33 y/o Dean!Girl Elijah!Girl Spike!Girl Jax!Girl Yeah, I may have a type... This area is SHIP-FREE, and HATE-FREE, (though I do reserve the right to vent frustrations about characters/episodes/life/etc.), but it is NOT SPOILER FREE! I reblog NSFW content here and there, so no one under 18, please. I'm no where near creative or talented enough to have my own stuff on here, so I REBLOG other people's things that I like, or just think is awesome, on the off chance that someone who maybe wouldn't otherwise, will get to see it. If you see me use a GIF or a pic of any kind, just assume it is not mine unless otherwise stated...like I said, I'm not talented enough for that. So all credit to the creators, even if they are not specifically stated. That's why I try to stick to reblogging, so credit is given where due. Brevity is a foe I have not yet defeated as you can plainly see.
Rating: M? (just to be safe, since there is discussion of sex and violence in later parts.)
Pairing: Female OC x ??? (it's a surprise/choose your own-ish? There is a reveal moment, but you could easily put in whoever you want I suppose)
Warnings: implied rough sex/choking/etc., torture/violence in later parts
Word Count: 1523
Cross posted on AO3 @- Lupine_Princess
My first ever fan fiction, so please be gentle. This is going to be in 3 parts, because the rabid plot bunny would go away and the Main Female stfu...this so did not go how I thought it would, but the character wants what the character wants right? Right...? Part 1 seems to be the shortest of the 3, but part 2 is a *beast* so I'm preemptively apologizing now. lol
Anyway, this is a song fic, but I'm not tagging the song or the singer in the first 2 parts to as not to give it away, but *will* be giving credit where it is due, because I'm not a total asshole. Also, there's no real dialogue in this, because writing dialogue, the same as writing smut, scares the hell out of me right now...maybe one day...
Also, to @kittenofdoomage, thank you for the inspiration and encouragement. You rock! ❤️❤️❤️
Alright, well...here we go...
Part One
The woman lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling as her mind wanders over the course of her life to this point. She can remember with perfect clarity certain events, or more accurately, certain people. People such as her past lovers. She can remember each and every face, their names, how their liaison began, how they went, and especially how it ended. It should be noted, she points out in her own mind, that not only did none of her relationships end badly, they also never began before she knew everything there was to know about the man in question. She was near obsessive about knowing who she was involving herself with before the event took place. A woman can never be too careful after all, she says internally with a sneer that would have her Mama clutching her pearls and reaching for the nearest switch. Of course, if Mama were still alive, the woman knew she wouldn’t have allowed the situation that led the woman to where she is right now.
Oh, Mama. I’m so sorry, she sighs. She fights back the tears that spring to her eyes because she hadn’t cried thus far, and she doesn’t intend to start now. She will keep what dignity remains to her or die trying. Also, Mama always said that if the tears didn’t benefit you, they were pointless wastes of time and energy better spent achieving your goals by other means. Tears won’t help the woman now, she knows, so the best thing she can do is make Mama proud and control herself. If nothing else, the woman can and will take pleasure in frustration her lack of tears would cause. The thought makes her smile briefly, before she realizes that particular train of thought will only lead to pondering her current circumstances again, and she doesn’t want to do that right now. Instead of dealing with that, she casts her mind back to thoughts of her former flames.
She smiles as she remembers them. Each one tall, handsome, and if not rich, then powerful. Or connected to people who were. Her first success began in her junior year of high school. Robbie, the Mayor’s son, was so sweet but painfully stupid. She did help him smarten up a bit and was even responsible for his graduating. His family was very grateful and had all but adopted her at his graduation ceremony. Mama had never looked so proud. Eventually though the woman had tired of being unable to hold an intelligent conversation with him a predicament nothing could ever change, apparently. Still, she didn’t want to let him go completely so, as would become a matter of course for her, her modus operandi if you will, she introduced him to a very pretty, if somewhat dim, friend of hers that he later married. Robbie and Grace now had three beautiful children, who seemed to already be smarter than their parents, possibly due more to the woman’s own place as the children’s godmother than their parent’s child-rearing skills. After the oldest was born, Robbie had decided that he would run for his father’s old position, and of course the woman became his campaign manager and right-hand woman when he was elected. Someone had to take charge and help him muddle through actually using what passed for his brain (or otherwise do his thinking for him, the woman adds with a smirk), and it certainly wasn’t going to be his sweet, easily satisfied, simple-minded wife. Oh, tongues may wag, as they are wont to do in a small town, but the woman would never dream of engaging in inappropriate behavior with dear Robbie. Nor would she allow him to engage in such things with anyone else and risk a scandal. The very idea was laughable and frankly insulting. As if she would risk everything for a night of lukewarm passion. HA! she scoffs to herself.
And so, it went. Troy: the banker’s eldest, married to Bethney, one child and one on the way; always happy to lend a hand the woman needed financial advice or help getting a loan once his father retired and handed the bank over to him. Jordan: the Chief of Police, married to Cora, two kids, precocious twin boys that were the apple of their Godmother’s eye, just like all of her other godchildren, the woman refuses to play favorites, thank you very much; always pleased to send an officer to investigate any suspicious noises or walk her to her car when she left the office late at night, not to mention the fact that she hadn’t gotten a parking or speeding ticket in years, even though she probably (most certainly) should have. Brian: the District attorney, married to Angela, no kids just yet, but there will be a beautiful little girl gracing their home within the next few months assuming the adoption goes through without a problem, which it should considering all of the work the woman has put in ensuring that the couple can grow their family like they so dearly want; not exactly useful just yet, but the woman had no doubt that, should his particular expertise be necessary…well, it’s better not to even contemplate that actually. Premeditation is an ugly word that gets thrown around far too easily after all.
Last was Zachary, never Zack, the woman remembers with a shudder of pleasurable fear and a secret smile: a businessman who made his money in various industries including oil, automobiles, construction, and more, married to Trisha, no children and the couple didn’t want any they were happy to tell anyone who asked. The woman didn’t judge of course, it even made sense in a way what with all of the traveling the couple did…among other things. Zachary is the most dangerous of the woman’s former lovers, after all, and arguably the most useful due to his versatility, intelligence, and ruthlessness, and his less than totally legal side businesses meant the money never stopped flowing. She had very nearly decided to marry Zachary herself, the woman recalls, but when she found out that he categorically refused to have children out of fear that his enemies would try to use them against him, which wasn’t exactly and unfounded fear if the woman was honest, she had decided against it and introduced him to Trisha, who not only did not want children, but was unable to conceive because of an injury she suffered as a child herself. Darling Trisha had made peace with having her choice taken away like that, which she had told the woman had bothered her more than the fact that she would never grow a child in her own womb, and Zachary had accepted all of this with relish. The woman privately thought it was at least partially due to the knowledge that there would never be any “accidents” or “surprises,” but again, the woman didn’t judge. One of the things the woman had loved about Zachary was his practicality after all.
There were others interspersed in between them over the years, none of whom were ‘flings’ (the woman nearly retches at the thought) by any means and all of whom had left town and done well for themselves elsewhere, but together Robbie, Troy, Brian, and Zachary represented her most useful former lovers and her biggest successes. But perhaps it was the woman’s liaison with Zachary that awoke in her a need for a different type of man, and a recklessness that would seem to be her rather sharp downfall. Someone or something has to be to blame for her current predicament, because it certainly isn’t entirely her alone, though she can see her own missteps, especially when she allows herself to recall the one man she was with that she hadn’t vetted. And not ‘hadn’t vetted completely or properly,’ no. The woman hadn’t vetted him at all. She nearly drove herself mad trying to find out information about him after the fact, which is never as effective, and had produced absolutely nothing. The nothing, as well as the absolutely mind-blowing sex she had enjoyed with the man, meant that he rarely, if ever, leaves her thoughts unless she is actively trying to think of anything else. Even her work had suffered and made Robbie concerned for her.
The woman sighs again, this is why Mama taught me to never go with a man if I didn’t know everything about him. And what do I do after years of success using Mama’s lessons? I have a one-night stand with an unknown person! Mama would be so disappointed. The woman has to sniff back tears at the thought, the vile waterdrops attempting to sneak passed her iron control. The action and the thoughts of Mama and her lessons, make the woman realize the time has come to deal with the man that refuses to leave her mind in peace and try to work through exactly how he led her to this point, because it honestly doesn’t make sense to her. So, the woman does what she does best in an unknown situation.
So funny story; I listen to music all night (like I have music going to whole fucking night yo. It helps me sleep or some shit, idk.) So at midnight I was still up and I was just scrolling through Tumblr when RIGHT AT FUCKING 12AM Heat Of The Moment stars blasting through my speakers and I’m just sat there like
Rating: M? (just to be safe, since there is discussion of sex. Also violence in later parts.)
Pairing: Female OC x ??? (it's a surprise/choose your own-ish? There is a reveal moment, but you could easily put in whoever you want I suppose)
Warnings: implied rough sex/choking/etc., torture/violence in later parts, Not Beta Read, description of Bad Sex, Brief Attempted SA, Brief Discussion of SA (more mentioning that its not happening and is not going to happen), ANGST, Character Death
Word Count: 8358 (Ummm...this one got away from me I guess...sorry again? Though the chapter length will probably be the least of the things y'all are going to want an apology...)
Cross posted on AO3 @- Lupine_Princess
Note: I am *so* sorry it took so long! The muse was playing coy and I haven't had the time to really sit down and finish this. But here is it. The conclusion to my first fic ever. I literally finished this maybe 30min before this posting, so there are probably typos, but I wanted to get this out and not agonize and nitpick for days and delay this further. Anyway, as mentioned before this is a songfic and the Song and Singer credit will be at the end before people tags. There's a bit of irony to this being sung by this particular (freaking awesome) artist, but I didn't think about that until just now. Considering this is my first fic, and I'm a nobody in the Fan Fic world, this is probably not needed, but PLEASE DON'T REPOST MY WORK ANYWHERE. Last thing, this is probably obvious at this point, but this doesn't have a happy ending. It didn't go exactly how it did in my head when I was planning it, but it was never going to be an HEA. So for anyone rooting for them to be together, I am *SO* sorry. I should have made it clear in the beginning, and I didn't think about it until tonight. I really am sorry. New tags are for this chapter only, and are things I didn't expect to be a thing in this story until I wrote it. Except for the last two. They were always going to be there for this part. Thank you for reading and giving feedback for those who have, I appreciate it greatly. No idea if I'm going to do this again, but never say never right? I'll probably at the very least leave fan fiction to the professionals for a while if nothing else. lol
Alright, here we go:
Part Three
The woman recalls the six months that had passed since That Night, and can’t help but notice things that she hadn’t seen at the time. In herself, she sees how she had changed. One encounter had not been enough, obviously. She had wanted more. Of course she had. How could a person experience something so visceral, so powerful, so intense, and not want, not crave, more? Even now it baffles her that anyone could or would not understand. Not that she had really spoken to anyone about it, but there had been questions, pointed ones, about Him and That Night. She had tried her best to explain the draw in terms that would not paint her in a bad or sordid light, but it was like trying to explain a sunrise to someone who has lived in a dark room their entire lives. She knew they didn’t, couldn’t, understand, and she felt sorrow for them. She had experienced something profound and felt changed by it to her core, but they had nothing to compare it to, and so couldn’t even begin to grasp it.
Even more concerning than that though, she realizes now, she had started to think of Him in terms of being her’s. She had planned in her mind what she would say to him when he inevitably called. What she would wear on their first date. The woman didn’t count either the party or the resulting inferno of lust as their first date, for obvious reasons, but she had planned out the evening that would count in detail in her mind. She had decided that she would have to return to her Mama’s lessons regarding sex though, which meant that there would be none of that for at least a few weeks. Despite this though, the woman looked forward to seeing him again. To just being around him. She longed for it. Craved him like a drug. So much so that her distraction was remarked upon by various people. She had always smiled and waved away their concerns, but it occurs to her now that they were right to be worried. Because, as with most drugs, the high she was on would not, could not, and did not last.
When He had not called a week after That Night, the woman had gone back to the motel. Sure that he would still be there, she had knocked on the door of the room he had stayed in, and had been shocked when a different man entirely had answered the door. The man and his wife were very confused at a woman they didn’t know, in a town they were merely passing through, knocking on their motel room door. The woman was supremely embarrassed of course and had given multiple apologies for bothering the couple before going to the front desk to ask about Him. The woman stops in her reflection for a moment and scoffs at her childishness as she realizes that she refuses to even think his name now, though she cannot bring herself to forget it. The problem with this realization, however, is that she also cannot force herself to use his name, even in thought. Even now. Perhaps especially now. Now it feels less like rejecting Him and more like protecting Him.
At any rate, the woman had gone to the front desk and asked the clerk about Him. Surely, she rationalized, he wouldn’t just leave without saying something to her. He had her phone number, she knew, and she couldn’t have missed his call, because he would have left a message or called back. But the attendant had told her that He had checked out the day after the party. Hours after she had left, so had he and she felt her heart crack. The clerk had given her a pitying smile, so the woman had straightened her spine, plastered her own smile on her face, thanked the young man, and left. He hadn’t even left a note for her.
The mind is an amazing thing, the woman muses now. In effort to stave off feelings of abandonment, rejection, and humiliation, her mind had attempted to come up with a different likely scenario. He checked out a few hours after she left, hadn’t left a message for her with the front desk, and hadn’t called her, so he must have had to leave quickly. In an act of what the woman still considers extraordinary mental gymnastics, the woman had decided that He must have gotten called to another case and had to leave without time to contact her. Which meant that he was probably too busy solving a case and bringing justice to the wronged that he had not had a moment of peace long enough to call. He would undoubtably call her when he finally had a moment and the two could plan for him to come back to town for their date. Perhaps she would even break her rule on carnality once more since he was working so hard. She had felt sympathy and understanding for him at the time, but a week after her ill-fated visit to the motel and still no phone call, the woman had begun to get angry.
Perhaps he lost her phone number? Inconsiderate, yes, but not unforgivable. An honest mistake. It could happen to anyone. This led her to seeking out the acquaintance who had introduced them to in order to either get His phone number or a message to him. Unfortunately, the acquaintance was once again out of town, so that would have to wait. In the meantime, the woman had decided to start her research into Him. She really should have started that earlier, but she had been distracted. Now that she had to wait on their mutual acquaintance’s return, she had time to do what she should have done from the beginning. As she settled in and got started, she had smiled to herself at the idea that she was going to learn everything there was to know about this man that had gotten past her defenses and Mama’s Rules. She was sure, using her usual resources, she would find a treasure trove of interesting information. Birth date, parents, siblings, schools, grades, college and/or military service. Since He was a federal agent, she knew she could also find out about cases he’d worked. Commendations. Current cases. Whereabouts, even, assuming the case was high profile enough. Which it must be, given they had needed him in such a hurry.
Nothing. The woman found…nothing. Not one bit of information. At all. She had wanted to scream in frustration then, and honestly, she still wants to, but didn’t dare. She had searched records all over the country. Every state. Nothing. Not even information that could lead her to information. She had called the FBI. The most local office to her and then the one in Washington D.C. They said they didn’t have an agent of that name with them and never had. Thinking she must have had the agency wrong, she had waded through the alphabet soup that was federal agencies. Nothing. The most hopeful answer she had gotten was that they could/would not talk about employees, past or present.
The woman was starting to get the feeling, a month after That Night, that something was wrong. He still hadn’t called and she couldn’t track down her acquaintance to ask about Him. Her frustration mounted when she realized another month later that the acquaintance had to be actively avoiding her. They were spending a lot more time than usual out of town and when they were, they were never with the group of people they and the woman had in common. Further, the woman had finally realized that the story she and the group was probably false and so nothing she had been told would or could have led to any information. When she had brought this up with mutual friends of her’s and the acquaintance’s, they were confused. They had said, maybe the information was wrong, that didn’t mean it was an intentional lie, and what did it matter anyway? He was clearly just passing through. The woman had not told them, of course, about how she had spent the night after the party. They may have judged her for her indiscretion. Or worse. Told other people.
Four months after the party, the woman had gotten tired of trying to organically meet up with her acquaintance and had gone to their house. Only to find that not only were they not there, they clearly hadn’t been for quite a while. It struck the woman as odd, so she asked the neighbors when they thought the acquaintance would be back as well as how long they had been gone. They neighbors said the acquaintance had left last over a month ago and while they didn’t know when the acquaintance would return, they were getting concerned since the acquaintance had never been gone this long at once before. They would be gone for a week, two at most, and then return home. Usually, they looked like they had some kind of ailment, a limp, a sore shoulder, scrapes, cuts, even bruises, but the neighbors said the acquaintance would take a week or so to recover and then leave out again and the cycle would repeat. But this time was different.
It wouldn’t be for another two weeks after that, that the woman got some information of any kind. Though decidedly not the kind she wanted. One of the neighbors called the woman to let her know that someone was at her acquaintance’s house, but it wasn’t the acquaintance. The woman’s heart had leapt as she decided that it must be Him. He had come back and would have answers and apologies. As the woman looks back over that time, she realizes she was nothing short of delusional. Mama had told the woman, you can’t always get what you want, love. You will be denied sometimes. Rejected sometimes. But how you handle the situation, and yourself afterward, determines your future successes. Those words had never quite rung true for the woman, because she had never been denied or rejected. She had always gotten what she wanted. Now, it seemed, her luck had run out.
The woman had rushed over to her acquaintance’s house once more, eager to see Him again. When she got there however, He was not there, but an older man in a baseball cap driving a car that looked like it belonged in a junk yard rather than on the road. She had had to school her face and hide her disappointment, and replace it with concern for her friend. The older man told her, gravely, that her acquaintance had been in a hunting accident while away and he was there to clean out their house and put it on the market. She had expressed the required sorrow, sympathy, and shock, and inquired at how the man and her acquaintance knew each other, only to be told they had been ‘hunting buddies’ years ago and had made a deal with one another that whichever one ‘went first,’ the other would clean out their belongings, ‘put them to good use,’ and ‘offload the house,’ since neither had any other family.
After a bit more small talk, the woman had gone back home feeling…off. The older man had the same…presence as He did and, she had just realized in that moment, so did her acquaintance. It was an air of leashed danger and made them seem larger than life. On Him it had been incredibly sexy and massively erotic, on the older man and her late acquaintance, it made her feel anxious. Nervous. Like she needed to run away as fast as she could and not look back. She assumes now that, had she not been so ridiculously attracted to Him, she would have felt the same way in his presence. As it was, she had been so clouded by hormones that it had only heightened her interest in Him and all sense of self-preservation had flown out of the window.
Only once she was back home did she realize that she could easily have asked the older man about Him. She quickly decided to call the acquaintance’s home to try and talk to the man, but there was no answer. She called the neighbor that had called her initially, to see if they could get the older man to come to the phone, only to be told that he had left shortly after she had. The woman thanked the neighbor, hung up the phone, and threw it down the hall as hard as she could. It had taken every ounce of restraint she had, but the woman had managed to hold in her scream of rage and frustration until she could make it to her bedroom. Once there, in the safety of her room, she had snatched up the nearest pillow, held it to her face, and screamed herself hoarse. Unfortunately for the pillow, it hadn’t helped. It and two of its fellows had met grisly demises at her clawed, enraged hands. That hadn’t helped either. Not only was she still livid at her lack of luck, she had also had a mess to clean up and three pillows to replace before bedtime. It just hadn’t been her day.
The woman had indulged in a bit of a temper tantrum, stomping through her home, slamming doors open and shut, in search of her broom and dustpan, a bag to put the pillow remnants in, and extra pillows from her linen closet and guest bedroom to sleep on later that night. The actual cleaning itself wasn’t done in the most calm manner either, which only served to make the task take longer, which subsequently made her more angry. Seemed like a vicious, never-ending cycle of frustration and feathers, until suddenly the dam broke. One moment the woman was swearing a blue streak, the likes of which would have had her mouth washed out with the strongest soap available if Mama had heard her, and stuffing feathers and cloth into a garbage bag with rage filled vigor. The next she found herself sitting on the floor, still surrounded by feathers, sobbing her eyes out.
