a half-smile.

He had to investigate.

Cora, meanwhile, had no patience for his imminent departure. Her legs locked against his hips, but he was gently prying himself away already, muttering repeated, gasped apologies at her protests.

“I’ll be right there!” He called back, already resetting his belt. “Give me a minute.”

“Are you kidding?” Cora hissed, sliding down from the counter.

“I’ll be 30 seconds. I swear. Then we can - we can go upstairs, and we can stay there. Emergency or not.” John assured her, punctuating his words with kisses wherever he could land them while she struggled to multitask between receiving and yanking her pants back on. Then, he pulled away completely, stumbling out of the kitchen on visibly shaky legs.

Cora took a moment to silently lament before heading back out into the foyer, buckling her belt while she surveyed the space in an attempt to distract herself from impotent fucking rage.

John murmured away with someone outside, half-visible through the gap he’d left in the door. His arms had crossed, but with his back to her, she couldn’t discern his mood any further.

Nonetheless, her concern grew, and when the man said his goodbyes with a nod and entered the building once more, the Deputy found it had good reason to.

John passed through the room, not sparing her a glance. He snatched the radio he’d abandoned on the coffee table, but to her fleeting relief, simply clipped it onto his belt and moved on.

He’d turned pale.

“Hey.” Cora frowned, following him to the trophy cabinet where he began rifling through memorabilia. “What’s going on?”

“We have to leave.” He muttered, unboxing a small case. It rattled as he shook the content into his hand. 38 Specials, most making it to his back pocket, some clinking to the floor, forgotten when he moved on to withdraw his revolver and tucked it into the back of his pants. “Now.”

John continued hurrying about with Cora hot on his heels, unable to really do anything but watch him build a collection of valuables on the dining table. His coat. His keys. A particularly raggedy old bible. He made some effort to conceal the zip-lock bag he pulled from behind the décor on the mantle; definitely the source of the odour that permeated the foyer.

They traded a look - critical on Cora’s part, and John rolled his jaw while he shoved it out of sight, irritated. Perhaps embarrassed.

“Did you know?” He huffed.

“Mr. Seed, I studied in Colorado. I know what a half-bag looks like.”

“Did you know about the Cougars?” John’s voice hardened. “According to the Chosen, there’s one hell of a convoy inbound from the North. Did you know?”

Oh.

Fuck.

“Oh. Fuck.” Cora noted, still too dazed to even bother lying. “I called them in.”

They actually came?

“Wonderful.” John had stopped to run a hand through his hair. “Truly. Thank you.”

“Well sure, but I don’t see what good they’re gonna do you. They’re probably here to-”

“Sarcasm, Cora.”

“That makes more sense."

John started to pace, then, relenting. Dispersing his temper. He tugged the radio from his belt, holding it to his chin. “Joseph, for God’s sake, come in.”

Half a minute passed by. The little curses under John’s breath became more punctuated until his patience thinned. He angled the dial, and then stopped. Examining the station he’d been using, incredulous.

His gaze flickered to her for a split-second, eyes narrowing, and Cora’s stomach coiled.

Shit.

He knew.

She winced while the Baptist strode past her, anticipating his approach to the phone, investigating an absent dial tone and her now-obvious tampering. He turned the machine over, holding up the ruined cord for her to see.

"Your handiwork, Deputy?" The smile that spread over his face was sharp as ever. The mask was back on.

Perhaps this hadn't been her best plan.

She should've let him go down on her when she had the chance.

#dont read these tags until after you've read the chapter ok PROMISE!!#have you finished the chapter yet-#have i filled enough space yet #PSYCH yall thought either of them deserved to get laid yet?#come back for quiet earth part 3: john's day gets exponentially worse aka the asswhoopin #john seed #john seed x female deputy #far cry 5 #far cry 5 fanfic #cora stammos

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kylorengarbagedump · 4 years

Text

Little Bird: Chapter 15

Read on AO3. Part 14 here. Part 16 here.

Summary: Rey, Finn, and Poe make you an offer. Will you refuse? Well, who knows, this isn't actually the Godfather, so...

Words: 2500

Warnings: Handmaid’s Tale AU

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: *slaps this on tumblr and runs away*

I've actually had this half-way written for like, months, and TROS has me feeling inspired and desperate to repair my own heart, so here y'all go! Look at me, guys. I have not only included OTHER characters, I have plot. Wow. Amazing.