As undignified as it was, and pointless to boot, she had been unable to do anything about it. She had cried until the tears ran out and her body was weak. Too weak to move. Too weak to drag herself to her bed. She had spent the rest of the night on the floor, the occasional stray tear leaking from her eyes. When she woke up the next morning her body was stiff and she had a headache that could have put all other headaches to shame. Still, she couldn’t find the will or strength to pull herself off the floor even then. Her throat burned, and her stomach clenched around nothing. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before, and had lost quite a bit of water during her crying spree, so it made sense that she was hungry and thirsty like she had never been before. It only added to her despondency, however. Her overwhelming lack of desire to do anything at all should have concerned and motivated her to get up and take charge of her life once more, but she couldn’t even muster up enough energy to feel anything at all.
And so, she had laid there on her bedroom floor, surrounded by feather and destroyed pillows long into the afternoon and evening once again. When she had finally been able to pull herself up off the floor, she stumbled her way to her bathroom, thanking every God she had ever heard of that she had sprung for the extra-large tub, despite never having had anyone to share it with. The thought sent a pain rippling through her that she feels even now. As a matter of fact, digging through her memories of the past hurts more than anything she’s ever felt. Searching for answers she not sure she’ll ever find. She’s not even sure she wants them anymore, to be honest, but she still can’t stop herself from hunting them down like a bloodhound on a scent. Mama always said that if someone looked up ‘stubborn’ in an encyclopedia they would just see a picture of me, she remembers with a slight smile. That smile grows as she recalls that Mama actually had put her picture, not just in the encyclopedia, but also the dictionary under the aforementioned heading. It had been an inside joke between the two of them. Something that no one else would know or understand. Something that was just theirs and theirs alone. These thoughts on the back of remembered pain of that day allows for a single traitorous tear to escape her iron control.
Shaking off the feelings that have crept on her, she remembers the next days as though she is watching a movie. To totally honest, that’s how she had felt at the time. Like life was movie. Something she was only watching happen, and merely experiencing second-hand. She can now see how she missed some very important clues, but even now she can’t exactly make sense of them. She had enough knowledge and understanding to see that she had been depressed following her epic crying spree even then, but there were some things that weren’t quite…right.
Her friends, her former lover and their wives, had begun to look at her with…pity. Even now thinking about it, the woman can help but feel indignant. They pitied her?! How dare they! She is not one to be pitied. She is better than that, she knows, and a familiar iced coated acid feeling creeps through her. With a distinctly unladylike snarl, the woman pushes the feeling away violently. It feels too much like fear and sorrow for her to accept it right now. She has better things to think about and more important issues at hand to deal with.
Aside from the unacceptable pity being directed her way, the woman recalls that the friend that had escorted her to the party That Night had also been changing. She had set him up with a few women she knew that would have been more than acceptable matches for him, but every time something had happened. The women would call her the day after the date and tell her in confused tones that he had not been the warm, hospitable gentleman they all knew him to be. Instead, he was rude and curt, almost angry. And cold. They said it was like he looked right through them, as if he didn’t have the time to even truly acknowledge they were there, until they had tried to talk to him about literally any topic, at which point they would wind up talked over, talked down to, or dismissed entirely. They all had said they had asked why he was in such a mood, only to be told it was “nothing that can’t be taken care of,” and they had then asked the woman if she had spoken to him and what they had done to deserve such treatment. Especially when the end of the date came. It seemed that despite his wholly unappetizing behavior, the woman friend had still had…expectations and made his dates very aware of them when he took them home. The only thing that could be said to his credit in the entire situation was that when the women had obviously told him they could not be less interested in anything he had to offer that night, he had simply nodded, said good night, and left. It was as if he hadn’t cared what the answer he got was either way.
Only one woman, the last incidentally, had taken him up on the offer he had made after their date. The woman recalled how the young woman’s voice had trembled slightly when she had told the woman of that night. It wasn’t anything like what the woman would have expected of her friend. Granted, she hadn’t kept track of his sex life in the past, but the young woman’s description had shocked and appalled the woman. Apparently, the cold, impersonal, overbearing demeanor her friend displayed at dinner had carried into the young woman’s bedroom. There had been no tenderness of any kind whatsoever. There had been only orders given in a hard voice accompanied by hard hands, and harder thrusts. There was no consideration at all shown to his bed partner. He had been wholly selfish, caring only for his own satisfaction, which had come blessedly quickly, and nothing for hers. The young woman had admitted over the phone that once he was done, he had appeared to want to stay for another round, but she had asked him to leave, not being able to stand another disappointing romp like the first. He had shrugged and left without a fight, but not before throwing a crude, “Thanks for the ride,” over his shoulder before the door shut.
The woman couldn’t believe her friend’s behavior. She had resolved not to set anyone else up with him until she could deal with him herself, which she had intended to be a few days later. Unfortunately, the day after the phone call with the justifiably unhappy young woman was the day the woman had found out about her acquaintance’s death and things had spiraled from there. Finally, things with the woman and her friend had come to a head about a month after her pillow destruction and crying jag. He had come over the woman’s home, with the stated intention of checking on her and seeing how she was, what had happened, and how he could help.
At the time that woman had been grateful, but even then she had noticed that something in his demeanor, hadn’t matched his words. Maybe it was his eyes. Always before, they were warm and caring when they looked at her. On that day, she felt like she understood what they women she had sent on dates with him had meant by ‘cold,’ It was like staring into frozen stones. Beautiful stones, the woman is willing to admit even now, like diamonds, or some other gemstone, but hard and cold all the same. Remembering those eyes sends a shiver down the woman’s spine and her throat tightens with fear.
Pulling her focus from his eyes, the woman returns her thoughts to the conversation they had had. Conversation, ha! the woman scoffs, that wasn’t a ‘conversation.’ His visit had been going well at the very beginning, despite the unnerving feeling of wrongness that had been crawling across her skin, when things had hit the proverbial fan. He had asked why she was so “down” lately, and the woman had thought that finally she could talk about the situation with someone who could understand. That wasn’t what had happened. The moment she had mentioned Him her friend had suddenly sparked to life like a firework in a spectacular explosion.
She was honestly still confused to this day about the sudden change in him. Not just with her, but with the women she had set him up with and even other people around town. It seemed like over night he had gone from the kind, funny, helpful, and understanding man they all knew and loved, to a cold, unfeeling man who thought nothing of other people and had a hair trigger temper. At the time she hadn’t noticed the changes as they happened, but that day in her home, she saw what everyone had been talking about. It had been shocking to say the least.
The woman still shudders when she remembers the look in his eyes as he raged at her. He had ranted about her fixation on Him, calling her a “pathetic, delusional whore,” and while she was reeling from that verbal barrage, he had continued raving about how her manipulative ways would come back to haunt her and that she needed him to straighten her out by any means necessary. Those had been his exact words actually. “By any means necessary.” She had been confused, shock, and more scared than she had ever been before. Even more than that one pregnancy scare between high school and college. Nothing had come of it, obviously, but she had taken that lesson to heart every bit as much as she took Mama’s lessons to heart. Since then, there had been no scares, and so very little to fear. It isn’t that she doesn’t want children even now, it just hasn’t ever been the right time, not to mention that she wasn’t and still isn’t married. The scandal of an unmarried mother may have lessoned with the times, but that did not mean that it was entirely gone. That and this town is a bit behind the times in general, the woman admits, somewhat begrudgingly. It had never been a problem for her before, in fact she was more than capable of making that state of affairs work for her rather than against her. The antiquated way of thinking that surrounded her had paid off greatly for her, so it had never been in her interest to challenge it overtly.
Off topic again, dammit, the woman growls at herself. Forcing herself to focus on that day, she shudders once again. From cold or fear she isn’t sure. She remembers how she had listened to her friend rail against her while she stood frozen, right until the point he had grabbed her upper arms, slammed her into one of her living room walls, and kissed her. Kissed?! Please! she scoffs, if that was a kiss then the lion must love the gazelle! And not as food! She can almost still feel his lips on hers. Teeth digging in to her flesh. Tongue forcing its way into her mouth. It was violent and painful, and decidedly not in a way she enjoyed. Just as she gagged on his probing tongue, her shocked mind had finally caught on and reacted to what was happening. He was pulling at her blouse, her knee, of its own volition it seemed, jerked up and none too gently landed squarely on his testicles. At the same moment, she expressed her displeasure with the tongue in her mouth by biting down. Hard. She had never thought blood would taste any way other than vile, but in this instance, it tasted sweet. Like victory.
His howl of pain wasn’t too shabby either, she remembers with a smirk. The smirk fades quickly when she recalls the enraged look on his face and the slap that followed. Stunned once again, her ears ringing, she only vaguely heard the names he screamed at her before he slammed out of her house, leaving with a slight limp. The woman had breathed a shaky sigh of relief that it was over and briefly considered calling Jordan and filing a complaint against her friend and asking for an officer to give her an escort her to and from work and home for a few days, or at the very least just to have someone aware of what had happened and give some advice on what she should do. Then she realized for advice she might be better off calling Brian, even though he would probably tell her to press charges, which she didn’t want to do. Her thought was that if she called Jordan and made a complaint, an officer would go and talk to her friend and make him stay away from her. If her friend ignored the officer’s warning, there would already be a record of what happened so things would be taken care of more quickly.
In the end, she decided not to call either Jordan or Brian. She honestly felt that this was just a hiccup for her friend. He was obviously going through something and a police presence in his life wouldn’t be helpful for him to get out of it. While the woman would never again trust her now former friend, nor would she want him around her, she still wanted what was best for him and to see him do well. Even a whisper of impropriety in which the police were involved could, and likely would, destroy his business, his credibility, and really his life in their town. He also probably wouldn’t be able to start over in a new area either, unless it was quite far away, which would cost more money than he would wind up having. She couldn’t bring herself to risk that happening to him. Not for the man he had become, but for the boy and the friend he been.
Despite her resolve, she had felt a nagging in the back of her mind urging her to tell someone what happened. She had felt it for days. After a week of the feeling, she finally decided the when she got home that night, she would call Zachary. Practical and pragmatic, Zachary would know how to handle things while being discrete. Her now former friend might wind up a bit worse for wear, but as long as he didn’t bother her, or any other woman if she knew Zachary as well as she thought she did, his life would go on overall uninterrupted. If he didn’t…well…people left town all the time without telling anyone else, presumably moving on to bigger and better things while avoiding awkward questions, especially if they had the kind of money her ex-friend had. What was one more person, right?
She had considered calling for an escort home that night, but decided against it. While it wasn’t exactly an unusual occurrence, it would still bring up more questions than she was prepared to answer at that moment. Instead, she had finished out her day, long after her colleagues had gone home to their families, thinking not about the conversation she was going to be having when she got home, but rather about how much she longed to have what they had. A husband, someone who supported her and was her partner in every sense. Love. Babies. The perfect apple pie, white picket fence with a dog in the yard life. No, it wasn’t for everyone, but it was what she wanted. She had realized that she was lonely and tired of living her life the way she was. She wanted to settle down, and using Mama’s lessons and rules, the woman was sure she would find the perfect mate for herself the same way she had for others in her life. She understood it may take longer for her than it had for them, because she knew she was more…selective than they were, but she knew it would happen sooner rather than later. And so, with thoughts of white dresses, bassinets, and lullabies in her head, she walked to her car to go to her lonely, empty home with a resolved smile on her face.
She should have called for the escort.
The only thing she could remember was a soft rustling behind her, not unusual given the trees around the parking lot, then a sharp pain in her neck. Everything went black almost immediately. Almost. Just before the inky blackness descended, she caught a glimpse of a man. Her now ex-friend. And on his face was the most sickeningly sinister smirk on his face.
When she woke, she was on a bed. Her neck hurt, her head was screaming, and her vision was blurry. She had no idea where she was and her heart was racing in fear of the unknown. Naturally, she jumped to her feet to begin trying to figure out not only where she was, but also to find a way out of this place. Unfortunately, while she was able to get up without issue, she quickly realized that where didn’t matter nearly as much as what, and what was some kind of concrete room. No windows. One door. Metal. Undoubtedly heavy, and absolutely locked. She was trapped. The only way out was that one door, and she knew the only way it would open was if…when her ex-friend came into the room. He would be ready for anything she might throw at him, of course, so her chances of escape were very slim. She could only hope at that point that he would do what ever he was going to do, then let her go. She categorically refused to entertain any thoughts about what he might be planning beyond hoping that he would ultimately let her go.
She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, and so had no idea what time it might be. She only knew that she was incredibly hungry and thirsty. Almost as soon as the thought had entered her head, however, a flap she had missed on the bottom of the metal door opened and a something was pushed through. On inspection, she saw that it was two pieces of bread and a paper cup of water on a tray. In her hunger, she snatched up the bread and devoured it, before gulping down the water. It barely took the edge off, but at least it was something.
She jumped when the flap opened again and the tray was yanked through in the opposite direction as before. Upon realizing that someone (she could easily guess who) on the other side of the door had known the tray was empty and had taken it back, she started to talk. Well…less talk, more yell. Questions abounded. Answers were demanded. None were given. She refused to plead, so decided instead to bargain. Assurances that if he only let her go, she would never tell anyone about this occurrence. They would get him help with whatever was going on with him. She would help him. The bargaining ceased when she heard, barely, another door, further away, close. He clearly wasn’t interested in what she had to say and had left.
And so, things had gone for what she could only assume were the next 4-5 days. Three times a day the flap in the door would open, two pieces of bread beside water in a paper cup on a tray that was retrieved as soon as the three items where removed. She had continued to try and talk to him. She still wouldn’t plead and would die before she begged, but she asked for answers and bargained to the best of her considerable abilities. She even lied. Lied like it was her job. It is, or was, but it seems uncouth to say the quiet part out loud like that, the woman muses with semi-forced humor. Forced because there is nothing even remotely amusing or humorous about this situation. She had yet to get any answers, let alone any interaction whatsoever beyond the push of the tray and its retrieval.
Throughout it all, the woman imagined her life outside of this place. The things she would do once she got out of here. The places she would go. She knew now that there was nothing in this town any more. She knew everyone and none of them were to her standard for a husband, though that standard had somewhat lowered in her time in the large concrete box that was her current residence. She thought she might try to find Him, but she had no idea where to even start. Maybe she could find that older man that had been at her acquaintance’s house that day, but she was struggling with remembering him name. Usually she was good with names, but between the high emotions she had been feeling at the time and shortly after, coupled with the knowledge that he wasn’t staying, and her current fear, hunger, and dehydration…well, simply put her mind wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders. Even now, she casts around in her mind for that name. Ronald? Richard? No. Not an R. Not an R…a…B? Yes! B…something! the woman recalls excitedly. A breakthrough finally! B. B. Brandon? No. Bartholomew? Absolutely not. Shorter…Bill? Billy? Billy! she decides. She’s still not entirely sure she’s right, but she can’t be bothered with that reality right now, because frankly, she desperately needs even that small win.
Because her circumstances had changed. And not for the better. She couldn’t be sure how long ago it was really, but it had to be a day or two there had only been two trays. The first had half of the rations she’d been getting which, while they hadn’t been nearly enough before, she really couldn’t afford to lose. She spent the day curled up on the bed, shaking with hunger pangs worse than ever before. Her throat burned and her head pounded. When it can to about the time that the second tray would be delivered, she had pulled herself up and over to the door to wait patiently. She had waited in vain. The tray never arrived. The disappointment had nearly crashed her and her resolve wavered. Wavered, but did not collapse, thankfully. Her disappointment coupled with the overall insufficient food, however, had left her unable to go back to the lone source of comfort in the room. For hours, she laid on the floor in front of the flap, willing it to open and provide her with a nourishing, filling meal. Eventually, her will prevailed and the flap indeed opened. The tray was passed through and upon it, while not the meal she wanted, were the standard two bread slices and paper cup with water. She had sighed in relief.
Naturally, she tore into the bread and gulped the water in a most unladylike manner, but she didn’t care. She was quite literally starving. It wasn’t until she noticed that the tray hadn’t been retrieved that the thought that something might be a bit suspicious about this particular meal. That’s when the first wave of dizziness had swept over her and she felt herself falling backward. She heard more than felt her head hit the cold concrete floor, and mused that it would probably hurt when she woke up. If she woke up. The last thing she was aware of was the heavy metal door opening and her now very much EX-friend walking into the room. The same sinister smirk smeared across his face. She was all but certain that this was her last moment.
But she was wrong. Although on further reflection she wasn’t exactly sure that was good thing. She had woken on the bed again. But this time was different. She was naked. And bound. Shackled actually. As soon as she realized the vulnerable state she was in, she immediately began shivering. Cold and fear. Fear and cold. The war between the two feelings was never fully won by either, so they traded off for the role of most prominent. Outweighing even the burning thirst and vicious hunger. Something she hadn’t thought was possible, but now she knew she was wrong about that, too.
And so, it is. Since the moment she had woken up chained to this bed, naked as the day she was born, she hasn’t moved, hasn’t been able to, other than the occasional shift or to bang her head back in frustration. She is more uncomfortable than she has ever been. Her arms and shoulders ache, but had largely stopped hurting other than a sharp twinge here and there, which honestly would have concerned her if it weren’t for the entire situation as a whole, but things being what they were, she can’t be bothered to care. Other than to be grateful that part of her discomfort has ended. The rest though is all but unbearable. Because she can’t get up and pace like she normally would when she got bored, she has to lay there with her mind spinning desperately searching for something, anything, to alleviate the boredom. She can’t warm herself or at least cover up with the blankets, so she is fully exposed, which is a different kind of discomfort, but still valid, and she is freezing. She is losing feeling in her feet and legs, though whether that is because of the tight bonds holding them to the bed immobile, or the frigid cold, she can’t tell. She also hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since ingesting the clearly drugged bread and water. The only silver lining, if it can be called that, to that particular issue is that she has stopped feeling the thirst and the hunger. Either because they have disappeared, or because she has gotten so used to them, she has no idea. And to add insult to injury, because she is chained down so securely, she can’t reach the single hole in the far corner of the room that had been serving as her toilet this whole time. She is filthy, having had not opportunity to bathe since she had been brought to this place, and now she was covered in her own waste. If there was anything at all beneficial about starving and being critically dehydrated, it was the fact that particular indignity had all but ceased as well. Again, something she would ordinarily be concerned about, but in her nearly delirious state, she can’t force herself to look passed the fact that she isn’t getting any dirtier.
Somewhere in her mind she knows, though. She knows that she is not long for the world and that her time now is likely being counted in hours and minutes, rather than days, weeks, and years. As that simultaneously depressing and comforting thought skips across her mind, she hears the metal of the door clang, creak, and open. Her heart leaps to her throat. Fear yes, but it’s also been so long since she’s seen anyone else face, she doesn’t care that it’s the face of the man she used to think was her closest friend. The relief is short lived. As he enters, he begins to talk. And the things he says…he tells her that while her absence has been noted, no one actually cares. The town gossips hiss to each other that it’s probably her own fault and that it’s likely for the best. Her friends don’t feel that way of course. They are saddened by her sudden disappearance, “What a pity,” they say, “what a loss.” But ultimately, they can’t be bothered to put forth any real effort into finding her. They are wrapped up in their own lives and won’t bestir themselves to much on her behalf. Even the police investigation into her disappearance was token at best.
Her outrage at the knowledge that she has been cast aside and forgotten by those she benefited and benefited from the most is tempered only by pain. Because while he talks, the man wearing her friend’s face, for that is how she thinks of him now, (they can’t be the same man. He can’t have changed this much. she tells herself trying desperately to soothe and distract), he cuts. He carves. Red lines racing over ever inch of flesh. During his monologue about how all of her insipid dreams are all for naught, he makes her bleed. Sometimes he lays down the blade for another implement, each is a new level and type of pain she had never thought to experience, but he always returns to the shiny, straight metal and continues his “artwork” as he calls it.
He tells her over and over that if she had just noticed him, given him the time, accepted him, loved him, he would have given her everything she ever wanted. A home, warm, welcoming, and safe. Love. Acceptance. A partner. Children. Beautiful babies to sing to and tell stories and teach and play with. He would and could have given her everything. On a never-ending loop he berates, belittles, and taunts her. Her friends don’t need or miss her. The town she thought she ran is still running and better in the one week she’d been gone than it ever had under her watch. Her home had already been emptied out, her belonging stored until an auction could be arranged, and the building itself already sold. No one had wasted any time completely erasing her from their lives and the town. She will never leave this room. All of her dreams and ambitions will end here with her. She will never have a husband in her arms or a child on her hip. Her memory, such as it is, will swiftly fade for everyone and when someone does think about her it will be with pity before they shrug off the thought and move on with their lives. And all because she had chosen some man, some stranger, she didn’t even know over him. If she had chosen him that night, instead of “whoring around” with Him, she wouldn’t be laying here right now. She would be safe in bed with him, her friend and new lover, dreaming of wedding bells and strollers, but instead she decided to make the wrong choice, once again, and he would make sure it was the last one.
The woman’s heart breaks over and over and over as a man she used to love as family tears her apart physically, mentally, and emotionally. The one thing, the one line he didn’t cross, was that he had not touched her. He hasn’t violated her in that way. It was one experience she was assured she wouldn’t have, but not because he wouldn’t cross that line, but because she “she didn’t deserve” him and she was “even too filthy for” him. She got the feeling he wasn’t talking about the layers of dirt and refuse she had accumulated, but she can’t find it in herself to care. It doesn’t even necessarily make sense really. She is going to die. She knows it. She has known it, but somehow, she takes solace in that one thing. And if her dalliance with Him had been what prevented that act from taking place, she can and will find it in herself to be grateful for that even though this whole thing is His fault.
The woman loses and regains consciousness several times over the course several hours. Every time returning to the waking world to hear her Not Friend ranting like a mad man, laughing at her pain, and layering more and more of it one top of the other. She has long since broken her vow against crying not to mention screaming, but can’t beg, not coherently at least, even if she wants to. Since she had woken chained up on the bed, she had been securely gagged. A gag that had now been soaked in blood and other bodily fluids generated during her ordeal. If she could, though, she would beg. She would beg him to have mercy and let her die. She knows that’s a fruitless wish though. He has no mercy. Not for her at the very least. He has made that perfectly clear time and again.
Finally though, finally, blessedly, she feels the end, the Reaper, Death himself, approach. She almost sighs in relief, but holds herself back just in case her Not Friend finds a way to bring her back from the brink. The thought of this agony, this hell, continuing cannot be borne and she prays one last time once again to every God she’s ever heard of that this really will be the end. She can still hear her Not Friend rant, though now it is muffled, like someone talking from far off. He is asking questions now. Demanding answers she hopes he doesn’t expect her to give. She couldn’t if she wanted to. Not that she does want to. Maybe if he gets angrier, this will end quicker. Either way, at this point anything that makes him unhappy pleases her. Probably twisted, but no less true. Slowly, she turns her head toward him, very purposefully. She can actually feel her heart slowing and see the final darkness at the edges of her vision. She has nothing to lose anymore. She doesn’t care anymore. It makes her brave in her last moments.
Again, her Not Friend demands an answer to his question. Her Not Friend wants His name. Apparently, he can’t remember it, and for some reason it’s important to him. He also wants to know what she knows about His whereabouts. She can’t imagine why. Still, one last push and it’s over. And it’ll do her slowing heart good to see him stymied one last time. She is dying and he is the one killing her. She is entitled to be a bit mean she feels. And so, strength fading quickly, the woman grins around her blood and spit-soaked gag showing bloody cracked teeth, and very intentionally, deliberately, slowly turned her head away from him. His rage was hysterical. If she could, she would have laughed, though one thing does confuse her. Just before he is out of her sight for the last time, she would swear she saw his eyes flash black. And there isn’t enough blood in her body for her brain to work properly, so she probably imagined it, she reasons quickly. It doesn’t matter anyway. The darkness the had been on the edges of her vision has almost completely covered it. Her Not Friend’s screams and yells mean nothing to her anymore. But one thing does. She can’t believe it, but she wants her last thought to be of the man who ruined everything. The man who made her feel alive and got her killed. Him. Slightly resigned to her own sentimentality, but resolute nonetheless, she calls up his image in her mind. How he looked went she first saw him That Night, but also when she last saw him, asleep, hair a mess, back covered in red lines, justifiably exhausted. She smiles to herself one last time, and with her last heartbeats, her last precious moments, she thinks
His name was John.
Song Credit- Reba McIntire "She Thinks His Name Was John" (side note: this song is about something very different and very real, and I have the utmost respect for that and Ms. McIntire for doing it in the first place. This fic came about because I binge watched Supernatural after listening to this song and my sleeping brain mashed them together. It turned into a massively rabid plot bunny that I had to write. But go listen to the song and prepare fore chills at the very least. I tried to do it justice, but I'm not sure how successful I was.)
Please comment and let me know what you think now that its complete. Good or bad, I don't care, but please be nice about it. Constructive criticism instead of flames. And I don't feed trolls. I block them.
Ooooooo oh my god, that ending! Wow. This was very well written, had me thinking the whole way through and trying to guess, I was sure I was right and then bam! That twist! Damn!
Brilliant work 👍 again, my apologies for taking so long to get to it!!
The last bit was the biggest thing I knew about the story before I started writing it, but it parts if it still ended up different to how I imagined it. Is that normal? Lol There was supposed to be more reaction by OFC to the eyes reveal, but she had other things on her mind understandably. haha
Please don't apologize! I only asked because I was sure I messed something up or Tumblr got mad and ate this part of the story or even that I wasn't and couldn't get notifications as something of a punishment because it took me so long to write and post it. Its happened before with FB posts where over posted something and someone comments and I don't see anything at all about it until I find the post itself.
Again, thank you so much for the encouragement and even reading this thing. I really appreciate it. You are awesome and never let anyone or anything make you think otherwise. 💖❤💖❤💖❤💖❤💖
Rating: M? (just to be safe, since there is discussion of sex. Also violence in later parts.)
Pairing: Female OC x ??? (it's a surprise/choose your own-ish? There is a reveal moment, but you could easily put in whoever you want I suppose)
Warnings: implied rough sex/choking/etc., torture/violence in later parts, Not Beta Read, description of Bad Sex, Brief Attempted SA, Brief Discussion of SA (more mentioning that its not happening and is not going to happen), ANGST, Character Death
Word Count: 8358 (Ummm...this one got away from me I guess...sorry again? Though the chapter length will probably be the least of the things y'all are going to want an apology...)
Cross posted on AO3 @- Lupine_Princess
Note: I am *so* sorry it took so long! The muse was playing coy and I haven't had the time to really sit down and finish this. But here is it. The conclusion to my first fic ever. I literally finished this maybe 30min before this posting, so there are probably typos, but I wanted to get this out and not agonize and nitpick for days and delay this further. Anyway, as mentioned before this is a songfic and the Song and Singer credit will be at the end before people tags. There's a bit of irony to this being sung by this particular (freaking awesome) artist, but I didn't think about that until just now. Considering this is my first fic, and I'm a nobody in the Fan Fic world, this is probably not needed, but PLEASE DON'T REPOST MY WORK ANYWHERE. Last thing, this is probably obvious at this point, but this doesn't have a happy ending. It didn't go exactly how it did in my head when I was planning it, but it was never going to be an HEA. So for anyone rooting for them to be together, I am *SO* sorry. I should have made it clear in the beginning, and I didn't think about it until tonight. I really am sorry. New tags are for this chapter only, and are things I didn't expect to be a thing in this story until I wrote it. Except for the last two. They were always going to be there for this part. Thank you for reading and giving feedback for those who have, I appreciate it greatly. No idea if I'm going to do this again, but never say never right? I'll probably at the very least leave fan fiction to the professionals for a while if nothing else. lol
Alright, here we go:
Part Three
The woman recalls the six months that had passed since That Night, and can’t help but notice things that she hadn’t seen at the time. In herself, she sees how she had changed. One encounter had not been enough, obviously. She had wanted more. Of course she had. How could a person experience something so visceral, so powerful, so intense, and not want, not crave, more? Even now it baffles her that anyone could or would not understand. Not that she had really spoken to anyone about it, but there had been questions, pointed ones, about Him and That Night. She had tried her best to explain the draw in terms that would not paint her in a bad or sordid light, but it was like trying to explain a sunrise to someone who has lived in a dark room their entire lives. She knew they didn’t, couldn’t, understand, and she felt sorrow for them. She had experienced something profound and felt changed by it to her core, but they had nothing to compare it to, and so couldn’t even begin to grasp it.
Even more concerning than that though, she realizes now, she had started to think of Him in terms of being her’s. She had planned in her mind what she would say to him when he inevitably called. What she would wear on their first date. The woman didn’t count either the party or the resulting inferno of lust as their first date, for obvious reasons, but she had planned out the evening that would count in detail in her mind. She had decided that she would have to return to her Mama’s lessons regarding sex though, which meant that there would be none of that for at least a few weeks. Despite this though, the woman looked forward to seeing him again. To just being around him. She longed for it. Craved him like a drug. So much so that her distraction was remarked upon by various people. She had always smiled and waved away their concerns, but it occurs to her now that they were right to be worried. Because, as with most drugs, the high she was on would not, could not, and did not last.
When He had not called a week after That Night, the woman had gone back to the motel. Sure that he would still be there, she had knocked on the door of the room he had stayed in, and had been shocked when a different man entirely had answered the door. The man and his wife were very confused at a woman they didn’t know, in a town they were merely passing through, knocking on their motel room door. The woman was supremely embarrassed of course and had given multiple apologies for bothering the couple before going to the front desk to ask about Him. The woman stops in her reflection for a moment and scoffs at her childishness as she realizes that she refuses to even think his name now, though she cannot bring herself to forget it. The problem with this realization, however, is that she also cannot force herself to use his name, even in thought. Even now. Perhaps especially now. Now it feels less like rejecting Him and more like protecting Him.
At any rate, the woman had gone to the front desk and asked the clerk about Him. Surely, she rationalized, he wouldn’t just leave without saying something to her. He had her phone number, she knew, and she couldn’t have missed his call, because he would have left a message or called back. But the attendant had told her that He had checked out the day after the party. Hours after she had left, so had he and she felt her heart crack. The clerk had given her a pitying smile, so the woman had straightened her spine, plastered her own smile on her face, thanked the young man, and left. He hadn’t even left a note for her.
The mind is an amazing thing, the woman muses now. In effort to stave off feelings of abandonment, rejection, and humiliation, her mind had attempted to come up with a different likely scenario. He checked out a few hours after she left, hadn’t left a message for her with the front desk, and hadn’t called her, so he must have had to leave quickly. In an act of what the woman still considers extraordinary mental gymnastics, the woman had decided that He must have gotten called to another case and had to leave without time to contact her. Which meant that he was probably too busy solving a case and bringing justice to the wronged that he had not had a moment of peace long enough to call. He would undoubtably call her when he finally had a moment and the two could plan for him to come back to town for their date. Perhaps she would even break her rule on carnality once more since he was working so hard. She had felt sympathy and understanding for him at the time, but a week after her ill-fated visit to the motel and still no phone call, the woman had begun to get angry.
Perhaps he lost her phone number? Inconsiderate, yes, but not unforgivable. An honest mistake. It could happen to anyone. This led her to seeking out the acquaintance who had introduced them to in order to either get His phone number or a message to him. Unfortunately, the acquaintance was once again out of town, so that would have to wait. In the meantime, the woman had decided to start her research into Him. She really should have started that earlier, but she had been distracted. Now that she had to wait on their mutual acquaintance’s return, she had time to do what she should have done from the beginning. As she settled in and got started, she had smiled to herself at the idea that she was going to learn everything there was to know about this man that had gotten past her defenses and Mama’s Rules. She was sure, using her usual resources, she would find a treasure trove of interesting information. Birth date, parents, siblings, schools, grades, college and/or military service. Since He was a federal agent, she knew she could also find out about cases he’d worked. Commendations. Current cases. Whereabouts, even, assuming the case was high profile enough. Which it must be, given they had needed him in such a hurry.
Nothing. The woman found…nothing. Not one bit of information. At all. She had wanted to scream in frustration then, and honestly, she still wants to, but didn’t dare. She had searched records all over the country. Every state. Nothing. Not even information that could lead her to information. She had called the FBI. The most local office to her and then the one in Washington D.C. They said they didn’t have an agent of that name with them and never had. Thinking she must have had the agency wrong, she had waded through the alphabet soup that was federal agencies. Nothing. The most hopeful answer she had gotten was that they could/would not talk about employees, past or present.
The woman was starting to get the feeling, a month after That Night, that something was wrong. He still hadn’t called and she couldn’t track down her acquaintance to ask about Him. Her frustration mounted when she realized another month later that the acquaintance had to be actively avoiding her. They were spending a lot more time than usual out of town and when they were, they were never with the group of people they and the woman had in common. Further, the woman had finally realized that the story she and the group was probably false and so nothing she had been told would or could have led to any information. When she had brought this up with mutual friends of her’s and the acquaintance’s, they were confused. They had said, maybe the information was wrong, that didn’t mean it was an intentional lie, and what did it matter anyway? He was clearly just passing through. The woman had not told them, of course, about how she had spent the night after the party. They may have judged her for her indiscretion. Or worse. Told other people.
Four months after the party, the woman had gotten tired of trying to organically meet up with her acquaintance and had gone to their house. Only to find that not only were they not there, they clearly hadn’t been for quite a while. It struck the woman as odd, so she asked the neighbors when they thought the acquaintance would be back as well as how long they had been gone. They neighbors said the acquaintance had left last over a month ago and while they didn’t know when the acquaintance would return, they were getting concerned since the acquaintance had never been gone this long at once before. They would be gone for a week, two at most, and then return home. Usually, they looked like they had some kind of ailment, a limp, a sore shoulder, scrapes, cuts, even bruises, but the neighbors said the acquaintance would take a week or so to recover and then leave out again and the cycle would repeat. But this time was different.
It wouldn’t be for another two weeks after that, that the woman got some information of any kind. Though decidedly not the kind she wanted. One of the neighbors called the woman to let her know that someone was at her acquaintance’s house, but it wasn’t the acquaintance. The woman’s heart had leapt as she decided that it must be Him. He had come back and would have answers and apologies. As the woman looks back over that time, she realizes she was nothing short of delusional. Mama had told the woman, you can’t always get what you want, love. You will be denied sometimes. Rejected sometimes. But how you handle the situation, and yourself afterward, determines your future successes. Those words had never quite rung true for the woman, because she had never been denied or rejected. She had always gotten what she wanted. Now, it seemed, her luck had run out.
The woman had rushed over to her acquaintance’s house once more, eager to see Him again. When she got there however, He was not there, but an older man in a baseball cap driving a car that looked like it belonged in a junk yard rather than on the road. She had had to school her face and hide her disappointment, and replace it with concern for her friend. The older man told her, gravely, that her acquaintance had been in a hunting accident while away and he was there to clean out their house and put it on the market. She had expressed the required sorrow, sympathy, and shock, and inquired at how the man and her acquaintance knew each other, only to be told they had been ‘hunting buddies’ years ago and had made a deal with one another that whichever one ‘went first,’ the other would clean out their belongings, ‘put them to good use,’ and ‘offload the house,’ since neither had any other family.
After a bit more small talk, the woman had gone back home feeling…off. The older man had the same…presence as He did and, she had just realized in that moment, so did her acquaintance. It was an air of leashed danger and made them seem larger than life. On Him it had been incredibly sexy and massively erotic, on the older man and her late acquaintance, it made her feel anxious. Nervous. Like she needed to run away as fast as she could and not look back. She assumes now that, had she not been so ridiculously attracted to Him, she would have felt the same way in his presence. As it was, she had been so clouded by hormones that it had only heightened her interest in Him and all sense of self-preservation had flown out of the window.
Only once she was back home did she realize that she could easily have asked the older man about Him. She quickly decided to call the acquaintance’s home to try and talk to the man, but there was no answer. She called the neighbor that had called her initially, to see if they could get the older man to come to the phone, only to be told that he had left shortly after she had. The woman thanked the neighbor, hung up the phone, and threw it down the hall as hard as she could. It had taken every ounce of restraint she had, but the woman had managed to hold in her scream of rage and frustration until she could make it to her bedroom. Once there, in the safety of her room, she had snatched up the nearest pillow, held it to her face, and screamed herself hoarse. Unfortunately for the pillow, it hadn’t helped. It and two of its fellows had met grisly demises at her clawed, enraged hands. That hadn’t helped either. Not only was she still livid at her lack of luck, she had also had a mess to clean up and three pillows to replace before bedtime. It just hadn’t been her day.
The woman had indulged in a bit of a temper tantrum, stomping through her home, slamming doors open and shut, in search of her broom and dustpan, a bag to put the pillow remnants in, and extra pillows from her linen closet and guest bedroom to sleep on later that night. The actual cleaning itself wasn’t done in the most calm manner either, which only served to make the task take longer, which subsequently made her more angry. Seemed like a vicious, never-ending cycle of frustration and feathers, until suddenly the dam broke. One moment the woman was swearing a blue streak, the likes of which would have had her mouth washed out with the strongest soap available if Mama had heard her, and stuffing feathers and cloth into a garbage bag with rage filled vigor. The next she found herself sitting on the floor, still surrounded by feathers, sobbing her eyes out.
As undignified as it was, and pointless to boot, she had been unable to do anything about it. She had cried until the tears ran out and her body was weak. Too weak to move. Too weak to drag herself to her bed. She had spent the rest of the night on the floor, the occasional stray tear leaking from her eyes. When she woke up the next morning her body was stiff and she had a headache that could have put all other headaches to shame. Still, she couldn’t find the will or strength to pull herself off the floor even then. Her throat burned, and her stomach clenched around nothing. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before, and had lost quite a bit of water during her crying spree, so it made sense that she was hungry and thirsty like she had never been before. It only added to her despondency, however. Her overwhelming lack of desire to do anything at all should have concerned and motivated her to get up and take charge of her life once more, but she couldn’t even muster up enough energy to feel anything at all.
And so, she had laid there on her bedroom floor, surrounded by feather and destroyed pillows long into the afternoon and evening once again. When she had finally been able to pull herself up off the floor, she stumbled her way to her bathroom, thanking every God she had ever heard of that she had sprung for the extra-large tub, despite never having had anyone to share it with. The thought sent a pain rippling through her that she feels even now. As a matter of fact, digging through her memories of the past hurts more than anything she’s ever felt. Searching for answers she not sure she’ll ever find. She’s not even sure she wants them anymore, to be honest, but she still can’t stop herself from hunting them down like a bloodhound on a scent. Mama always said that if someone looked up ‘stubborn’ in an encyclopedia they would just see a picture of me, she remembers with a slight smile. That smile grows as she recalls that Mama actually had put her picture, not just in the encyclopedia, but also the dictionary under the aforementioned heading. It had been an inside joke between the two of them. Something that no one else would know or understand. Something that was just theirs and theirs alone. These thoughts on the back of remembered pain of that day allows for a single traitorous tear to escape her iron control.
Shaking off the feelings that have crept on her, she remembers the next days as though she is watching a movie. To totally honest, that’s how she had felt at the time. Like life was movie. Something she was only watching happen, and merely experiencing second-hand. She can now see how she missed some very important clues, but even now she can’t exactly make sense of them. She had enough knowledge and understanding to see that she had been depressed following her epic crying spree even then, but there were some things that weren’t quite…right.
Her friends, her former lover and their wives, had begun to look at her with…pity. Even now thinking about it, the woman can help but feel indignant. They pitied her?! How dare they! She is not one to be pitied. She is better than that, she knows, and a familiar iced coated acid feeling creeps through her. With a distinctly unladylike snarl, the woman pushes the feeling away violently. It feels too much like fear and sorrow for her to accept it right now. She has better things to think about and more important issues at hand to deal with.
Aside from the unacceptable pity being directed her way, the woman recalls that the friend that had escorted her to the party That Night had also been changing. She had set him up with a few women she knew that would have been more than acceptable matches for him, but every time something had happened. The women would call her the day after the date and tell her in confused tones that he had not been the warm, hospitable gentleman they all knew him to be. Instead, he was rude and curt, almost angry. And cold. They said it was like he looked right through them, as if he didn’t have the time to even truly acknowledge they were there, until they had tried to talk to him about literally any topic, at which point they would wind up talked over, talked down to, or dismissed entirely. They all had said they had asked why he was in such a mood, only to be told it was “nothing that can’t be taken care of,” and they had then asked the woman if she had spoken to him and what they had done to deserve such treatment. Especially when the end of the date came. It seemed that despite his wholly unappetizing behavior, the woman friend had still had…expectations and made his dates very aware of them when he took them home. The only thing that could be said to his credit in the entire situation was that when the women had obviously told him they could not be less interested in anything he had to offer that night, he had simply nodded, said good night, and left. It was as if he hadn’t cared what the answer he got was either way.