Thank you so much for anyone who is still sticking around for this story. I love y'all so much. <3

Something about being smuggled from the streets to a garage made your situation seem sneakier. Poe parked the van, and Finn and Rey nodded to each other before hopping out, leaving you alone with a strange man who wasn’t a Commander for the first time in years. Anxiety crept into your chest. Though you hadn’t bought into the conditioning at the Red Center, any amount of propaganda was capable of poisoning your brain.

“They’re going to run perimeter checks,” said Poe. “Let me take you to where you’ll be staying. Rey will catch up in a second.”

As nonchalantly as possible, you shrugged. “Okay,” you replied, as if touring the home of a double-agent Angel was something you’d done a thousand times before.

Poe opened your door, hand out to help you out of the van. Your instinct was to take it, but your brain resisted, conscious of your ungloved hands, balking at the thought of making contact with his skin. Swallowing, you surveyed the distance between the van and the floor, and shook your head.

“Uh, I’m okay, thank you.”

He held his hands up. “Of course. Happens all the time.”

Happens all the time. The fact that you’d heard a phrase like this twice now hadn’t bolstered your confidence. You thought, perhaps, you might have been different from the other Handmaids, hoped that maybe your connection with your Commander had been based in something other than abject misery and desperation. Why you’d hoped that to begin with, you weren’t sure. What did it matter if you and Kylo Ren had an actual connection? He was the reason you were trapped in a van, terrified to take a helping hand.

Frowning, you reached out, snatched Poe’s wrist, and leapt out of the van, stumbling as you hit the ground. He steadied you, looking at you with a raised brow.

“All right then.” He grinned.

Poe led you through the garage, into the house. You gathered that Kylo Ren’s high rank within Gilead had afforded you a large, lavish imprisonment--an Angel’s home by comparison was by no means modest, but lacked the suffocating grandeur of a mansion. The ceilings were of normal height, the walls made of drywall rather than varnished wood, and there was a noticeable absence of opulent furnishings as you moved through the rooms. Most interesting to you, however, was that you and Poe seemed to be the only ones there.

“Are there other people here?” you asked. “Other, um, Handmaids?”

Poe looked aghast. “Of course there are,” he said, “I’ll take you there immediately if you want. I just figured you’d want some idea of where you were staying before I took you to the Handmaid area. Rey is going to take you around the whole property, like she said.”

“Right.” Embarrassment heated your face. “No, I just meant… I don’t know.” The operation had been so risky. There was no way Ren wouldn’t notice your absence. There was no way they wouldn’t narrow down what had happened. “Aren’t you guys looked at, taking people from the street like this?”

“Ah,” he said. “Good question. Most Handmaids come to us, actually.” His smile was so dashing that it disarmed you. “This is really the first time we’ve taken this level of risk--but it was necessary. And worth it.”

“Worth it?”

“We always want to get everyone out as safely as possible. But your case is different. Kylo Ren’s Handmaids tend to have a tighter leash. So, to get his Handmaid to our base is a risk worth taking.”

You looked to the floor. Did being Kylo Ren’s Handmaid change your value? You remembered what Ofarmitage had said--how she’d been pestered for awhile to leave. But you couldn’t imagine why you might be more prized. Ren had provided you with all of zero useful information. Unless, of course, they wanted to know about the size of his dick, or how his cum tasted (massive and tangy, respectively).

“Come with me,” Poe said. You stepped to follow him.

“Poe!”

It was Rey’s voice. You spun to meet her, heart skipping. At some point, your reactions had to stop being so exaggerated--right? She was with Finn, the both of them crossing through the house at a quick clip. She’d removed most of her Handmaid uniform and was dressed in a loose white blouse, grey trousers, and half-calf black boots--the sight was baffling to you. Not only was a woman wearing pants, she wasn’t even acting self-conscious about it. A few years ago, that would’ve been you. You wanted to drown your embarrassment in rage.

“That was fast,” Poe said. “I was just about to show her to the Handmaid area.”

Rey waved the suggestion off. “Let’s just talk to her now.”

Poe looked between Finn and Rey. “Now? Right now?”

“Why not?” Rey beamed. “It won’t take too long, I’m sure.” She urged the three of you forward, moving into the home.

“I guess that’s what we’re doing now,” Poe said.

Finn shrugged. “I mean, I’m glad you know, because I didn’t know.”

“Really? Me neither.”

“So weird how--”

“All right, guys, relax.” Rey looked over her shoulder, winking at you.

You offered her a strained smile. The fact that they wanted to talk to you laid a rock in your chest. It seemed ominous--you were just arriving, but they wanted to all meet with you before you could even settle in. That, combined with Poe’s talk of your value--surely he hadn’t meant it that way, but even still. You wondered if there would be a world where your value could be determined by you alone, rather than by virtue of your uterus, or who was trying to fill it with his seed.

Rey led you through the porcelain-and-quartz themed kitchen, and, with surprising strength, pushed a large wooden pantry aside, revealing a seamed wall. Having completed that, she wedged her fingers into the seams, and the piece of wall popped forward--she slid her fingers along the ridge, unhitching a lock, and the door eased back, slipping behind the pantry. You stood, speechless, peeking at Finn and Poe, who were busy sniping with each other about something. It looked like Finn was winning.

The opening behind the pantry led straight to a set of stairs. Rey beckoned Finn and Poe first, and then you. You went to step, but were stalled by flashes of memory--your arrest, handcuffs, the Red Center--and your muscles locked in panic. It took a moment of flicking between Rey’s earnest face and the set of descending steps in front of you before you were able to find a breath and push forward.

You crept down, arms pinned to your sides. The width was only enough for a single person, the walls covered in black egg crates, the only illumination coming from battery-powered tap lights stuck near the sloped ceilings. The unvarnished steps were cushioned with patches of carpet and padding, silencing your movement. Behind you, Rey yanked the pantry back to cover the opening, and then tugged the door shut, clinking metal as she secured it.

Finn and Poe had already reached the bottom, but you were hesitant, peering into the room in front of you, hands gripping at the banister-less walls for support. The air had grown cold and dry. You landed in a small, sparsely furnished room--this, too, was plastered in egg crates, discarded carpet, and battery tap lights. Against one wall was a threadbare linen couch, at its sides a few mismatched upholstered chairs. At the center of this set-up was a table smothered with discarded papers, magazine clippings, books with torn pages. In another corner sat a tiny desk with a wireless radio, a headset, and some scribbled notations and a pen at its side. Poe crossed to it, glancing over the writing. You were surprised he could read it. He held up a finger and placed the headset on, tuning the radio, eyes narrowing. There was silence for a moment, Finn and Rey exchanging looks. Poe scrawled something.

“Anything?” said Rey.

He took the headset off, shook his head. “No. If anyone’s noticed she’s gone, they haven’t reported it yet.”

“Good,” Finn said. “We have some time until Ren starts looking for her.”

Your heart sunk. “What?”

Rey’s hand was at your back, and she guided you toward the seating area. “Sit down with us.”

Her voice entered your ears as if your head had been thrust in gelatin. It was as if the floor had disintegrated below your feet, and you were falling out of your skin, your insides plummeting into nothingness, somewhere, leaving the hollow husk of your body behind.

Ren starts looking for her? Looking for her? Ren?

Ren?

There must have been a brief blackout in your brain--when you remembered to breathe, you were seated on the couch, Rey next to you, Finn and Poe across in the chairs. Up close, you could see how tattered the furniture was, the scuff marks on the wood. You wondered where it had come from, who it had belonged to before Gilead. Strange, how you’d become just like the furniture in a few short years--you were wondering who you belonged to, now, too.

“There’s something we want to ask you about,” Rey said, “and it is going to sound scary.”

You blinked, mouth dry.

Finn leaned forward. “We want you to become a part of the Resistance. We want you to spy on Commander Kylo Ren.”

Before you could even react, Rey’s hand was on your arm. “We know it’s a lot to ask. And we’ll explain what we want you to do before you do it.”

“Oh… kay.” You searched each of them to try and gauge your response. “I… I thought I was coming here to escape. To get out.”

“And you are,” said Poe, hands raised in deference. “If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. We’ll get you across the border.”

You frowned. “Then that’s what I want,” you said. “I don’t want to be a spy.”

Rey offered an understanding smile. “It’s a terrifying idea, I know,” she said. “But I promise we will keep you safe.”

There was a pause as you waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. “How?”

She looked between Finn and Poe, drawing a long breath. “We’d be monitoring you. It would be like you go back to Kylo Ren and become his Handmaid, as usual. There’s specific data we’d want you to collect.”