Only one woman, the last incidentally, had taken him up on the offer he had made after their date. The woman recalled how the young woman’s voice had trembled slightly when she had told the woman of that night. It wasn’t anything like what the woman would have expected of her friend. Granted, she hadn’t kept track of his sex life in the past, but the young woman’s description had shocked and appalled the woman. Apparently, the cold, impersonal, overbearing demeanor her friend displayed at dinner had carried into the young woman’s bedroom. There had been no tenderness of any kind whatsoever. There had been only orders given in a hard voice accompanied by hard hands, and harder thrusts. There was no consideration at all shown to his bed partner. He had been wholly selfish, caring only for his own satisfaction, which had come blessedly quickly, and nothing for hers. The young woman had admitted over the phone that once he was done, he had appeared to want to stay for another round, but she had asked him to leave, not being able to stand another disappointing romp like the first. He had shrugged and left without a fight, but not before throwing a crude, “Thanks for the ride,” over his shoulder before the door shut.
The woman couldn’t believe her friend’s behavior. She had resolved not to set anyone else up with him until she could deal with him herself, which she had intended to be a few days later. Unfortunately, the day after the phone call with the justifiably unhappy young woman was the day the woman had found out about her acquaintance’s death and things had spiraled from there. Finally, things with the woman and her friend had come to a head about a month after her pillow destruction and crying jag. He had come over the woman’s home, with the stated intention of checking on her and seeing how she was, what had happened, and how he could help.
At the time that woman had been grateful, but even then she had noticed that something in his demeanor, hadn’t matched his words. Maybe it was his eyes. Always before, they were warm and caring when they looked at her. On that day, she felt like she understood what they women she had sent on dates with him had meant by ‘cold,’ It was like staring into frozen stones. Beautiful stones, the woman is willing to admit even now, like diamonds, or some other gemstone, but hard and cold all the same. Remembering those eyes sends a shiver down the woman’s spine and her throat tightens with fear.
Pulling her focus from his eyes, the woman returns her thoughts to the conversation they had had. Conversation, ha! the woman scoffs, that wasn’t a ‘conversation.’ His visit had been going well at the very beginning, despite the unnerving feeling of wrongness that had been crawling across her skin, when things had hit the proverbial fan. He had asked why she was so “down” lately, and the woman had thought that finally she could talk about the situation with someone who could understand. That wasn’t what had happened. The moment she had mentioned Him her friend had suddenly sparked to life like a firework in a spectacular explosion.
She was honestly still confused to this day about the sudden change in him. Not just with her, but with the women she had set him up with and even other people around town. It seemed like over night he had gone from the kind, funny, helpful, and understanding man they all knew and loved, to a cold, unfeeling man who thought nothing of other people and had a hair trigger temper. At the time she hadn’t noticed the changes as they happened, but that day in her home, she saw what everyone had been talking about. It had been shocking to say the least.
The woman still shudders when she remembers the look in his eyes as he raged at her. He had ranted about her fixation on Him, calling her a “pathetic, delusional whore,” and while she was reeling from that verbal barrage, he had continued raving about how her manipulative ways would come back to haunt her and that she needed him to straighten her out by any means necessary. Those had been his exact words actually. “By any means necessary.” She had been confused, shock, and more scared than she had ever been before. Even more than that one pregnancy scare between high school and college. Nothing had come of it, obviously, but she had taken that lesson to heart every bit as much as she took Mama’s lessons to heart. Since then, there had been no scares, and so very little to fear. It isn’t that she doesn’t want children even now, it just hasn’t ever been the right time, not to mention that she wasn’t and still isn’t married. The scandal of an unmarried mother may have lessoned with the times, but that did not mean that it was entirely gone. That and this town is a bit behind the times in general, the woman admits, somewhat begrudgingly. It had never been a problem for her before, in fact she was more than capable of making that state of affairs work for her rather than against her. The antiquated way of thinking that surrounded her had paid off greatly for her, so it had never been in her interest to challenge it overtly.
Off topic again, dammit, the woman growls at herself. Forcing herself to focus on that day, she shudders once again. From cold or fear she isn’t sure. She remembers how she had listened to her friend rail against her while she stood frozen, right until the point he had grabbed her upper arms, slammed her into one of her living room walls, and kissed her. Kissed?! Please! she scoffs, if that was a kiss then the lion must love the gazelle! And not as food! She can almost still feel his lips on hers. Teeth digging in to her flesh. Tongue forcing its way into her mouth. It was violent and painful, and decidedly not in a way she enjoyed. Just as she gagged on his probing tongue, her shocked mind had finally caught on and reacted to what was happening. He was pulling at her blouse, her knee, of its own volition it seemed, jerked up and none too gently landed squarely on his testicles. At the same moment, she expressed her displeasure with the tongue in her mouth by biting down. Hard. She had never thought blood would taste any way other than vile, but in this instance, it tasted sweet. Like victory.
His howl of pain wasn’t too shabby either, she remembers with a smirk. The smirk fades quickly when she recalls the enraged look on his face and the slap that followed. Stunned once again, her ears ringing, she only vaguely heard the names he screamed at her before he slammed out of her house, leaving with a slight limp. The woman had breathed a shaky sigh of relief that it was over and briefly considered calling Jordan and filing a complaint against her friend and asking for an officer to give her an escort her to and from work and home for a few days, or at the very least just to have someone aware of what had happened and give some advice on what she should do. Then she realized for advice she might be better off calling Brian, even though he would probably tell her to press charges, which she didn’t want to do. Her thought was that if she called Jordan and made a complaint, an officer would go and talk to her friend and make him stay away from her. If her friend ignored the officer’s warning, there would already be a record of what happened so things would be taken care of more quickly.
In the end, she decided not to call either Jordan or Brian. She honestly felt that this was just a hiccup for her friend. He was obviously going through something and a police presence in his life wouldn’t be helpful for him to get out of it. While the woman would never again trust her now former friend, nor would she want him around her, she still wanted what was best for him and to see him do well. Even a whisper of impropriety in which the police were involved could, and likely would, destroy his business, his credibility, and really his life in their town. He also probably wouldn’t be able to start over in a new area either, unless it was quite far away, which would cost more money than he would wind up having. She couldn’t bring herself to risk that happening to him. Not for the man he had become, but for the boy and the friend he been.
Despite her resolve, she had felt a nagging in the back of her mind urging her to tell someone what happened. She had felt it for days. After a week of the feeling, she finally decided the when she got home that night, she would call Zachary. Practical and pragmatic, Zachary would know how to handle things while being discrete. Her now former friend might wind up a bit worse for wear, but as long as he didn’t bother her, or any other woman if she knew Zachary as well as she thought she did, his life would go on overall uninterrupted. If he didn’t…well…people left town all the time without telling anyone else, presumably moving on to bigger and better things while avoiding awkward questions, especially if they had the kind of money her ex-friend had. What was one more person, right?
She had considered calling for an escort home that night, but decided against it. While it wasn’t exactly an unusual occurrence, it would still bring up more questions than she was prepared to answer at that moment. Instead, she had finished out her day, long after her colleagues had gone home to their families, thinking not about the conversation she was going to be having when she got home, but rather about how much she longed to have what they had. A husband, someone who supported her and was her partner in every sense. Love. Babies. The perfect apple pie, white picket fence with a dog in the yard life. No, it wasn’t for everyone, but it was what she wanted. She had realized that she was lonely and tired of living her life the way she was. She wanted to settle down, and using Mama’s lessons and rules, the woman was sure she would find the perfect mate for herself the same way she had for others in her life. She understood it may take longer for her than it had for them, because she knew she was more…selective than they were, but she knew it would happen sooner rather than later. And so, with thoughts of white dresses, bassinets, and lullabies in her head, she walked to her car to go to her lonely, empty home with a resolved smile on her face.
She should have called for the escort.
The only thing she could remember was a soft rustling behind her, not unusual given the trees around the parking lot, then a sharp pain in her neck. Everything went black almost immediately. Almost. Just before the inky blackness descended, she caught a glimpse of a man. Her now ex-friend. And on his face was the most sickeningly sinister smirk on his face.
When she woke, she was on a bed. Her neck hurt, her head was screaming, and her vision was blurry. She had no idea where she was and her heart was racing in fear of the unknown. Naturally, she jumped to her feet to begin trying to figure out not only where she was, but also to find a way out of this place. Unfortunately, while she was able to get up without issue, she quickly realized that where didn’t matter nearly as much as what, and what was some kind of concrete room. No windows. One door. Metal. Undoubtedly heavy, and absolutely locked. She was trapped. The only way out was that one door, and she knew the only way it would open was if…when her ex-friend came into the room. He would be ready for anything she might throw at him, of course, so her chances of escape were very slim. She could only hope at that point that he would do what ever he was going to do, then let her go. She categorically refused to entertain any thoughts about what he might be planning beyond hoping that he would ultimately let her go.
She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, and so had no idea what time it might be. She only knew that she was incredibly hungry and thirsty. Almost as soon as the thought had entered her head, however, a flap she had missed on the bottom of the metal door opened and a something was pushed through. On inspection, she saw that it was two pieces of bread and a paper cup of water on a tray. In her hunger, she snatched up the bread and devoured it, before gulping down the water. It barely took the edge off, but at least it was something.
She jumped when the flap opened again and the tray was yanked through in the opposite direction as before. Upon realizing that someone (she could easily guess who) on the other side of the door had known the tray was empty and had taken it back, she started to talk. Well…less talk, more yell. Questions abounded. Answers were demanded. None were given. She refused to plead, so decided instead to bargain. Assurances that if he only let her go, she would never tell anyone about this occurrence. They would get him help with whatever was going on with him. She would help him. The bargaining ceased when she heard, barely, another door, further away, close. He clearly wasn’t interested in what she had to say and had left.
And so, things had gone for what she could only assume were the next 4-5 days. Three times a day the flap in the door would open, two pieces of bread beside water in a paper cup on a tray that was retrieved as soon as the three items where removed. She had continued to try and talk to him. She still wouldn’t plead and would die before she begged, but she asked for answers and bargained to the best of her considerable abilities. She even lied. Lied like it was her job. It is, or was, but it seems uncouth to say the quiet part out loud like that, the woman muses with semi-forced humor. Forced because there is nothing even remotely amusing or humorous about this situation. She had yet to get any answers, let alone any interaction whatsoever beyond the push of the tray and its retrieval.
Throughout it all, the woman imagined her life outside of this place. The things she would do once she got out of here. The places she would go. She knew now that there was nothing in this town any more. She knew everyone and none of them were to her standard for a husband, though that standard had somewhat lowered in her time in the large concrete box that was her current residence. She thought she might try to find Him, but she had no idea where to even start. Maybe she could find that older man that had been at her acquaintance’s house that day, but she was struggling with remembering him name. Usually she was good with names, but between the high emotions she had been feeling at the time and shortly after, coupled with the knowledge that he wasn’t staying, and her current fear, hunger, and dehydration…well, simply put her mind wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders. Even now, she casts around in her mind for that name. Ronald? Richard? No. Not an R. Not an R…a…B? Yes! B…something! the woman recalls excitedly. A breakthrough finally! B. B. Brandon? No. Bartholomew? Absolutely not. Shorter…Bill? Billy? Billy! she decides. She’s still not entirely sure she’s right, but she can’t be bothered with that reality right now, because frankly, she desperately needs even that small win.
Because her circumstances had changed. And not for the better. She couldn’t be sure how long ago it was really, but it had to be a day or two there had only been two trays. The first had half of the rations she’d been getting which, while they hadn’t been nearly enough before, she really couldn’t afford to lose. She spent the day curled up on the bed, shaking with hunger pangs worse than ever before. Her throat burned and her head pounded. When it can to about the time that the second tray would be delivered, she had pulled herself up and over to the door to wait patiently. She had waited in vain. The tray never arrived. The disappointment had nearly crashed her and her resolve wavered. Wavered, but did not collapse, thankfully. Her disappointment coupled with the overall insufficient food, however, had left her unable to go back to the lone source of comfort in the room. For hours, she laid on the floor in front of the flap, willing it to open and provide her with a nourishing, filling meal. Eventually, her will prevailed and the flap indeed opened. The tray was passed through and upon it, while not the meal she wanted, were the standard two bread slices and paper cup with water. She had sighed in relief.
Naturally, she tore into the bread and gulped the water in a most unladylike manner, but she didn’t care. She was quite literally starving. It wasn’t until she noticed that the tray hadn’t been retrieved that the thought that something might be a bit suspicious about this particular meal. That’s when the first wave of dizziness had swept over her and she felt herself falling backward. She heard more than felt her head hit the cold concrete floor, and mused that it would probably hurt when she woke up. If she woke up. The last thing she was aware of was the heavy metal door opening and her now very much EX-friend walking into the room. The same sinister smirk smeared across his face. She was all but certain that this was her last moment.
But she was wrong. Although on further reflection she wasn’t exactly sure that was good thing. She had woken on the bed again. But this time was different. She was naked. And bound. Shackled actually. As soon as she realized the vulnerable state she was in, she immediately began shivering. Cold and fear. Fear and cold. The war between the two feelings was never fully won by either, so they traded off for the role of most prominent. Outweighing even the burning thirst and vicious hunger. Something she hadn’t thought was possible, but now she knew she was wrong about that, too.
And so, it is. Since the moment she had woken up chained to this bed, naked as the day she was born, she hasn’t moved, hasn’t been able to, other than the occasional shift or to bang her head back in frustration. She is more uncomfortable than she has ever been. Her arms and shoulders ache, but had largely stopped hurting other than a sharp twinge here and there, which honestly would have concerned her if it weren’t for the entire situation as a whole, but things being what they were, she can’t be bothered to care. Other than to be grateful that part of her discomfort has ended. The rest though is all but unbearable. Because she can’t get up and pace like she normally would when she got bored, she has to lay there with her mind spinning desperately searching for something, anything, to alleviate the boredom. She can’t warm herself or at least cover up with the blankets, so she is fully exposed, which is a different kind of discomfort, but still valid, and she is freezing. She is losing feeling in her feet and legs, though whether that is because of the tight bonds holding them to the bed immobile, or the frigid cold, she can’t tell. She also hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since ingesting the clearly drugged bread and water. The only silver lining, if it can be called that, to that particular issue is that she has stopped feeling the thirst and the hunger. Either because they have disappeared, or because she has gotten so used to them, she has no idea. And to add insult to injury, because she is chained down so securely, she can’t reach the single hole in the far corner of the room that had been serving as her toilet this whole time. She is filthy, having had not opportunity to bathe since she had been brought to this place, and now she was covered in her own waste. If there was anything at all beneficial about starving and being critically dehydrated, it was the fact that particular indignity had all but ceased as well. Again, something she would ordinarily be concerned about, but in her nearly delirious state, she can’t force herself to look passed the fact that she isn’t getting any dirtier.
Somewhere in her mind she knows, though. She knows that she is not long for the world and that her time now is likely being counted in hours and minutes, rather than days, weeks, and years. As that simultaneously depressing and comforting thought skips across her mind, she hears the metal of the door clang, creak, and open. Her heart leaps to her throat. Fear yes, but it’s also been so long since she’s seen anyone else face, she doesn’t care that it’s the face of the man she used to think was her closest friend. The relief is short lived. As he enters, he begins to talk. And the things he says…he tells her that while her absence has been noted, no one actually cares. The town gossips hiss to each other that it’s probably her own fault and that it’s likely for the best. Her friends don’t feel that way of course. They are saddened by her sudden disappearance, “What a pity,” they say, “what a loss.” But ultimately, they can’t be bothered to put forth any real effort into finding her. They are wrapped up in their own lives and won’t bestir themselves to much on her behalf. Even the police investigation into her disappearance was token at best.
Her outrage at the knowledge that she has been cast aside and forgotten by those she benefited and benefited from the most is tempered only by pain. Because while he talks, the man wearing her friend’s face, for that is how she thinks of him now, (they can’t be the same man. He can’t have changed this much. she tells herself trying desperately to soothe and distract), he cuts. He carves. Red lines racing over ever inch of flesh. During his monologue about how all of her insipid dreams are all for naught, he makes her bleed. Sometimes he lays down the blade for another implement, each is a new level and type of pain she had never thought to experience, but he always returns to the shiny, straight metal and continues his “artwork” as he calls it.
He tells her over and over that if she had just noticed him, given him the time, accepted him, loved him, he would have given her everything she ever wanted. A home, warm, welcoming, and safe. Love. Acceptance. A partner. Children. Beautiful babies to sing to and tell stories and teach and play with. He would and could have given her everything. On a never-ending loop he berates, belittles, and taunts her. Her friends don’t need or miss her. The town she thought she ran is still running and better in the one week she’d been gone than it ever had under her watch. Her home had already been emptied out, her belonging stored until an auction could be arranged, and the building itself already sold. No one had wasted any time completely erasing her from their lives and the town. She will never leave this room. All of her dreams and ambitions will end here with her. She will never have a husband in her arms or a child on her hip. Her memory, such as it is, will swiftly fade for everyone and when someone does think about her it will be with pity before they shrug off the thought and move on with their lives. And all because she had chosen some man, some stranger, she didn’t even know over him. If she had chosen him that night, instead of “whoring around” with Him, she wouldn’t be laying here right now. She would be safe in bed with him, her friend and new lover, dreaming of wedding bells and strollers, but instead she decided to make the wrong choice, once again, and he would make sure it was the last one.
The woman’s heart breaks over and over and over as a man she used to love as family tears her apart physically, mentally, and emotionally. The one thing, the one line he didn’t cross, was that he had not touched her. He hasn’t violated her in that way. It was one experience she was assured she wouldn’t have, but not because he wouldn’t cross that line, but because she “she didn’t deserve” him and she was “even too filthy for” him. She got the feeling he wasn’t talking about the layers of dirt and refuse she had accumulated, but she can’t find it in herself to care. It doesn’t even necessarily make sense really. She is going to die. She knows it. She has known it, but somehow, she takes solace in that one thing. And if her dalliance with Him had been what prevented that act from taking place, she can and will find it in herself to be grateful for that even though this whole thing is His fault.
The woman loses and regains consciousness several times over the course several hours. Every time returning to the waking world to hear her Not Friend ranting like a mad man, laughing at her pain, and layering more and more of it one top of the other. She has long since broken her vow against crying not to mention screaming, but can’t beg, not coherently at least, even if she wants to. Since she had woken chained up on the bed, she had been securely gagged. A gag that had now been soaked in blood and other bodily fluids generated during her ordeal. If she could, though, she would beg. She would beg him to have mercy and let her die. She knows that’s a fruitless wish though. He has no mercy. Not for her at the very least. He has made that perfectly clear time and again.
Finally though, finally, blessedly, she feels the end, the Reaper, Death himself, approach. She almost sighs in relief, but holds herself back just in case her Not Friend finds a way to bring her back from the brink. The thought of this agony, this hell, continuing cannot be borne and she prays one last time once again to every God she’s ever heard of that this really will be the end. She can still hear her Not Friend rant, though now it is muffled, like someone talking from far off. He is asking questions now. Demanding answers she hopes he doesn’t expect her to give. She couldn’t if she wanted to. Not that she does want to. Maybe if he gets angrier, this will end quicker. Either way, at this point anything that makes him unhappy pleases her. Probably twisted, but no less true. Slowly, she turns her head toward him, very purposefully. She can actually feel her heart slowing and see the final darkness at the edges of her vision. She has nothing to lose anymore. She doesn’t care anymore. It makes her brave in her last moments.