You blinked. “Specific data?”

“We’re looking for evidence of corruption in the regime at the level that Ren is at,” Finn said. “There’s an arm of our organization looking to bring Gilead down from the inside. Part of that is getting proof of how hypocritical and criminal it all is.”

More flashes of memory--Ren’s hand at your neck, the heat of his body crushing yours, the stretch of his cock in your cunt. Your face burned. “Wouldn’t have to look very hard,” you mumbled.

“That’s great, though!” Rey grinned. “It reduces the risk for everyone involved if you already know what to look for.”

“And you guys have done this before?”

Finn made a so-so motion with his hand. “Kind of.”

“Not really,” said Poe.

“Come on, man,” Finn said, “she’s obviously scared.”

“Well, we can’t lie,” Poe replied. He looked at you. “You are the first high-ranking Handmaid we’ve been able to rescue. We’re familiar with Ren, though--there’s no doubt that once he finds out you’re missing, he’s going to raze everything within a one-hundred mile radius to find you.”

You swallowed. Sounds about right.

“We’d make it so he’s able to reclaim you--nonviolently--and every few days, we’d follow-up with you on the things we would be looking for.”

“You’d have to get on his good side,” Finn said. “See what all you can get out of him.”

You snorted. You had no idea how you’d do that. So far, the only you’d been able to get out of him was semen--but you had managed to get it in multiple orifices, so maybe that would count for something.

“Once you complete the mission, we’ll get you out of here,” Rey said, gripping your shoulder.

You shifted away, dread dripping down your spine. “I didn’t say I’d do it.”

The thought of returning to Kylo Ren, to that tiny room, to your gloves and wings and bed and Johana and Emma and Rose and, God, him and his enraging desire to know you but only at dick’s length--it brought a flush of hot shame to your cheeks. You’d just barely sampled freedom. It seemed unfair to deprive you of the meal.

“Can’t you guys just get me out of here?”

Poe nodded. “We can. We have a transport coming in a few days.” His face grew severe. “But remember, in your place, there will be another Handmaid, one who has no knowledge of us, one who has no familiarity with how he works. This is a chance you have to make a difference.” His hand tightened into a fist. “To bring him down.”

“Well…” You fanned yourself, somehow sweating in the chilly basement. “I… I just, I don’t want to. I don’t want to go back there. I want to get out. I want to sleep in a bed I can call my own. I want to be able to talk to men and not feel embarrassed. I want to fucking look at the birds outside of my window if I want and feel as free as they are.” You looked between the three of them. “I know you guys were hoping that I’d help you, or whatever, and that’s why you even bothered to get me in the first place--”

“No, no!” Rey gasped.

“--but I don’t want to help the Resistance. I just want to leave. I want to get out and forget I ever met anyone in the past three years of my life and start over. I want to move on!” You hadn’t realized until you stopped talking that you were crying.

Rey rubbed your back, and you shook your head, wiping your face.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I can’t do it.” A sniffle escaped. “I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” Rey said. “You’re allowed to say no.”

The reassurance seemed so ludicrous, you couldn’t help it: you laughed. “I guess I am, now, yeah.”

Poe smiled, slapping his knees. “That’s that, then!” There was no hint of resentment in his voice. “You want Rey to show you where you’ll be staying for the next few nights?”

You looked between them--they were all smiling at you. They meant it. So you wiped your hands on your skirts. And you nodded.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo trash #handmaid au #little bird #I bet you can't guess what will happen NEXT

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poorreputation · 4 years

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Undertaker: The Last Ride

When I say I've been waiting years for this, I'm serious. Ever since Undertaker's loss at Wrestlemania 30, and shortly after that the news he would be on the Stone Cold Podcast, I've been eagerly anticipating seeing Mark Calaway speak as himself. Many fans have been hesitant to watch Calaway out of character, worried it would ruin the mystique of the Undertaker, but I've felt for years that the work put into these characters behind the scenes is just as fascinating as the fiction.

I watched episode one soon after it aired, and want to do a rewatch/reaction post before episode two drops tonight. Join me, if you wish.

If you've not seen the episode, a little content warning: there is blood, gore in a surgical setting (very, very graphic, but only there for a couple seconds at a time), needles, and implied injuries, including details of Mark's concussion at WM30.