Again, her Not Friend demands an answer to his question. Her Not Friend wants His name. Apparently, he can’t remember it, and for some reason it’s important to him. He also wants to know what she knows about His whereabouts. She can’t imagine why. Still, one last push and it’s over. And it’ll do her slowing heart good to see him stymied one last time. She is dying and he is the one killing her. She is entitled to be a bit mean she feels. And so, strength fading quickly, the woman grins around her blood and spit-soaked gag showing bloody cracked teeth, and very intentionally, deliberately, slowly turned her head away from him. His rage was hysterical. If she could, she would have laughed, though one thing does confuse her. Just before he is out of her sight for the last time, she would swear she saw his eyes flash black. And there isn’t enough blood in her body for her brain to work properly, so she probably imagined it, she reasons quickly. It doesn’t matter anyway. The darkness the had been on the edges of her vision has almost completely covered it. Her Not Friend’s screams and yells mean nothing to her anymore. But one thing does. She can’t believe it, but she wants her last thought to be of the man who ruined everything. The man who made her feel alive and got her killed. Him. Slightly resigned to her own sentimentality, but resolute nonetheless, she calls up his image in her mind. How he looked went she first saw him That Night, but also when she last saw him, asleep, hair a mess, back covered in red lines, justifiably exhausted. She smiles to herself one last time, and with her last heartbeats, her last precious moments, she thinks
His name was John.
Song Credit- Reba McIntire "She Thinks His Name Was John" (side note: this song is about something very different and very real, and I have the utmost respect for that and Ms. McIntire for doing it in the first place. This fic came about because I binge watched Supernatural after listening to this song and my sleeping brain mashed them together. It turned into a massively rabid plot bunny that I had to write. But go listen to the song and prepare fore chills at the very least. I tried to do it justice, but I'm not sure how successful I was.)
Please comment and let me know what you think now that its complete. Good or bad, I don't care, but please be nice about it. Constructive criticism instead of flames. And I don't feed trolls. I block them.
Rating: M? (just to be safe, since there is discussion of sex. Also violence in later parts.)
Pairing: Female OC x ??? (it's a surprise/choose your own-ish? There is a reveal moment, but you could easily put in whoever you want I suppose)
Warnings: implied rough sex/choking/etc., torture/violence in later parts, Not Beta Read
Word Count: 5824 (like I said in pt. 1, this one is a beast...sorry?)
Cross posted on AO3 @- Lupine_Princess
Part 3 *is* coming soon. Hopefully by Monday at the latest, but that's what I thought about these two, so who knows at this point right? Please enjoy the Part That Wouldn't End Because the Character Is Super Thirsty, and tell me what you think? lol
Part Two
The woman remembers that day as though she were watching it happen in real time all over again. Six months prior, she had been invited to a party by a friend of hers at the last minute. Apparently, the woman’s friend had a date that had cancelled on him the night before and so he had no one to go to the party with, an entirely unacceptable state of affairs for any socially conscious person in their area. The friend’s only options then were to either go alone, again unacceptable, or take a friend who understood that the late invitation was not a slight but also that the night would not lead to anything more either.
The woman of course understood all of that, she had often been a plus one for her male friends when their own wives or girlfriends couldn’t or wouldn’t attend an event with them, and so had no problem reprising that role once again. It would do nothing to silence the town gossips who were determined to either set the woman up with every available man in the vicinity regardless of their acceptability, or else slander her for her current, and enduring, lack of a husband. They just didn’t seem to understand that a husband was a good and wonderful thing to have, but bonds formed by love, affection, and sex and extended through into friendship had a much better return and were better in many ways. A husband was one potentially powerful connection, but her own liaisons had formed connections that endured with multiple powerful families and had given the woman power of her own. Clearly, the local gossips didn’t have Mamas like the woman did. Mamas were was willing to teach their daughter the ways of the world and how to get the most out of it in the most practical way. That, or they did, but their Mamas had realized their daughters didn’t have the visual appeal or intelligence necessary to succeed in the least, and so the lessons would be wasted. Shaking off that thought, the woman scolds herself, such cattiness is unbecoming of a lady. I know better. Mama taught me better. I’m sorry again, Mama… The woman sighs and returns to what is seeming less like a search for answers to her downfall and more like penance for forgetting herself and her Mama’s invaluable teachings. Enough of that, the woman thinks, back to the matter at hand. That night…the woman sighs as the memory washes over her like it had a thousand times before.
The night of the party that lead her astray had been a beautiful one. All of the stars were out in force and the wind whispered through the trees as though it was sharing a secret. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was whispering a warning, either way the woman had simply enjoyed the breeze and continued on as she always had. By the time her friend arrived at her home to take her to the party, it would never be acceptable for them to arrive separately after all, her hair was perfect, her makeup stunning, and she was dressed to kill. Not that she would, of course. A living, happily married, rich, powerful man who felt friendship and fondness for her and also felt indebted to her for his happy state was much more beneficial to her than a dead one, unless of course that man had an appropriate and legally valid will, though that would only be a short-term benefit at best. No, for now it would be far better to merely look like a woman a man would die for, even though later on it may be necessary to…ask them to prove it. After all, lessons in deportment, practicality, and strategy were not the only ones her Mama had taught the woman.
All dressed and largely ready, the woman only made her friend wait a few moments in order to apply her favorite perfume and for it to dry down a bit so that it wouldn’t be overly strong in the confines of the car. It was simply good manners, though her friend would still have the scent of her signature fragrance on him from the car ride to the event. The thought wasn’t a displeasing one despite the fact that the woman didn’t have any designs on her friend’s heart. After she still wanted to remind every woman there of who exactly he was with that night. Her friend told her she looked lovely, and she smiled, thanking him for his compliment. Friends alone they may be, but never let it be said that the woman and her friend were lacking in manners.
On the way to the party, the woman’s friend spoke to her about his business, and how he was finally looking to settle down, now that things had started to calm down following his recent explosive success. He was still do very well, he reassured the woman, but things had stopped being so fast paced and chaotic. The woman had nodded, indicating that she understood, and began to think of acceptable female friends of hers that would be best for him. She assured him that with her on the case, they would see him married by Christmas at the latest. His laugh echoed through the car and the woman chuckled at his mirth. He thought she was exaggerating, but she was entirely serious. In any case, at least he was in a better mood and that was good. There was nothing worse than a melancholy date, regardless of the fact that it wasn’t a “date” date as the kids liked to say. By the time they arrived at the party, her friend had fully shaken off his moodiness, and they were sharing amusing stories about the past and other mutual friends, and so it was a laughing pair that entered the event rather than a silent one. Much better optics if you asked the woman.
An hour or two after arriving at the party, the woman and her friend had separated to mingle with friends of theirs on their own. The woman had breathed a small sigh of relief because it would seem that her dear friend had forgotten part of the arrangement for the night and their friendship in general. He had started look at her with the kind of longing that she knew stemmed from his loneliness and needed to be nipped in the bud as soon as possible. He had always before understood that while she adored him and valued his place in her life, she would never look on him as a potential suitor. He had even understood her reasons and her Mama’s lessons, having gotten similar lessons from his own Mama. It would seem that those lessons needed refreshing. The woman had sighed, shaken her head, and decided that she would speak to him gently about it the next day. It wouldn’t do to lose a good friend who understood her to what amounted to a puppy love crush. Especially not one born out of a desperation not to be alone anymore rather than a genuine desire and need for her. Frankly, she deserved better.
Resolve firmed, the woman smiled and laughed as she chatted with other friends that had been invited to this party. As she was talking to a woman who was more of an acquaintance than a true friend, another acquaintance came over with a person the woman couldn’t quite see, so she finished what she had been saying and turned to look at and greet this new person who had entered their little circle of chatters.
Her heart stopped. Her breath froze in her chest as her lungs forgot how they operated. Her blood started racing in her veins and rushed to her head. She felt like she’d had too much to drink, when she hadn’t even finished one glass of wine and she knew no one here would dream of putting something in her glass. Her vision blurred for a moment, which she was thankful for because it allowed her brain to function properly once more. Before her was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on in her entire life. His shoulders and chest were broad, and even through his suit she could see that both were well-muscled, and her knees began to shake. His arms lightly strained the sleeves of his suit jacket, so they were well-muscled as well, and at the sight of his hands, her knees nearly gave out.
But that wasn’t all. As she continued to observe the man (she was not staring thank you very much, staring is incredibly rude, and Mama had taught her better than that), she realized how tall he was and felt her a rush of moisture seep into her panties. She had always been a fan of tall man and this one had the actual height itself coupled with a presence that made him seem even taller. She studied his sculpted jaw, complete with five o’clock shadow, and expressive mouth that seemed to command attention and demand that she press her own against it. Her mouth, wanting, needing to answer to his, but denied due to social restrictions, began to water.
Looking further, the woman notice that his hair was either expertly styled or he was blessed with hair that fell in an artfully messy style reminiscent of a man freshly out of bed after a night of passionate lovemaking with a very lucky woman, all on its own. She knew where she would be willing to place her bets, but she didn’t actually know for certain…yet. By this point the woman couldn’t concentrate enough to even begin to tell you the color of his hair. Perhaps it was dark brown or maybe it was black, but in the dim light they were standing in it could easily have been much lighter than it first appeared. The same could be said for his eyes. The color was as much a mystery as his identity because of the accursed lighting. Were they brown? Blue? Green? Some odd combination? The woman didn’t know, but she desperately wanted to. I never did figure it out, the woman pouts privately, I never saw him in bright enough light to tell even though I was…rather close to them for several hours. At the thought of how the night had progressed, the woman shudders in aftershocks of remembered pleasure and sighs with a girlish smile.
The only real things that the woman remembers about the man’s hair and eyes are how soft his hair was as she ran her fingers through it (or gripped it tight) and how his eyes had burned with hunger the moment he looked at her. She remembers how it had shocked her so much that she had had to bite back a gasp. The intensity of his eyes on her had made her feel as though she were standing before him as naked as the day she was born. She could feel his eyes raking over her body leaving a scorching trail, even through her black dress. Perhaps in effort to quench the flames racing across her flesh, the woman’s body sent a flood of wetness into her already damp under garments. The silk, she was certain, was now completely ruined, and her body’s efforts were in vain. The fire was nowhere near quenched. If anything, they leapt higher when it became apparent that some part of her dilemma had shown on her face as the man sent the most sin-filled smirk in the woman’s direction. She sincerely hoped that the owners of this home had a good cleaning service scheduled to come in the next day, because the moment the woman saw that smirk, she was certain that there had to now be a puddle forming on the carpet at her feet.
Thankfully, the woman thinks, I had decided to wear a floor length dress in spite of the warm late spring evening because, if there had indeed been a mess, at least no one else could see it. The only thing I had to worry about after that was an…olfactory give away, but the only person other than me that seemed to notice was Him. He had seemed…pleased and satisfied by my response to him. That satisfaction did nothing to dull the ravenous hunger we both felt. Cutting off that train of thought before it could force her to skip ahead, the woman moans and shifts uncomfortably. Not an uncommon state of affairs since that night, but nearly overwhelmingly common in the last several days.
Biting back a scream of frustration, the woman forces her thoughts back to That Night. That Night, the woman scoffs, capital T, capital N. The night everything changed. The night that led me to this place. Too bad I didn’t know about all of this then. But can I honestly say it would have changed anything? Gritting her teeth, the woman mentally waves off that most uncomfortable question, and returns to That Night once more. Specifically, the moment He opened his mouth and spoke. Smoky, dark chocolate. Smooth, but somehow simultaneously rough. Crushed velvet on sweat soaked skin. Decadent, but firm. Strong. The unspoken promise of pleasure so strong that it borders on, flirts with, then becomes pain. But such an unexpectedly, but wonderfully, intense pain that it circles back around to pleasure like a never-ending feedback loop. This time, the woman can not contain herself, and audibly growls in frustration at her runaway mind. This is not the time for that trip down memory lane. And what a well-traveled lane that particular one is. One walked many a time over the previous six months in the dark of the night and the comfort of her own home. The woman less than gently slams her head back, then freezes at the unexpectedly loud resulting noise.
Back to That Night, for the love of God! Let’s just get this over with! the woman all but screams in her own mind. She is fine with self-reflection; it has served her well over the years and was one on Mama’s more important lessons. It was how she knew when to move on from a lover and who to gently and respectfully hand him off to. It was how Mama had known when to cut her losses and deal with the problems Daddy had caused. The woman snorts delicately, ‘Problems Daddy caused?’ By the end, Daddy was the problem, but Mama…oh, Mama handled it beautifully. Thinking back to that time far in the past to her young girlhood, the woman struggles to think of a more elegant picture than the one seared into her mind of Mama dressed in black. The woman remembered the tears that had rolled over Mama’s cheeks gracefully as if she were so grief-stricken that she could not stop them, but neither did she have the strength any longer to give any notice, so deep was she in her sorrow, while she sat in the church and listened to the preacher. The woman also remembers the first of Mama’s lessons given that very night. If it must be done, dear one, it must be done with grace. Mama applied that to everything in her life. Grieving with grace. Mourning with grace. Healing with grace. Moving on with grace Very permanently ridding yourself of a husband who has forgotten his place…with grace, the woman mused. Mama had made sure Daddy thought everything was all right, so neither he, nor anyone else, suspected anything in the least. She had waited until the bruises had healed and took the woman, then seven years old, on a pre-planned weekend getaway. They returned to news of a tragedy. A gas leak. Daddy found in bed by the neighbor. So very sad. So very unexpected. Mama handled her business, with grace of course, and began teaching her daughter how to handle her own. All those lessons. All of that time. And I wind up here…the woman thinks sadly.
But it does bring her back to the point of self-reflection. Self-reflection is a wonderful tool when used properly. Not so much when it is derailed by hormones running rampant at the thought of the man who was the cause of all of this. She has been obsessing over this man for the last six months, and had only now come to the conclusion that, while part of the blame for this whole situation is invariably on her, the majority has to rest with him. It has to. Because otherwise, either she is entirely to blame, an unacceptable notion, or this is nothing but a horrid coincidence, and that thought is even more repugnant to the woman than the first. It has long been her belief, her dogma, that nothing, nothing, happens without reason or purpose. Nothing happens that cannot be controlled, ideally by her, but failing that then by her more powerful and well placed…friends. She must call them that, because any other descriptor would make her sound callous and cruel, and she could not fathom anyone calling her that.
So how did this happen? This travesty. Truly it began just after the woman heard Him speak. With nothing more than a simple “Hello,” she knew to the depths of her being that she absolutely must have him. In her bed. In his. Against the nearest wall or other semi-flat surface. It absolutely did not matter. She knew nothing about him, and at the time did not care, so she didn’t know if He would be useful or if he would even be worth keeping forever, but that didn’t matter either. She craved him. She was a woman dying of thirst and He was blessed, cool water. And it appeared, to the woman at least, that he felt similarly. Perhaps not quite as strongly as the woman did, but certainly strongly enough to respond to her favorably.
After introductions were made, the acquaintance who had brought Him over to the group explained that He was an agent for with the FBI who was in their small town because he was working on a case in the next town over. The acquaintance and the man had met a few years prior when the acquaintance’s car had broken down on an unknown road when the acquaintance was out of state on business and the man had stopped to help. They had talked while the man had fixed the car and then talked more over the dinner the acquaintance had insisted on buying the man as a thank you. They agreed to keep in touch and when the man had been assigned a case near where the acquaintance lived, it only made sense that the man would choose to stay near and be shown around the area by a person He knew. The woman nodded and smiled, praising the man for his compassion in helping “her friend,” meanwhile she was trying not to combust then and there. A handsome man with power who was good with his hands and was practical and intelligent enough to do the logical thing without someone else pointing it out to him? The woman would later swear she had heard wedding bells for a brief moment, before they had been melted into nothingness by an inferno of lust.
It was a sweet story and made sense at the time, but later the woman would wonder how much of it was true. It was too neat, the woman decides. The acquaintance had never in the woman’s nor their mutual friend’s memories had car trouble of any kind. The acquaintance was well known for, and often teased about, their near obsession with maintaining their vehicle. It was sensible when you thought about it. The acquaintance was constantly out of town for one reason or another. It seemed as though they were gone more often than not really, which was why they were only the woman’s acquaintance rather than a friend. Moreover, the acquaintance had always struck the woman as…odd. Not necessarily in a bad way, of course, just different. Maybe that’s what happens when a person falls too much in love with history and not enough in love with another person, the woman pondered, somewhat cattily, but at this point she doesn’t care anymore. Mama’s lessons clearly aren’t getting her out of this, so she’ll have to figure something else out.
Back to self-reflection minus hormones clouding the issue, dammit, the woman scolds herself. Though really, she can’t be held entirely responsible for that either. That man had a way of making everything in her brain reduce to a pile of quivering, lust filled goo. At any rate, back to That Night, after the appropriate, and probably fabricated, explanation, the circle went on to continue its chatting about this, that, and the other thing, and not one bit of it anything with any substance whatsoever. Had the woman not been standing next to a man who simply oozed sex from his very pore, she would have been able to feel her brain-cells begin die and would have drifted away from the group to recover. As it was though, the woman was unable to anything of the sort. To do that would move her away from Him, so she had to hope that the lust would protect her. It didn’t. She wouldn’t find out until later that it had apparently had the opposite effect entirely.
But would I really have walked away then if I knew what I know now? the woman demands of herself. She still isn’t willing to answer that question, but it does bear acknowledging if nothing else. The woman remembers how His burning eyes rarely left her, and how his voice, even when not directed at her specifically, caressed her body like the lover he wasn’t yet, but she so wanted him to become. It was about an hour after meeting Him, that her escort for the evening found her to let her know he was ready to leave. And this brings me to the first misstep and the first of Mama’s Rules broken…
Normally, the woman would never dream of leaving any event with someone other than the person she came with, and certainly not alone. You always leave with the one that brought you, sweet. It is, if nothing else, good manners, and manners are the bedrock of society. One cannot hope to succeed in any endeavor they take on if they cannot conduct themselves well, after all, the woman hears Mama’s voice ringing through her head as though she had just spoken the words to the woman. Considering the woman missed her Mama deeply since she had passed several years before, the voice would have been comforting. Unfortunately, the tone was somewhat scolding and as much woman wished otherwise, she honestly understood the implied censure.
The woman did not leave with the friend that brought her to the party. When He saw her friend come over and attempt to end the evening for both of them, he had offered, in a very pleasant and gentlemanly way and not at all lasciviously (though the woman will swear to this day that she heard a touch of prurience in his tone), to escort her home should the woman want to stay longer than her present escort desired. The woman had had to bite back her immediate agreement to the plan so as not to offend her friend, but she could still see a glimmer of jealousy and anger in her friend’s eyes. That would not do, the woman decided and she stood firm in her decision despite her friend trying to change her mind when she told him that she was having far too good a time catching up with friends to end the night so early, and that since the man was offering an escort home and her friend was already ready to leave, she would not ask her friend to stay and would instead accept a ride home from her new friend. Thinking back later, the woman would swear she saw a hint of an amused smirk on her acquaintance’s lips, and that they rolled their eyes, possibly at the woman’s behavior, possibly the man’s, more likely it was both, but the woman didn’t care then, and she doesn’t care now.
In the end, it didn’t matter. The woman’s friend was surprised by her actions of course, having grown up with similar lessons. Even though he seemed to forget some of the more important ones when it pleased him, the woman thinks with no small amount of irritation and disquiet. The idea that she should be held to a different standard than her friend, as if she had not followed every rule and lesson given without fail or fight while he had repeatedly needed to be brought back into line several times in their youth, apparently now as well, offended the woman to the depths of her soul. More than the whispers of the town gossips. More than the idea that all of what has befallen her is her own fault and no one else’s. More even than being lied to in deed if not in word, by both her acquaintance and Him. It was clear that her friend thought he had a claim on her then and now, and the he also thought he was better than her. Superior to her. Above her. That she should be grateful for his attention. He had said almost exactly that over the last few days as a matter of fact, but she hadn’t believed or understood then. Now, on reflection, she believes every syllable she wonders how long he had felt this way. It seemed there was a glimmer of it that long ago night, but it had gotten more and more clear as time, culminating in the last…however longs it’s been… the woman thinks with her ever present sigh.
The woman recalls the slighted feeling of apprehension when her friend had finally gotten the message that she would not be leaving and that He would be the one to take her home, not her friend. Ultimately the feeling was fleeting. As if it had never been, it vanished with the smile of satisfaction and pleasure that He bestowed on her. His friend, the woman’s acquaintance, had made a sound like a chuckle and told the man that he should be glad that they had brought separate cars to the party, before they said their own polite goodbyes and moved off in search of less fraught conversation.