CHAPTER 1: THE GREATEST FEAR

The series, all five episodes, takes place between 2017 and 2020. Chapter 1 covers Wrestlemania 33, and his match with Roman Reigns, which was intended to be his last.

This is the first time Mark Calaway's really opened up about his work, and himself in general. There's other instances of him being interviewed, even mixing fact and kayfabe, but never on a platform like this, certainly not with WWE.

Mark: You know they call me Santa Clause, now, right? Because I only come out once a year.

Jimmy Hart, being the sweetest: That's all you need to. You look great.

These backstage segments of Calaway with his coworkers are honestly some of the best parts of the episode. A transcript can only do so much justice.

Roman Reigns, upcoming opponent of the Undertaker, signs in at the lobby desk right next to Mark, being a smartass. Screw your camera guy, indeed.

Mark meditates on the struggles of working only once a year, and throughout the episode, chronicles the moments and injuries that make an already challenging schedule nearly impossible. Chasing the dragon that is the perfect match has lead him to a stalemate with himself and his character: if the Undertaker can go out in a match fitting of him at Wrestlemania, Mark Calaway will be happy.

Gah, baby 'Taker at his Survivor Series debut always gets me. No one could've called the run that boy was about to go on. I see other people call this portion of the episode the mythologizing of the character, building him up to be this big deal, and it's so funny to me because I wouldn't be watching if I didn't already think that of him. Like, y'all are just preaching to the choir, at this point. That, and so much that's been said here has been consistent with what Mark's peers have told about him in the past, it just feels like catching people up rather than building an image from scratch.

Say what you will about Vince McMahon (and there's a lot to be said), but there's something special about his comments on Mark Calaway. You rarely get to hear the guy talk candidly as it is, so when he does, you know it's important.

Calaway describing the weight, the prestige of Wrestlemania... and then the sneer he makes after that statement. I ain't a journalist, so I'll freely speculate: 'Mania's for the best of the best, and he just doesn't see himself as deserving to be there, not right now, at least.

Other wrestlers, from Orton to Edge to Batista, talk about what an honor, and mark of trust, it is to work with Undertaker, period. To work with him at Wrestlemania? You've arrived. The implication of what this would, or should, have meant for Roman is clear. It's a wonder if this image that his coworkers built up of him affected Mark's own expectations of himself. I mean, it's more or less spelled out in the episode, and it is the pro wrestling way to go out on your back, losing to someone who can use the rub, but, just throwing it out there, 'Taker had more pressure on him than most. That legacy, 'Mania, and the worry of managing to physically move during a match? It's overwhelming.

For those confused about why working once or twice a year would be so much more difficult than working hundreds of shows in that same time span, Steve Austin sums it up best: the road keeps you calloused and bruised. Ring rust from inactivity, due to being away or rehabbing an injury, gets you both mentally and physically. Knowing Mark's doing this process every year in his 50′s is insane.

During this, Steve plainly states that to go through that, and the many surgeries as Michelle McCool, Mark's wife, mentioned, it makes him a tough son of a bitch. It's an interesting note, considering we start this episode with Mark referring to that toughness as a thing of the past. His perception of himself, and what his peers see, is another fascinating aspect of the documentary.

Calaway talks about how nerve-racking the final workout before 'Mania is. The worry you'll hurt something while trying to train. Later, when other wrestlers talk about how calm, cool and collected 'Taker always seems... it's like they've built him up to be superhuman; Invulnerable to the same things and fears that plague all athletes. They talk about the physical decline, of course, that’s inevitable. But the mental side of things is where the biggest differences are.

Hoo boy, WrestleMania 30, the cause of my first major bout with depression. After that match between Undertaker and Brock Lesnar, not only was I crying and distressed, but there was then the news of Mark Calaway's hospitalization that was the numbing cherry on top. I remember registering how much more important the man's health was, but it was like I couldn't get any more upset.

After that, I'd read up on so many rumors, that the only new bit of information here in the documentary is about when Mark's being rushed to the ER; how Vince infamously left the arena before 'Mania was over just to make sure Mark was okay, and, in new info, Brock was in the car with him. I cannot stress enough how humanizing that is to hear, especially considering how closely guarded Brock is about his persona, and how the man and the character are often so blended together. Time heals all wounds, but I really appreciated hearing that.

So, the injury for the uninformed: during the match with Brock, 'Taker got concussed. No one knows when it happened, much less Mark, who can't remember anything from after 3:30 PM that afternoon. To say I, and many others, were convinced this was it, he'd retire, would be an understatement. Many people felt he should retire, I did too, at one point. But, I could also tell Calaway wouldn't want to leave on such a note, because frankly, the match sucked. That's what happens when one person gets knocked the fuck out, and the other guy's gotta improvise. The fact 'Taker's going on muscle memory while he's out is nothing short of a miracle.

With WM30 in the books, 'Taker was at a low point, his confidence shot and a lot riding on his match with Bray Wyatt at WrestleMania 31 (or Play Button, if you prefer). Bray himself recalling how nervous he was, but how chill Undertaker appeared, in comparison.

Triple H's pep talk with 'Taker backstage is another gem, and I just love their friendship. I love the raw vulnerability this series is providing, both when it comes to 'Taker, and everyone else around him. I hope it's a constant through the rest of the docuseries.

WM31 was an ego boost, and leads into the superior Brock-Undertaker program in 2015. It's not highlighted as much, but it's fire, and I think allowed Calaway to redeem himself a bit, in his eyes. Not too much, since he didn't retire, but it made fans really start to come back 'round.

Now, I liked WM32 because I got to see it in person, and it was the first time I'd ever seen Undertaker live, so I'm a biased bitch. Anyone signing up to work Hell in a Cell is a ballsy move, and considering how old both 'Taker and Shane McMahon were going into that is no small feat. I liked it, it was a spectacle, and I was sports entertained. There is the implication, between showing clips of WM32 and 'Taker's appearance at the 2017 Royal Rumble, that Calaway wasn't satisfied with how the former turned out. It becomes fully fleshed out he's talking about entering the RR, and feeling intense regret, but that he was also disappointed with the former. Again, if he were happy with it, he'd have retired, but that's again the difference between what the fans see and what the wrestler sees. I, and I imagine roughly 100,000 others, had the time of our lives; Mark Calaway was, and still is, chasing perfection.

With RR 2017, Mark freely admits that he had no business being there. It sounds truly like his thought process in the moment, and not just the regret of how WM33 went down, and that the build for that match began when he and Roman went toe-to-toe at the Rumble.

Back to WM33 weekend. 'Taker's finished up the final workout, and is talking about his place on the upcoming card:

Mark: Regardless of my injuries, regardless of my age, regardless of everything that has happened, if I'm on the card, there's some young guy that's making a lot of the shows through the year, you know, that may not be on that card. So, it's my duty to make sure that it's worth putting me on the card. No one would probably say it to my face if I stunk it up, (but) I would know, and that's one of my biggest fears, and um, is becoming a parody of myself.

This is someone who's also been reading the rumor mill, the comments, general fan reaction. It's neat he's so receptive to fan interaction, and makes me wonder if he's actually been doing this for years, but it's also sad to watch him only see the negative sides. The Undertaker, as a character, wouldn't have worked for so long without innovation, so being open-minded is important. And, I'm all for Mark Calaway doing what he wants with his life, but, for him, will anything, any match, ever be good enough?

It's the night of the Hall of Fame 2017 and we see Mark and Michelle backstage greeting people. We get a shot of Mark saying hi to the likes of the late Bruno Sammartino, inductees Sean Waltman and Kurt Angle, and I just love how dolled up Michelle looks, whereas Mark's just in jeans, a dress shirt and a cap. I love their dynamic, so so much. Also, Mark and Kurt's friendship, that's adorable. One of the good things to happen when I found out about kayfabe was thinking how these characters who normally hate each other on screen, were really besties backstage. It's a thought that still tickles me to this day, and watching that in the episode on several occasions is a joy to behold.

Kurt's talking about 'Taker's role as locker room leader, and Mark mentions how it wasn't ever something he actively pursued, it just happened. Being locker room leader just seems to be yet another thing added to the legend of the Undertaker. Makes a bit more sense why Mark's peers put him on a pedestal.

Wrestlers are talking about how, very early on, Undertaker set the benchmark, the gold standard, of work every night. John Bradshaw Layfield goes on to say, "(Mark) was the yardstick. And if you did well, then pretty much you were in, if not, then you were out, because you knew if you didn't do well, it wasn't the Undertaker's fault." That explains why it hurts so much for 'Taker to not be at his best. I mean, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out, but it's fascinating to see all of these elements come together. It's also interesting to hear JBL build up 'Taker as the greatest of all time, and then plainly say he's never seen Mark in worse shape than he was heading into WM33.