As soon as the woman’s acquaintance had wandered off, it was like a leash had been slipped or a floodgate opened. The other chatterers had meandered away before during the conversation between Him and the woman’s friend, and so the woman and the man found themselves blessedly, terrifyingly, wonderfully alone. Granted they were still surrounded by people because the party was not yet over, but they were off to the side in a less open area. Not entirely private, so they were still constrained by social convention, but private enough for small touches, private smiles, and the kind of innuendo laced talk that would have sent the gossips’ heads spinning and rushing to the nearest telephone. The wine flowed as well as the conversation. Rich and decadent like His voice. Ordinarily, they woman judged harshly those who left with a person who had been drinking, but in this case, she had argued to herself, she had already given enthusiastic consent to anything the night held before she had started her second glass. She had intentionally waited until they had some sort of privacy before she had allowed herself to have any more than the one glass. She wanted no misunderstandings and not miscommunications. She wanted him. She wanted to be His. Even if only for a night, but ideally longer.
After her complete and total surrender to Him, the night progressed quickly, also but oddly in slow motion. It was like a dream. And like in a dream, time seemed to have a mind of its own. It sped up and slowed down at random, for no real reason, although on further reflection, the woman supposes the slowest moments may have coincided with the small touches the two exchanged throughout the night. Fleeting touches. Burning touches. A hand on an arm while laughing. A piece of escaped hair tucked behind an ear. A dance than nearly had caused spontaneous combustion, though there was nothing provocative or indecent about it. A firm hand on the small of a back. A soft helping hand into a car. A guiding hand to motel door.
And just like that, another rule was broken. Several actually. One: Never sleep with a man the first night. Two: Never sleep with a man you don’t know. Three: Never stay in a
motel.” Hotels only, the more stars the better. And the last, four: Always, always, stay in control. Of yourself. Of him. Of the situation. Always stay in control. With the combination of the wine and Him, the woman more out of control than she had ever been. She swears she remembers His sex-soaked voice chuckle darkly something about knowing she’d be a hellcat in bed. At the time, she hadn’t cared, and now she can’t be bothered to be offended even if she could remember exactly what was said.
And that was another thing. There were many things said that night. Filthy things. Things that would have normally had her stalking away with a stinging hand. Things that only served fan the flames higher and higher until total combustion and meltdown her only options. She knows all of this, but the words themselves escape her. Six months on and all she is left with is a deep, dark rumble purring in her ear, dripping with sin and promise. A promise what was absolutely fulfilled. Again, and again, and again, it was fulfilled.
The remainder of the night had been a blur of flesh and sweat, pleasure and pain, whispers and shouts. She is certain she did a fair amount of that shouting, if not outright screaming, if only because when the night had reached its inevitable conclusion, her throat had been quite sore. Then again, the woman muses, shouting was probably the least of the causes. A chuckle escapes her lips and she shifts in discomfort once more. Remembering that night always made her uncomfortable. Not in a negative way, certainly, but every time her skin would feel hot and tight, her heart would race, and her body would invariably prepare itself for a lover that would never appear. Ordinarily, she would force her body under control until she could get to her home. She lives alone, so she has complete freedom to take care of her needs where ever and how ever she sees fit within her four walls. It is a good thing to. Her thoughts and actions as she seeks out that same loose-bodied, exhausted high make her blush even now. Depravity is the privilege of the powerful, well-connected, and well thought of, the woman scolds herself. Blushing, like tears, will serve no purpose and so will not be tolerated. Besides, she had and has nothing to be ashamed of. Though she hadn’t been as sure of that then when morning came as she is now six months later.
When dawn broke after having spent hours with the man, the woman had been just sober enough to be ever so slightly horrified at her actions. She realized, now that the lust had faded what exactly she had done. That overwhelming lust would never completely disappear, of course, but it had loosened it grip enough by morning for the woman to be able to think a bit more clearly. And the first thought that had crossed her mind as she saw the sun make its arrival known, was that she had to leave. She had to get out of this bed. Out of this room. Out. Now. Oh, she didn’t feel like she was in danger, in truth she had never felt safer than in his arms, but the knowledge of Broken Rules and suspect behavior came crashing down on her and all she could think to do was run.
As the morning sun kissed the treetops, the woman brushed a kiss across the sleeping man’s lips, gently so as not to wake him. He deserved his rest, especially after the night just ended. She looked for her clothes, and felt shame try to creep itself into her mind. Shoes on either side of the door. Last night’s dress in crumpled heap on the floor. Last nights panties next to the bed, silk ruined beyond saving. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and the shame crept further in. Hair in disarray. Makeup smudged. Lipstick gone. Skin stained red in various places from a scratchy beard and large, strong hands. Dark splotches dotting otherwise creamy skin. She had to get out of there.
Once the woman was finished dressing and attempting to make herself look presentable, she decided to scribble her phone number on a piece of paper and laid it on the lone table in the room. The one covered in books whose names she couldn’t make out, but looked like they belonged in a museum rather than a no star motel in a small town. She had shrugged it off assuming that they were for the case her was working in the next town over, and would only later wonder why he needed books so old for no one knew anything about in a town just as small as the one she lives in.
When she was as presentable as she could possibly be, given the situation, the woman walked to the door intent on using the payphone at the and of the row of rooms to call for a taxi to take her home. Before the turned the handle to leave, she looked back at the man still sleeping on the bed. She studied his features once more and thanked a God she wasn’t sure she believed in for bringing him into her life. She was so sure that would not the last time they would see own another and so did not linger long. If she had known then what she knows now, she may have stayed longer. More likely, she would have just stayed in bed and fallen asleep with Him.
But, she didn’t. And she left. She called the cab and was gone less than ten minutes from leaving that motel room. But while she sat in the back of that cab in last night’s clothes with last night’s passion written across her skin, she did then what she does now…
Rating: M? (just to be safe, since there is discussion of sex. Also violence in later parts.)
Pairing: Female OC x ??? (it's a surprise/choose your own-ish? There is a reveal moment, but you could easily put in whoever you want I suppose)
Warnings: implied rough sex/choking/etc., torture/violence in later parts, Not Beta Read, description of Bad Sex, Brief Attempted SA, Brief Discussion of SA (more mentioning that its not happening and is not going to happen), ANGST, Character Death
Word Count: 8358 (Ummm...this one got away from me I guess...sorry again? Though the chapter length will probably be the least of the things y'all are going to want an apology...)
Cross posted on AO3 @- Lupine_Princess
Note: I am *so* sorry it took so long! The muse was playing coy and I haven't had the time to really sit down and finish this. But here is it. The conclusion to my first fic ever. I literally finished this maybe 30min before this posting, so there are probably typos, but I wanted to get this out and not agonize and nitpick for days and delay this further. Anyway, as mentioned before this is a songfic and the Song and Singer credit will be at the end before people tags. There's a bit of irony to this being sung by this particular (freaking awesome) artist, but I didn't think about that until just now. Considering this is my first fic, and I'm a nobody in the Fan Fic world, this is probably not needed, but PLEASE DON'T REPOST MY WORK ANYWHERE. Last thing, this is probably obvious at this point, but this doesn't have a happy ending. It didn't go exactly how it did in my head when I was planning it, but it was never going to be an HEA. So for anyone rooting for them to be together, I am *SO* sorry. I should have made it clear in the beginning, and I didn't think about it until tonight. I really am sorry. New tags are for this chapter only, and are things I didn't expect to be a thing in this story until I wrote it. Except for the last two. They were always going to be there for this part. Thank you for reading and giving feedback for those who have, I appreciate it greatly. No idea if I'm going to do this again, but never say never right? I'll probably at the very least leave fan fiction to the professionals for a while if nothing else. lol
Alright, here we go:
Part Three
The woman recalls the six months that had passed since That Night, and can’t help but notice things that she hadn’t seen at the time. In herself, she sees how she had changed. One encounter had not been enough, obviously. She had wanted more. Of course she had. How could a person experience something so visceral, so powerful, so intense, and not want, not crave, more? Even now it baffles her that anyone could or would not understand. Not that she had really spoken to anyone about it, but there had been questions, pointed ones, about Him and That Night. She had tried her best to explain the draw in terms that would not paint her in a bad or sordid light, but it was like trying to explain a sunrise to someone who has lived in a dark room their entire lives. She knew they didn’t, couldn’t, understand, and she felt sorrow for them. She had experienced something profound and felt changed by it to her core, but they had nothing to compare it to, and so couldn’t even begin to grasp it.
Even more concerning than that though, she realizes now, she had started to think of Him in terms of being her’s. She had planned in her mind what she would say to him when he inevitably called. What she would wear on their first date. The woman didn’t count either the party or the resulting inferno of lust as their first date, for obvious reasons, but she had planned out the evening that would count in detail in her mind. She had decided that she would have to return to her Mama’s lessons regarding sex though, which meant that there would be none of that for at least a few weeks. Despite this though, the woman looked forward to seeing him again. To just being around him. She longed for it. Craved him like a drug. So much so that her distraction was remarked upon by various people. She had always smiled and waved away their concerns, but it occurs to her now that they were right to be worried. Because, as with most drugs, the high she was on would not, could not, and did not last.
When He had not called a week after That Night, the woman had gone back to the motel. Sure that he would still be there, she had knocked on the door of the room he had stayed in, and had been shocked when a different man entirely had answered the door. The man and his wife were very confused at a woman they didn’t know, in a town they were merely passing through, knocking on their motel room door. The woman was supremely embarrassed of course and had given multiple apologies for bothering the couple before going to the front desk to ask about Him. The woman stops in her reflection for a moment and scoffs at her childishness as she realizes that she refuses to even think his name now, though she cannot bring herself to forget it. The problem with this realization, however, is that she also cannot force herself to use his name, even in thought. Even now. Perhaps especially now. Now it feels less like rejecting Him and more like protecting Him.
At any rate, the woman had gone to the front desk and asked the clerk about Him. Surely, she rationalized, he wouldn’t just leave without saying something to her. He had her phone number, she knew, and she couldn’t have missed his call, because he would have left a message or called back. But the attendant had told her that He had checked out the day after the party. Hours after she had left, so had he and she felt her heart crack. The clerk had given her a pitying smile, so the woman had straightened her spine, plastered her own smile on her face, thanked the young man, and left. He hadn’t even left a note for her.
The mind is an amazing thing, the woman muses now. In effort to stave off feelings of abandonment, rejection, and humiliation, her mind had attempted to come up with a different likely scenario. He checked out a few hours after she left, hadn’t left a message for her with the front desk, and hadn’t called her, so he must have had to leave quickly. In an act of what the woman still considers extraordinary mental gymnastics, the woman had decided that He must have gotten called to another case and had to leave without time to contact her. Which meant that he was probably too busy solving a case and bringing justice to the wronged that he had not had a moment of peace long enough to call. He would undoubtably call her when he finally had a moment and the two could plan for him to come back to town for their date. Perhaps she would even break her rule on carnality once more since he was working so hard. She had felt sympathy and understanding for him at the time, but a week after her ill-fated visit to the motel and still no phone call, the woman had begun to get angry.
Perhaps he lost her phone number? Inconsiderate, yes, but not unforgivable. An honest mistake. It could happen to anyone. This led her to seeking out the acquaintance who had introduced them to in order to either get His phone number or a message to him. Unfortunately, the acquaintance was once again out of town, so that would have to wait. In the meantime, the woman had decided to start her research into Him. She really should have started that earlier, but she had been distracted. Now that she had to wait on their mutual acquaintance’s return, she had time to do what she should have done from the beginning. As she settled in and got started, she had smiled to herself at the idea that she was going to learn everything there was to know about this man that had gotten past her defenses and Mama’s Rules. She was sure, using her usual resources, she would find a treasure trove of interesting information. Birth date, parents, siblings, schools, grades, college and/or military service. Since He was a federal agent, she knew she could also find out about cases he’d worked. Commendations. Current cases. Whereabouts, even, assuming the case was high profile enough. Which it must be, given they had needed him in such a hurry.
Nothing. The woman found…nothing. Not one bit of information. At all. She had wanted to scream in frustration then, and honestly, she still wants to, but didn’t dare. She had searched records all over the country. Every state. Nothing. Not even information that could lead her to information. She had called the FBI. The most local office to her and then the one in Washington D.C. They said they didn’t have an agent of that name with them and never had. Thinking she must have had the agency wrong, she had waded through the alphabet soup that was federal agencies. Nothing. The most hopeful answer she had gotten was that they could/would not talk about employees, past or present.
The woman was starting to get the feeling, a month after That Night, that something was wrong. He still hadn’t called and she couldn’t track down her acquaintance to ask about Him. Her frustration mounted when she realized another month later that the acquaintance had to be actively avoiding her. They were spending a lot more time than usual out of town and when they were, they were never with the group of people they and the woman had in common. Further, the woman had finally realized that the story she and the group was probably false and so nothing she had been told would or could have led to any information. When she had brought this up with mutual friends of her’s and the acquaintance’s, they were confused. They had said, maybe the information was wrong, that didn’t mean it was an intentional lie, and what did it matter anyway? He was clearly just passing through. The woman had not told them, of course, about how she had spent the night after the party. They may have judged her for her indiscretion. Or worse. Told other people.
Four months after the party, the woman had gotten tired of trying to organically meet up with her acquaintance and had gone to their house. Only to find that not only were they not there, they clearly hadn’t been for quite a while. It struck the woman as odd, so she asked the neighbors when they thought the acquaintance would be back as well as how long they had been gone. They neighbors said the acquaintance had left last over a month ago and while they didn’t know when the acquaintance would return, they were getting concerned since the acquaintance had never been gone this long at once before. They would be gone for a week, two at most, and then return home. Usually, they looked like they had some kind of ailment, a limp, a sore shoulder, scrapes, cuts, even bruises, but the neighbors said the acquaintance would take a week or so to recover and then leave out again and the cycle would repeat. But this time was different.
It wouldn’t be for another two weeks after that, that the woman got some information of any kind. Though decidedly not the kind she wanted. One of the neighbors called the woman to let her know that someone was at her acquaintance’s house, but it wasn’t the acquaintance. The woman’s heart had leapt as she decided that it must be Him. He had come back and would have answers and apologies. As the woman looks back over that time, she realizes she was nothing short of delusional. Mama had told the woman, you can’t always get what you want, love. You will be denied sometimes. Rejected sometimes. But how you handle the situation, and yourself afterward, determines your future successes. Those words had never quite rung true for the woman, because she had never been denied or rejected. She had always gotten what she wanted. Now, it seemed, her luck had run out.
The woman had rushed over to her acquaintance’s house once more, eager to see Him again. When she got there however, He was not there, but an older man in a baseball cap driving a car that looked like it belonged in a junk yard rather than on the road. She had had to school her face and hide her disappointment, and replace it with concern for her friend. The older man told her, gravely, that her acquaintance had been in a hunting accident while away and he was there to clean out their house and put it on the market. She had expressed the required sorrow, sympathy, and shock, and inquired at how the man and her acquaintance knew each other, only to be told they had been ‘hunting buddies’ years ago and had made a deal with one another that whichever one ‘went first,’ the other would clean out their belongings, ‘put them to good use,’ and ‘offload the house,’ since neither had any other family.
After a bit more small talk, the woman had gone back home feeling…off. The older man had the same…presence as He did and, she had just realized in that moment, so did her acquaintance. It was an air of leashed danger and made them seem larger than life. On Him it had been incredibly sexy and massively erotic, on the older man and her late acquaintance, it made her feel anxious. Nervous. Like she needed to run away as fast as she could and not look back. She assumes now that, had she not been so ridiculously attracted to Him, she would have felt the same way in his presence. As it was, she had been so clouded by hormones that it had only heightened her interest in Him and all sense of self-preservation had flown out of the window.
Only once she was back home did she realize that she could easily have asked the older man about Him. She quickly decided to call the acquaintance’s home to try and talk to the man, but there was no answer. She called the neighbor that had called her initially, to see if they could get the older man to come to the phone, only to be told that he had left shortly after she had. The woman thanked the neighbor, hung up the phone, and threw it down the hall as hard as she could. It had taken every ounce of restraint she had, but the woman had managed to hold in her scream of rage and frustration until she could make it to her bedroom. Once there, in the safety of her room, she had snatched up the nearest pillow, held it to her face, and screamed herself hoarse. Unfortunately for the pillow, it hadn’t helped. It and two of its fellows had met grisly demises at her clawed, enraged hands. That hadn’t helped either. Not only was she still livid at her lack of luck, she had also had a mess to clean up and three pillows to replace before bedtime. It just hadn’t been her day.
The woman had indulged in a bit of a temper tantrum, stomping through her home, slamming doors open and shut, in search of her broom and dustpan, a bag to put the pillow remnants in, and extra pillows from her linen closet and guest bedroom to sleep on later that night. The actual cleaning itself wasn’t done in the most calm manner either, which only served to make the task take longer, which subsequently made her more angry. Seemed like a vicious, never-ending cycle of frustration and feathers, until suddenly the dam broke. One moment the woman was swearing a blue streak, the likes of which would have had her mouth washed out with the strongest soap available if Mama had heard her, and stuffing feathers and cloth into a garbage bag with rage filled vigor. The next she found herself sitting on the floor, still surrounded by feathers, sobbing her eyes out.
As undignified as it was, and pointless to boot, she had been unable to do anything about it. She had cried until the tears ran out and her body was weak. Too weak to move. Too weak to drag herself to her bed. She had spent the rest of the night on the floor, the occasional stray tear leaking from her eyes. When she woke up the next morning her body was stiff and she had a headache that could have put all other headaches to shame. Still, she couldn’t find the will or strength to pull herself off the floor even then. Her throat burned, and her stomach clenched around nothing. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before, and had lost quite a bit of water during her crying spree, so it made sense that she was hungry and thirsty like she had never been before. It only added to her despondency, however. Her overwhelming lack of desire to do anything at all should have concerned and motivated her to get up and take charge of her life once more, but she couldn’t even muster up enough energy to feel anything at all.
And so, she had laid there on her bedroom floor, surrounded by feather and destroyed pillows long into the afternoon and evening once again. When she had finally been able to pull herself up off the floor, she stumbled her way to her bathroom, thanking every God she had ever heard of that she had sprung for the extra-large tub, despite never having had anyone to share it with. The thought sent a pain rippling through her that she feels even now. As a matter of fact, digging through her memories of the past hurts more than anything she’s ever felt. Searching for answers she not sure she’ll ever find. She’s not even sure she wants them anymore, to be honest, but she still can’t stop herself from hunting them down like a bloodhound on a scent. Mama always said that if someone looked up ‘stubborn’ in an encyclopedia they would just see a picture of me, she remembers with a slight smile. That smile grows as she recalls that Mama actually had put her picture, not just in the encyclopedia, but also the dictionary under the aforementioned heading. It had been an inside joke between the two of them. Something that no one else would know or understand. Something that was just theirs and theirs alone. These thoughts on the back of remembered pain of that day allows for a single traitorous tear to escape her iron control.
Shaking off the feelings that have crept on her, she remembers the next days as though she is watching a movie. To totally honest, that’s how she had felt at the time. Like life was movie. Something she was only watching happen, and merely experiencing second-hand. She can now see how she missed some very important clues, but even now she can’t exactly make sense of them. She had enough knowledge and understanding to see that she had been depressed following her epic crying spree even then, but there were some things that weren’t quite…right.
Her friends, her former lover and their wives, had begun to look at her with…pity. Even now thinking about it, the woman can help but feel indignant. They pitied her?! How dare they! She is not one to be pitied. She is better than that, she knows, and a familiar iced coated acid feeling creeps through her. With a distinctly unladylike snarl, the woman pushes the feeling away violently. It feels too much like fear and sorrow for her to accept it right now. She has better things to think about and more important issues at hand to deal with.
Aside from the unacceptable pity being directed her way, the woman recalls that the friend that had escorted her to the party That Night had also been changing. She had set him up with a few women she knew that would have been more than acceptable matches for him, but every time something had happened. The women would call her the day after the date and tell her in confused tones that he had not been the warm, hospitable gentleman they all knew him to be. Instead, he was rude and curt, almost angry. And cold. They said it was like he looked right through them, as if he didn’t have the time to even truly acknowledge they were there, until they had tried to talk to him about literally any topic, at which point they would wind up talked over, talked down to, or dismissed entirely. They all had said they had asked why he was in such a mood, only to be told it was “nothing that can’t be taken care of,” and they had then asked the woman if she had spoken to him and what they had done to deserve such treatment. Especially when the end of the date came. It seemed that despite his wholly unappetizing behavior, the woman friend had still had…expectations and made his dates very aware of them when he took them home. The only thing that could be said to his credit in the entire situation was that when the women had obviously told him they could not be less interested in anything he had to offer that night, he had simply nodded, said good night, and left. It was as if he hadn’t cared what the answer he got was either way.