On a lighter note, it's real funny to hear Mark and Roman talk about the latter's new twins (from 2017) considering he's got another set of twins on the way, now. Just in general, Roman going on about how much he loves talking to Mark about work, but mostly family and to hear the stories Mark's got to tell, you can see how much this match means to him. The prestige of working with 'Taker at any point, let alone 'Mania, he knows this is the highlight of his career. I can't help but respect Roman for that, and couldn't help but feel that way going into WM33. It's a stark difference from how I felt about Brock post-WM30, and I honestly thought I was prepared to watch Undertaker take his rumored loss at this show.

It's the night before 'Mania, and they're doing entrance rehearsals. The stage setup for this show was so cool, guys, it took inspiration from the theme parks that are littered throughout Orlando, and was a beauty to see live, especially when it got dark. And 'Taker's entrance, even in practice, is a spectacle.

Cuts to the day of WrestleMania 33. General nerves are felt, and the start of a very long day begins.

Mark: People say, "All you gotta do is go out there and chokeslam somebody, make your entrance, and everybody's gonna be happy." No. I'm not gonna be happy. Like when I say, and this isn't stupid man pride, or cliche stuff. I'm either gonna go out in a match that's befitting the Undertaker at WrestleMania, or I'm going out on my shield, one way or another.

And there we have it, the subject of this docuseries.

Roman talking about the weight of potentially being the last person to work with the Undertaker, it just makes you feel bad for him things didn't work out quite the way they planned. But, it's as JBL summed up before, no matter the outcome or if it's really 'Taker's last match, this is the biggest night of Roman Reigns' career. I know episode 2 will focus on the aftermath of WM33, and Mark's reaction, and what gets him to come back to wrestling, but I hope they get Roman's take as well. Is he as disappointed as 'Taker? Does he blame himself? Or, did he actually like what they did, flaws and all?

Content warning: they show the botched top rope dive from WM25, the one where 'Taker goes head-first into the mat. It's during the segment where Mark explains how he comes from the era of 'if you can move, you can make it to the ring'. He's okay, and we know he's okay, but it doesn't make it hurt any less to watch. They also mention the time he was severely sick and still worked a match with Big Show, and how he caught on fire in 2010 on the way to the Elimination Chamber match. Like, they actually show him engulfed in flames, then narrate how he went on to work the match. I love you, Undertaker, but JFC.

And now we're at the medical portion of the episode. Warning for needles.

Actual showtime for the match, and even now, 'Taker's entrance gives me chills. That feeling of happiness is indescribable, and is that precious something that never fails to make me smile.

So, everything else in the match is framed as great, brutal, well-done, and then that damn botched tombstone reversal comes up, and it's honestly the hardest thing to watch in the entire episode. I swear, it's the only bad thing in my eyes, and seems to be enough to make 'Taker dissatisfied. Again, I'm biased, with others saying his whole mood was off during the match, and that affected the overall performance, so what do I know? But, I will say this, ending 'Mania on such a grim note will always be a strange choice to me. I get it, if not the main event, where else would you put the Undertaker’s retirement match? Still, it completely changed my perception of the whole night, from riding high to finding myself depressed, once again. And maybe that’s exactly what all those wrestlers, namely Vince McMahon, were talking about. Instead of this being Shawn Michaels going out on a high note, it’s far more dour.

Mark: We'll see what tomorrow brings.

And with that look, and the fact he's had a match as recently as March/April of this year, he won't be gone for long.

Preview for the next episode contains intense surgical imagery. Just a heads up.

Post-episode thoughts:

I learned very little new information, but that's not the the hook of this series for me. Undertaker's the first character I ever truly loved, long before the likes of Supernatural came into my life. An interesting dynamic is potentially seeing both the Undertaker retire, and Supernatural come to a close, in the same year. I don't find myself mourning either, because I've already been through that. Now, I just want to indulge in behind-the-scenes tales, and watch two of the most influential stories in my life come to a close.

I greatly look forward to Chapter 2 of The Last Ride, and the rest of the episodes to come.

#WWE #Undertaker #Undertaker: The Last Ride #Mark Calaway #documentaries #docuseries #pro wrestling #or if you prefer #sports entertainment #graphic imagery #violence #notes #long post

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