Only one woman, the last incidentally, had taken him up on the offer he had made after their date. The woman recalled how the young woman’s voice had trembled slightly when she had told the woman of that night. It wasn’t anything like what the woman would have expected of her friend. Granted, she hadn’t kept track of his sex life in the past, but the young woman’s description had shocked and appalled the woman. Apparently, the cold, impersonal, overbearing demeanor her friend displayed at dinner had carried into the young woman’s bedroom. There had been no tenderness of any kind whatsoever. There had been only orders given in a hard voice accompanied by hard hands, and harder thrusts. There was no consideration at all shown to his bed partner. He had been wholly selfish, caring only for his own satisfaction, which had come blessedly quickly, and nothing for hers. The young woman had admitted over the phone that once he was done, he had appeared to want to stay for another round, but she had asked him to leave, not being able to stand another disappointing romp like the first. He had shrugged and left without a fight, but not before throwing a crude, “Thanks for the ride,” over his shoulder before the door shut.
The woman couldn’t believe her friend’s behavior. She had resolved not to set anyone else up with him until she could deal with him herself, which she had intended to be a few days later. Unfortunately, the day after the phone call with the justifiably unhappy young woman was the day the woman had found out about her acquaintance’s death and things had spiraled from there. Finally, things with the woman and her friend had come to a head about a month after her pillow destruction and crying jag. He had come over the woman’s home, with the stated intention of checking on her and seeing how she was, what had happened, and how he could help.
At the time that woman had been grateful, but even then she had noticed that something in his demeanor, hadn’t matched his words. Maybe it was his eyes. Always before, they were warm and caring when they looked at her. On that day, she felt like she understood what they women she had sent on dates with him had meant by ‘cold,’ It was like staring into frozen stones. Beautiful stones, the woman is willing to admit even now, like diamonds, or some other gemstone, but hard and cold all the same. Remembering those eyes sends a shiver down the woman’s spine and her throat tightens with fear.
Pulling her focus from his eyes, the woman returns her thoughts to the conversation they had had. Conversation, ha! the woman scoffs, that wasn’t a ‘conversation.’ His visit had been going well at the very beginning, despite the unnerving feeling of wrongness that had been crawling across her skin, when things had hit the proverbial fan. He had asked why she was so “down” lately, and the woman had thought that finally she could talk about the situation with someone who could understand. That wasn’t what had happened. The moment she had mentioned Him her friend had suddenly sparked to life like a firework in a spectacular explosion.
She was honestly still confused to this day about the sudden change in him. Not just with her, but with the women she had set him up with and even other people around town. It seemed like over night he had gone from the kind, funny, helpful, and understanding man they all knew and loved, to a cold, unfeeling man who thought nothing of other people and had a hair trigger temper. At the time she hadn’t noticed the changes as they happened, but that day in her home, she saw what everyone had been talking about. It had been shocking to say the least.
The woman still shudders when she remembers the look in his eyes as he raged at her. He had ranted about her fixation on Him, calling her a “pathetic, delusional whore,” and while she was reeling from that verbal barrage, he had continued raving about how her manipulative ways would come back to haunt her and that she needed him to straighten her out by any means necessary. Those had been his exact words actually. “By any means necessary.” She had been confused, shock, and more scared than she had ever been before. Even more than that one pregnancy scare between high school and college. Nothing had come of it, obviously, but she had taken that lesson to heart every bit as much as she took Mama’s lessons to heart. Since then, there had been no scares, and so very little to fear. It isn’t that she doesn’t want children even now, it just hasn’t ever been the right time, not to mention that she wasn’t and still isn’t married. The scandal of an unmarried mother may have lessoned with the times, but that did not mean that it was entirely gone. That and this town is a bit behind the times in general, the woman admits, somewhat begrudgingly. It had never been a problem for her before, in fact she was more than capable of making that state of affairs work for her rather than against her. The antiquated way of thinking that surrounded her had paid off greatly for her, so it had never been in her interest to challenge it overtly.
Off topic again, dammit, the woman growls at herself. Forcing herself to focus on that day, she shudders once again. From cold or fear she isn’t sure. She remembers how she had listened to her friend rail against her while she stood frozen, right until the point he had grabbed her upper arms, slammed her into one of her living room walls, and kissed her. Kissed?! Please! she scoffs, if that was a kiss then the lion must love the gazelle! And not as food! She can almost still feel his lips on hers. Teeth digging in to her flesh. Tongue forcing its way into her mouth. It was violent and painful, and decidedly not in a way she enjoyed. Just as she gagged on his probing tongue, her shocked mind had finally caught on and reacted to what was happening. He was pulling at her blouse, her knee, of its own volition it seemed, jerked up and none too gently landed squarely on his testicles. At the same moment, she expressed her displeasure with the tongue in her mouth by biting down. Hard. She had never thought blood would taste any way other than vile, but in this instance, it tasted sweet. Like victory.
His howl of pain wasn’t too shabby either, she remembers with a smirk. The smirk fades quickly when she recalls the enraged look on his face and the slap that followed. Stunned once again, her ears ringing, she only vaguely heard the names he screamed at her before he slammed out of her house, leaving with a slight limp. The woman had breathed a shaky sigh of relief that it was over and briefly considered calling Jordan and filing a complaint against her friend and asking for an officer to give her an escort her to and from work and home for a few days, or at the very least just to have someone aware of what had happened and give some advice on what she should do. Then she realized for advice she might be better off calling Brian, even though he would probably tell her to press charges, which she didn’t want to do. Her thought was that if she called Jordan and made a complaint, an officer would go and talk to her friend and make him stay away from her. If her friend ignored the officer’s warning, there would already be a record of what happened so things would be taken care of more quickly.
In the end, she decided not to call either Jordan or Brian. She honestly felt that this was just a hiccup for her friend. He was obviously going through something and a police presence in his life wouldn’t be helpful for him to get out of it. While the woman would never again trust her now former friend, nor would she want him around her, she still wanted what was best for him and to see him do well. Even a whisper of impropriety in which the police were involved could, and likely would, destroy his business, his credibility, and really his life in their town. He also probably wouldn’t be able to start over in a new area either, unless it was quite far away, which would cost more money than he would wind up having. She couldn’t bring herself to risk that happening to him. Not for the man he had become, but for the boy and the friend he been.
Despite her resolve, she had felt a nagging in the back of her mind urging her to tell someone what happened. She had felt it for days. After a week of the feeling, she finally decided the when she got home that night, she would call Zachary. Practical and pragmatic, Zachary would know how to handle things while being discrete. Her now former friend might wind up a bit worse for wear, but as long as he didn’t bother her, or any other woman if she knew Zachary as well as she thought she did, his life would go on overall uninterrupted. If he didn’t…well…people left town all the time without telling anyone else, presumably moving on to bigger and better things while avoiding awkward questions, especially if they had the kind of money her ex-friend had. What was one more person, right?
She had considered calling for an escort home that night, but decided against it. While it wasn’t exactly an unusual occurrence, it would still bring up more questions than she was prepared to answer at that moment. Instead, she had finished out her day, long after her colleagues had gone home to their families, thinking not about the conversation she was going to be having when she got home, but rather about how much she longed to have what they had. A husband, someone who supported her and was her partner in every sense. Love. Babies. The perfect apple pie, white picket fence with a dog in the yard life. No, it wasn’t for everyone, but it was what she wanted. She had realized that she was lonely and tired of living her life the way she was. She wanted to settle down, and using Mama’s lessons and rules, the woman was sure she would find the perfect mate for herself the same way she had for others in her life. She understood it may take longer for her than it had for them, because she knew she was more…selective than they were, but she knew it would happen sooner rather than later. And so, with thoughts of white dresses, bassinets, and lullabies in her head, she walked to her car to go to her lonely, empty home with a resolved smile on her face.
She should have called for the escort.
The only thing she could remember was a soft rustling behind her, not unusual given the trees around the parking lot, then a sharp pain in her neck. Everything went black almost immediately. Almost. Just before the inky blackness descended, she caught a glimpse of a man. Her now ex-friend. And on his face was the most sickeningly sinister smirk on his face.
When she woke, she was on a bed. Her neck hurt, her head was screaming, and her vision was blurry. She had no idea where she was and her heart was racing in fear of the unknown. Naturally, she jumped to her feet to begin trying to figure out not only where she was, but also to find a way out of this place. Unfortunately, while she was able to get up without issue, she quickly realized that where didn’t matter nearly as much as what, and what was some kind of concrete room. No windows. One door. Metal. Undoubtedly heavy, and absolutely locked. She was trapped. The only way out was that one door, and she knew the only way it would open was if…when her ex-friend came into the room. He would be ready for anything she might throw at him, of course, so her chances of escape were very slim. She could only hope at that point that he would do what ever he was going to do, then let her go. She categorically refused to entertain any thoughts about what he might be planning beyond hoping that he would ultimately let her go.
She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, and so had no idea what time it might be. She only knew that she was incredibly hungry and thirsty. Almost as soon as the thought had entered her head, however, a flap she had missed on the bottom of the metal door opened and a something was pushed through. On inspection, she saw that it was two pieces of bread and a paper cup of water on a tray. In her hunger, she snatched up the bread and devoured it, before gulping down the water. It barely took the edge off, but at least it was something.
She jumped when the flap opened again and the tray was yanked through in the opposite direction as before. Upon realizing that someone (she could easily guess who) on the other side of the door had known the tray was empty and had taken it back, she started to talk. Well…less talk, more yell. Questions abounded. Answers were demanded. None were given. She refused to plead, so decided instead to bargain. Assurances that if he only let her go, she would never tell anyone about this occurrence. They would get him help with whatever was going on with him. She would help him. The bargaining ceased when she heard, barely, another door, further away, close. He clearly wasn’t interested in what she had to say and had left.
And so, things had gone for what she could only assume were the next 4-5 days. Three times a day the flap in the door would open, two pieces of bread beside water in a paper cup on a tray that was retrieved as soon as the three items where removed. She had continued to try and talk to him. She still wouldn’t plead and would die before she begged, but she asked for answers and bargained to the best of her considerable abilities. She even lied. Lied like it was her job. It is, or was, but it seems uncouth to say the quiet part out loud like that, the woman muses with semi-forced humor. Forced because there is nothing even remotely amusing or humorous about this situation. She had yet to get any answers, let alone any interaction whatsoever beyond the push of the tray and its retrieval.
Throughout it all, the woman imagined her life outside of this place. The things she would do once she got out of here. The places she would go. She knew now that there was nothing in this town any more. She knew everyone and none of them were to her standard for a husband, though that standard had somewhat lowered in her time in the large concrete box that was her current residence. She thought she might try to find Him, but she had no idea where to even start. Maybe she could find that older man that had been at her acquaintance’s house that day, but she was struggling with remembering him name. Usually she was good with names, but between the high emotions she had been feeling at the time and shortly after, coupled with the knowledge that he wasn’t staying, and her current fear, hunger, and dehydration…well, simply put her mind wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders. Even now, she casts around in her mind for that name. Ronald? Richard? No. Not an R. Not an R…a…B? Yes! B…something! the woman recalls excitedly. A breakthrough finally! B. B. Brandon? No. Bartholomew? Absolutely not. Shorter…Bill? Billy? Billy! she decides. She’s still not entirely sure she’s right, but she can’t be bothered with that reality right now, because frankly, she desperately needs even that small win.
Because her circumstances had changed. And not for the better. She couldn’t be sure how long ago it was really, but it had to be a day or two there had only been two trays. The first had half of the rations she’d been getting which, while they hadn’t been nearly enough before, she really couldn’t afford to lose. She spent the day curled up on the bed, shaking with hunger pangs worse than ever before. Her throat burned and her head pounded. When it can to about the time that the second tray would be delivered, she had pulled herself up and over to the door to wait patiently. She had waited in vain. The tray never arrived. The disappointment had nearly crashed her and her resolve wavered. Wavered, but did not collapse, thankfully. Her disappointment coupled with the overall insufficient food, however, had left her unable to go back to the lone source of comfort in the room. For hours, she laid on the floor in front of the flap, willing it to open and provide her with a nourishing, filling meal. Eventually, her will prevailed and the flap indeed opened. The tray was passed through and upon it, while not the meal she wanted, were the standard two bread slices and paper cup with water. She had sighed in relief.
Naturally, she tore into the bread and gulped the water in a most unladylike manner, but she didn’t care. She was quite literally starving. It wasn’t until she noticed that the tray hadn’t been retrieved that the thought that something might be a bit suspicious about this particular meal. That’s when the first wave of dizziness had swept over her and she felt herself falling backward. She heard more than felt her head hit the cold concrete floor, and mused that it would probably hurt when she woke up. If she woke up. The last thing she was aware of was the heavy metal door opening and her now very much EX-friend walking into the room. The same sinister smirk smeared across his face. She was all but certain that this was her last moment.
But she was wrong. Although on further reflection she wasn’t exactly sure that was good thing. She had woken on the bed again. But this time was different. She was naked. And bound. Shackled actually. As soon as she realized the vulnerable state she was in, she immediately began shivering. Cold and fear. Fear and cold. The war between the two feelings was never fully won by either, so they traded off for the role of most prominent. Outweighing even the burning thirst and vicious hunger. Something she hadn’t thought was possible, but now she knew she was wrong about that, too.
And so, it is. Since the moment she had woken up chained to this bed, naked as the day she was born, she hasn’t moved, hasn’t been able to, other than the occasional shift or to bang her head back in frustration. She is more uncomfortable than she has ever been. Her arms and shoulders ache, but had largely stopped hurting other than a sharp twinge here and there, which honestly would have concerned her if it weren’t for the entire situation as a whole, but things being what they were, she can’t be bothered to care. Other than to be grateful that part of her discomfort has ended. The rest though is all but unbearable. Because she can’t get up and pace like she normally would when she got bored, she has to lay there with her mind spinning desperately searching for something, anything, to alleviate the boredom. She can’t warm herself or at least cover up with the blankets, so she is fully exposed, which is a different kind of discomfort, but still valid, and she is freezing. She is losing feeling in her feet and legs, though whether that is because of the tight bonds holding them to the bed immobile, or the frigid cold, she can’t tell. She also hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since ingesting the clearly drugged bread and water. The only silver lining, if it can be called that, to that particular issue is that she has stopped feeling the thirst and the hunger. Either because they have disappeared, or because she has gotten so used to them, she has no idea. And to add insult to injury, because she is chained down so securely, she can’t reach the single hole in the far corner of the room that had been serving as her toilet this whole time. She is filthy, having had not opportunity to bathe since she had been brought to this place, and now she was covered in her own waste. If there was anything at all beneficial about starving and being critically dehydrated, it was the fact that particular indignity had all but ceased as well. Again, something she would ordinarily be concerned about, but in her nearly delirious state, she can’t force herself to look passed the fact that she isn’t getting any dirtier.
Somewhere in her mind she knows, though. She knows that she is not long for the world and that her time now is likely being counted in hours and minutes, rather than days, weeks, and years. As that simultaneously depressing and comforting thought skips across her mind, she hears the metal of the door clang, creak, and open. Her heart leaps to her throat. Fear yes, but it’s also been so long since she’s seen anyone else face, she doesn’t care that it’s the face of the man she used to think was her closest friend. The relief is short lived. As he enters, he begins to talk. And the things he says…he tells her that while her absence has been noted, no one actually cares. The town gossips hiss to each other that it’s probably her own fault and that it’s likely for the best. Her friends don’t feel that way of course. They are saddened by her sudden disappearance, “What a pity,” they say, “what a loss.” But ultimately, they can’t be bothered to put forth any real effort into finding her. They are wrapped up in their own lives and won’t bestir themselves to much on her behalf. Even the police investigation into her disappearance was token at best.
Her outrage at the knowledge that she has been cast aside and forgotten by those she benefited and benefited from the most is tempered only by pain. Because while he talks, the man wearing her friend’s face, for that is how she thinks of him now, (they can’t be the same man. He can’t have changed this much. she tells herself trying desperately to soothe and distract), he cuts. He carves. Red lines racing over ever inch of flesh. During his monologue about how all of her insipid dreams are all for naught, he makes her bleed. Sometimes he lays down the blade for another implement, each is a new level and type of pain she had never thought to experience, but he always returns to the shiny, straight metal and continues his “artwork” as he calls it.
He tells her over and over that if she had just noticed him, given him the time, accepted him, loved him, he would have given her everything she ever wanted. A home, warm, welcoming, and safe. Love. Acceptance. A partner. Children. Beautiful babies to sing to and tell stories and teach and play with. He would and could have given her everything. On a never-ending loop he berates, belittles, and taunts her. Her friends don’t need or miss her. The town she thought she ran is still running and better in the one week she’d been gone than it ever had under her watch. Her home had already been emptied out, her belonging stored until an auction could be arranged, and the building itself already sold. No one had wasted any time completely erasing her from their lives and the town. She will never leave this room. All of her dreams and ambitions will end here with her. She will never have a husband in her arms or a child on her hip. Her memory, such as it is, will swiftly fade for everyone and when someone does think about her it will be with pity before they shrug off the thought and move on with their lives. And all because she had chosen some man, some stranger, she didn’t even know over him. If she had chosen him that night, instead of “whoring around” with Him, she wouldn’t be laying here right now. She would be safe in bed with him, her friend and new lover, dreaming of wedding bells and strollers, but instead she decided to make the wrong choice, once again, and he would make sure it was the last one.
The woman’s heart breaks over and over and over as a man she used to love as family tears her apart physically, mentally, and emotionally. The one thing, the one line he didn’t cross, was that he had not touched her. He hasn’t violated her in that way. It was one experience she was assured she wouldn’t have, but not because he wouldn’t cross that line, but because she “she didn’t deserve” him and she was “even too filthy for” him. She got the feeling he wasn’t talking about the layers of dirt and refuse she had accumulated, but she can’t find it in herself to care. It doesn’t even necessarily make sense really. She is going to die. She knows it. She has known it, but somehow, she takes solace in that one thing. And if her dalliance with Him had been what prevented that act from taking place, she can and will find it in herself to be grateful for that even though this whole thing is His fault.
The woman loses and regains consciousness several times over the course several hours. Every time returning to the waking world to hear her Not Friend ranting like a mad man, laughing at her pain, and layering more and more of it one top of the other. She has long since broken her vow against crying not to mention screaming, but can’t beg, not coherently at least, even if she wants to. Since she had woken chained up on the bed, she had been securely gagged. A gag that had now been soaked in blood and other bodily fluids generated during her ordeal. If she could, though, she would beg. She would beg him to have mercy and let her die. She knows that’s a fruitless wish though. He has no mercy. Not for her at the very least. He has made that perfectly clear time and again.
Finally though, finally, blessedly, she feels the end, the Reaper, Death himself, approach. She almost sighs in relief, but holds herself back just in case her Not Friend finds a way to bring her back from the brink. The thought of this agony, this hell, continuing cannot be borne and she prays one last time once again to every God she’s ever heard of that this really will be the end. She can still hear her Not Friend rant, though now it is muffled, like someone talking from far off. He is asking questions now. Demanding answers she hopes he doesn’t expect her to give. She couldn’t if she wanted to. Not that she does want to. Maybe if he gets angrier, this will end quicker. Either way, at this point anything that makes him unhappy pleases her. Probably twisted, but no less true. Slowly, she turns her head toward him, very purposefully. She can actually feel her heart slowing and see the final darkness at the edges of her vision. She has nothing to lose anymore. She doesn’t care anymore. It makes her brave in her last moments.
Again, her Not Friend demands an answer to his question. Her Not Friend wants His name. Apparently, he can’t remember it, and for some reason it’s important to him. He also wants to know what she knows about His whereabouts. She can’t imagine why. Still, one last push and it’s over. And it’ll do her slowing heart good to see him stymied one last time. She is dying and he is the one killing her. She is entitled to be a bit mean she feels. And so, strength fading quickly, the woman grins around her blood and spit-soaked gag showing bloody cracked teeth, and very intentionally, deliberately, slowly turned her head away from him. His rage was hysterical. If she could, she would have laughed, though one thing does confuse her. Just before he is out of her sight for the last time, she would swear she saw his eyes flash black. And there isn’t enough blood in her body for her brain to work properly, so she probably imagined it, she reasons quickly. It doesn’t matter anyway. The darkness the had been on the edges of her vision has almost completely covered it. Her Not Friend’s screams and yells mean nothing to her anymore. But one thing does. She can’t believe it, but she wants her last thought to be of the man who ruined everything. The man who made her feel alive and got her killed. Him. Slightly resigned to her own sentimentality, but resolute nonetheless, she calls up his image in her mind. How he looked went she first saw him That Night, but also when she last saw him, asleep, hair a mess, back covered in red lines, justifiably exhausted. She smiles to herself one last time, and with her last heartbeats, her last precious moments, she thinks
His name was John.
Song Credit- Reba McIntire "She Thinks His Name Was John" (side note: this song is about something very different and very real, and I have the utmost respect for that and Ms. McIntire for doing it in the first place. This fic came about because I binge watched Supernatural after listening to this song and my sleeping brain mashed them together. It turned into a massively rabid plot bunny that I had to write. But go listen to the song and prepare fore chills at the very least. I tried to do it justice, but I'm not sure how successful I was.)
Please comment and let me know what you think now that its complete. Good or bad, I don't care, but please be nice about it. Constructive criticism instead of flames. And I don't feed trolls. I block them.
Rating: M? (just to be safe, since there is discussion of sex. Also violence in later parts.)
Pairing: Female OC x ??? (it's a surprise/choose your own-ish? There is a reveal moment, but you could easily put in whoever you want I suppose)
Warnings: implied rough sex/choking/etc., torture/violence in later parts, Not Beta Read
Word Count: 5824 (like I said in pt. 1, this one is a beast...sorry?)
Cross posted on AO3 @- Lupine_Princess
Part 3 *is* coming soon. Hopefully by Monday at the latest, but that's what I thought about these two, so who knows at this point right? Please enjoy the Part That Wouldn't End Because the Character Is Super Thirsty, and tell me what you think? lol
Part Two
The woman remembers that day as though she were watching it happen in real time all over again. Six months prior, she had been invited to a party by a friend of hers at the last minute. Apparently, the woman’s friend had a date that had cancelled on him the night before and so he had no one to go to the party with, an entirely unacceptable state of affairs for any socially conscious person in their area. The friend’s only options then were to either go alone, again unacceptable, or take a friend who understood that the late invitation was not a slight but also that the night would not lead to anything more either.
The woman of course understood all of that, she had often been a plus one for her male friends when their own wives or girlfriends couldn’t or wouldn’t attend an event with them, and so had no problem reprising that role once again. It would do nothing to silence the town gossips who were determined to either set the woman up with every available man in the vicinity regardless of their acceptability, or else slander her for her current, and enduring, lack of a husband. They just didn’t seem to understand that a husband was a good and wonderful thing to have, but bonds formed by love, affection, and sex and extended through into friendship had a much better return and were better in many ways. A husband was one potentially powerful connection, but her own liaisons had formed connections that endured with multiple powerful families and had given the woman power of her own. Clearly, the local gossips didn’t have Mamas like the woman did. Mamas were was willing to teach their daughter the ways of the world and how to get the most out of it in the most practical way. That, or they did, but their Mamas had realized their daughters didn’t have the visual appeal or intelligence necessary to succeed in the least, and so the lessons would be wasted. Shaking off that thought, the woman scolds herself, such cattiness is unbecoming of a lady. I know better. Mama taught me better. I’m sorry again, Mama… The woman sighs and returns to what is seeming less like a search for answers to her downfall and more like penance for forgetting herself and her Mama’s invaluable teachings. Enough of that, the woman thinks, back to the matter at hand. That night…the woman sighs as the memory washes over her like it had a thousand times before.
The night of the party that lead her astray had been a beautiful one. All of the stars were out in force and the wind whispered through the trees as though it was sharing a secret. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was whispering a warning, either way the woman had simply enjoyed the breeze and continued on as she always had. By the time her friend arrived at her home to take her to the party, it would never be acceptable for them to arrive separately after all, her hair was perfect, her makeup stunning, and she was dressed to kill. Not that she would, of course. A living, happily married, rich, powerful man who felt friendship and fondness for her and also felt indebted to her for his happy state was much more beneficial to her than a dead one, unless of course that man had an appropriate and legally valid will, though that would only be a short-term benefit at best. No, for now it would be far better to merely look like a woman a man would die for, even though later on it may be necessary to…ask them to prove it. After all, lessons in deportment, practicality, and strategy were not the only ones her Mama had taught the woman.
All dressed and largely ready, the woman only made her friend wait a few moments in order to apply her favorite perfume and for it to dry down a bit so that it wouldn’t be overly strong in the confines of the car. It was simply good manners, though her friend would still have the scent of her signature fragrance on him from the car ride to the event. The thought wasn’t a displeasing one despite the fact that the woman didn’t have any designs on her friend’s heart. After she still wanted to remind every woman there of who exactly he was with that night. Her friend told her she looked lovely, and she smiled, thanking him for his compliment. Friends alone they may be, but never let it be said that the woman and her friend were lacking in manners.
On the way to the party, the woman’s friend spoke to her about his business, and how he was finally looking to settle down, now that things had started to calm down following his recent explosive success. He was still do very well, he reassured the woman, but things had stopped being so fast paced and chaotic. The woman had nodded, indicating that she understood, and began to think of acceptable female friends of hers that would be best for him. She assured him that with her on the case, they would see him married by Christmas at the latest. His laugh echoed through the car and the woman chuckled at his mirth. He thought she was exaggerating, but she was entirely serious. In any case, at least he was in a better mood and that was good. There was nothing worse than a melancholy date, regardless of the fact that it wasn’t a “date” date as the kids liked to say. By the time they arrived at the party, her friend had fully shaken off his moodiness, and they were sharing amusing stories about the past and other mutual friends, and so it was a laughing pair that entered the event rather than a silent one. Much better optics if you asked the woman.
An hour or two after arriving at the party, the woman and her friend had separated to mingle with friends of theirs on their own. The woman had breathed a small sigh of relief because it would seem that her dear friend had forgotten part of the arrangement for the night and their friendship in general. He had started look at her with the kind of longing that she knew stemmed from his loneliness and needed to be nipped in the bud as soon as possible. He had always before understood that while she adored him and valued his place in her life, she would never look on him as a potential suitor. He had even understood her reasons and her Mama’s lessons, having gotten similar lessons from his own Mama. It would seem that those lessons needed refreshing. The woman had sighed, shaken her head, and decided that she would speak to him gently about it the next day. It wouldn’t do to lose a good friend who understood her to what amounted to a puppy love crush. Especially not one born out of a desperation not to be alone anymore rather than a genuine desire and need for her. Frankly, she deserved better.
Resolve firmed, the woman smiled and laughed as she chatted with other friends that had been invited to this party. As she was talking to a woman who was more of an acquaintance than a true friend, another acquaintance came over with a person the woman couldn’t quite see, so she finished what she had been saying and turned to look at and greet this new person who had entered their little circle of chatters.
Her heart stopped. Her breath froze in her chest as her lungs forgot how they operated. Her blood started racing in her veins and rushed to her head. She felt like she’d had too much to drink, when she hadn’t even finished one glass of wine and she knew no one here would dream of putting something in her glass. Her vision blurred for a moment, which she was thankful for because it allowed her brain to function properly once more. Before her was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on in her entire life. His shoulders and chest were broad, and even through his suit she could see that both were well-muscled, and her knees began to shake. His arms lightly strained the sleeves of his suit jacket, so they were well-muscled as well, and at the sight of his hands, her knees nearly gave out.
But that wasn’t all. As she continued to observe the man (she was not staring thank you very much, staring is incredibly rude, and Mama had taught her better than that), she realized how tall he was and felt her a rush of moisture seep into her panties. She had always been a fan of tall man and this one had the actual height itself coupled with a presence that made him seem even taller. She studied his sculpted jaw, complete with five o’clock shadow, and expressive mouth that seemed to command attention and demand that she press her own against it. Her mouth, wanting, needing to answer to his, but denied due to social restrictions, began to water.
Looking further, the woman notice that his hair was either expertly styled or he was blessed with hair that fell in an artfully messy style reminiscent of a man freshly out of bed after a night of passionate lovemaking with a very lucky woman, all on its own. She knew where she would be willing to place her bets, but she didn’t actually know for certain…yet. By this point the woman couldn’t concentrate enough to even begin to tell you the color of his hair. Perhaps it was dark brown or maybe it was black, but in the dim light they were standing in it could easily have been much lighter than it first appeared. The same could be said for his eyes. The color was as much a mystery as his identity because of the accursed lighting. Were they brown? Blue? Green? Some odd combination? The woman didn’t know, but she desperately wanted to. I never did figure it out, the woman pouts privately, I never saw him in bright enough light to tell even though I was…rather close to them for several hours. At the thought of how the night had progressed, the woman shudders in aftershocks of remembered pleasure and sighs with a girlish smile.
The only real things that the woman remembers about the man’s hair and eyes are how soft his hair was as she ran her fingers through it (or gripped it tight) and how his eyes had burned with hunger the moment he looked at her. She remembers how it had shocked her so much that she had had to bite back a gasp. The intensity of his eyes on her had made her feel as though she were standing before him as naked as the day she was born. She could feel his eyes raking over her body leaving a scorching trail, even through her black dress. Perhaps in effort to quench the flames racing across her flesh, the woman’s body sent a flood of wetness into her already damp under garments. The silk, she was certain, was now completely ruined, and her body’s efforts were in vain. The fire was nowhere near quenched. If anything, they leapt higher when it became apparent that some part of her dilemma had shown on her face as the man sent the most sin-filled smirk in the woman’s direction. She sincerely hoped that the owners of this home had a good cleaning service scheduled to come in the next day, because the moment the woman saw that smirk, she was certain that there had to now be a puddle forming on the carpet at her feet.
Thankfully, the woman thinks, I had decided to wear a floor length dress in spite of the warm late spring evening because, if there had indeed been a mess, at least no one else could see it. The only thing I had to worry about after that was an…olfactory give away, but the only person other than me that seemed to notice was Him. He had seemed…pleased and satisfied by my response to him. That satisfaction did nothing to dull the ravenous hunger we both felt. Cutting off that train of thought before it could force her to skip ahead, the woman moans and shifts uncomfortably. Not an uncommon state of affairs since that night, but nearly overwhelmingly common in the last several days.
Biting back a scream of frustration, the woman forces her thoughts back to That Night. That Night, the woman scoffs, capital T, capital N. The night everything changed. The night that led me to this place. Too bad I didn’t know about all of this then. But can I honestly say it would have changed anything? Gritting her teeth, the woman mentally waves off that most uncomfortable question, and returns to That Night once more. Specifically, the moment He opened his mouth and spoke. Smoky, dark chocolate. Smooth, but somehow simultaneously rough. Crushed velvet on sweat soaked skin. Decadent, but firm. Strong. The unspoken promise of pleasure so strong that it borders on, flirts with, then becomes pain. But such an unexpectedly, but wonderfully, intense pain that it circles back around to pleasure like a never-ending feedback loop. This time, the woman can not contain herself, and audibly growls in frustration at her runaway mind. This is not the time for that trip down memory lane. And what a well-traveled lane that particular one is. One walked many a time over the previous six months in the dark of the night and the comfort of her own home. The woman less than gently slams her head back, then freezes at the unexpectedly loud resulting noise.
Back to That Night, for the love of God! Let’s just get this over with! the woman all but screams in her own mind. She is fine with self-reflection; it has served her well over the years and was one on Mama’s more important lessons. It was how she knew when to move on from a lover and who to gently and respectfully hand him off to. It was how Mama had known when to cut her losses and deal with the problems Daddy had caused. The woman snorts delicately, ‘Problems Daddy caused?’ By the end, Daddy was the problem, but Mama…oh, Mama handled it beautifully. Thinking back to that time far in the past to her young girlhood, the woman struggles to think of a more elegant picture than the one seared into her mind of Mama dressed in black. The woman remembered the tears that had rolled over Mama’s cheeks gracefully as if she were so grief-stricken that she could not stop them, but neither did she have the strength any longer to give any notice, so deep was she in her sorrow, while she sat in the church and listened to the preacher. The woman also remembers the first of Mama’s lessons given that very night. If it must be done, dear one, it must be done with grace. Mama applied that to everything in her life. Grieving with grace. Mourning with grace. Healing with grace. Moving on with grace Very permanently ridding yourself of a husband who has forgotten his place…with grace, the woman mused. Mama had made sure Daddy thought everything was all right, so neither he, nor anyone else, suspected anything in the least. She had waited until the bruises had healed and took the woman, then seven years old, on a pre-planned weekend getaway. They returned to news of a tragedy. A gas leak. Daddy found in bed by the neighbor. So very sad. So very unexpected. Mama handled her business, with grace of course, and began teaching her daughter how to handle her own. All those lessons. All of that time. And I wind up here…the woman thinks sadly.
But it does bring her back to the point of self-reflection. Self-reflection is a wonderful tool when used properly. Not so much when it is derailed by hormones running rampant at the thought of the man who was the cause of all of this. She has been obsessing over this man for the last six months, and had only now come to the conclusion that, while part of the blame for this whole situation is invariably on her, the majority has to rest with him. It has to. Because otherwise, either she is entirely to blame, an unacceptable notion, or this is nothing but a horrid coincidence, and that thought is even more repugnant to the woman than the first. It has long been her belief, her dogma, that nothing, nothing, happens without reason or purpose. Nothing happens that cannot be controlled, ideally by her, but failing that then by her more powerful and well placed…friends. She must call them that, because any other descriptor would make her sound callous and cruel, and she could not fathom anyone calling her that.
So how did this happen? This travesty. Truly it began just after the woman heard Him speak. With nothing more than a simple “Hello,” she knew to the depths of her being that she absolutely must have him. In her bed. In his. Against the nearest wall or other semi-flat surface. It absolutely did not matter. She knew nothing about him, and at the time did not care, so she didn’t know if He would be useful or if he would even be worth keeping forever, but that didn’t matter either. She craved him. She was a woman dying of thirst and He was blessed, cool water. And it appeared, to the woman at least, that he felt similarly. Perhaps not quite as strongly as the woman did, but certainly strongly enough to respond to her favorably.
After introductions were made, the acquaintance who had brought Him over to the group explained that He was an agent for with the FBI who was in their small town because he was working on a case in the next town over. The acquaintance and the man had met a few years prior when the acquaintance’s car had broken down on an unknown road when the acquaintance was out of state on business and the man had stopped to help. They had talked while the man had fixed the car and then talked more over the dinner the acquaintance had insisted on buying the man as a thank you. They agreed to keep in touch and when the man had been assigned a case near where the acquaintance lived, it only made sense that the man would choose to stay near and be shown around the area by a person He knew. The woman nodded and smiled, praising the man for his compassion in helping “her friend,” meanwhile she was trying not to combust then and there. A handsome man with power who was good with his hands and was practical and intelligent enough to do the logical thing without someone else pointing it out to him? The woman would later swear she had heard wedding bells for a brief moment, before they had been melted into nothingness by an inferno of lust.
It was a sweet story and made sense at the time, but later the woman would wonder how much of it was true. It was too neat, the woman decides. The acquaintance had never in the woman’s nor their mutual friend’s memories had car trouble of any kind. The acquaintance was well known for, and often teased about, their near obsession with maintaining their vehicle. It was sensible when you thought about it. The acquaintance was constantly out of town for one reason or another. It seemed as though they were gone more often than not really, which was why they were only the woman’s acquaintance rather than a friend. Moreover, the acquaintance had always struck the woman as…odd. Not necessarily in a bad way, of course, just different. Maybe that’s what happens when a person falls too much in love with history and not enough in love with another person, the woman pondered, somewhat cattily, but at this point she doesn’t care anymore. Mama’s lessons clearly aren’t getting her out of this, so she’ll have to figure something else out.
Back to self-reflection minus hormones clouding the issue, dammit, the woman scolds herself. Though really, she can’t be held entirely responsible for that either. That man had a way of making everything in her brain reduce to a pile of quivering, lust filled goo. At any rate, back to That Night, after the appropriate, and probably fabricated, explanation, the circle went on to continue its chatting about this, that, and the other thing, and not one bit of it anything with any substance whatsoever. Had the woman not been standing next to a man who simply oozed sex from his very pore, she would have been able to feel her brain-cells begin die and would have drifted away from the group to recover. As it was though, the woman was unable to anything of the sort. To do that would move her away from Him, so she had to hope that the lust would protect her. It didn’t. She wouldn’t find out until later that it had apparently had the opposite effect entirely.
But would I really have walked away then if I knew what I know now? the woman demands of herself. She still isn’t willing to answer that question, but it does bear acknowledging if nothing else. The woman remembers how His burning eyes rarely left her, and how his voice, even when not directed at her specifically, caressed her body like the lover he wasn’t yet, but she so wanted him to become. It was about an hour after meeting Him, that her escort for the evening found her to let her know he was ready to leave. And this brings me to the first misstep and the first of Mama’s Rules broken…
Normally, the woman would never dream of leaving any event with someone other than the person she came with, and certainly not alone. You always leave with the one that brought you, sweet. It is, if nothing else, good manners, and manners are the bedrock of society. One cannot hope to succeed in any endeavor they take on if they cannot conduct themselves well, after all, the woman hears Mama’s voice ringing through her head as though she had just spoken the words to the woman. Considering the woman missed her Mama deeply since she had passed several years before, the voice would have been comforting. Unfortunately, the tone was somewhat scolding and as much woman wished otherwise, she honestly understood the implied censure.
The woman did not leave with the friend that brought her to the party. When He saw her friend come over and attempt to end the evening for both of them, he had offered, in a very pleasant and gentlemanly way and not at all lasciviously (though the woman will swear to this day that she heard a touch of prurience in his tone), to escort her home should the woman want to stay longer than her present escort desired. The woman had had to bite back her immediate agreement to the plan so as not to offend her friend, but she could still see a glimmer of jealousy and anger in her friend’s eyes. That would not do, the woman decided and she stood firm in her decision despite her friend trying to change her mind when she told him that she was having far too good a time catching up with friends to end the night so early, and that since the man was offering an escort home and her friend was already ready to leave, she would not ask her friend to stay and would instead accept a ride home from her new friend. Thinking back later, the woman would swear she saw a hint of an amused smirk on her acquaintance’s lips, and that they rolled their eyes, possibly at the woman’s behavior, possibly the man’s, more likely it was both, but the woman didn’t care then, and she doesn’t care now.
In the end, it didn’t matter. The woman’s friend was surprised by her actions of course, having grown up with similar lessons. Even though he seemed to forget some of the more important ones when it pleased him, the woman thinks with no small amount of irritation and disquiet. The idea that she should be held to a different standard than her friend, as if she had not followed every rule and lesson given without fail or fight while he had repeatedly needed to be brought back into line several times in their youth, apparently now as well, offended the woman to the depths of her soul. More than the whispers of the town gossips. More than the idea that all of what has befallen her is her own fault and no one else’s. More even than being lied to in deed if not in word, by both her acquaintance and Him. It was clear that her friend thought he had a claim on her then and now, and the he also thought he was better than her. Superior to her. Above her. That she should be grateful for his attention. He had said almost exactly that over the last few days as a matter of fact, but she hadn’t believed or understood then. Now, on reflection, she believes every syllable she wonders how long he had felt this way. It seemed there was a glimmer of it that long ago night, but it had gotten more and more clear as time, culminating in the last…however longs it’s been… the woman thinks with her ever present sigh.
The woman recalls the slighted feeling of apprehension when her friend had finally gotten the message that she would not be leaving and that He would be the one to take her home, not her friend. Ultimately the feeling was fleeting. As if it had never been, it vanished with the smile of satisfaction and pleasure that He bestowed on her. His friend, the woman’s acquaintance, had made a sound like a chuckle and told the man that he should be glad that they had brought separate cars to the party, before they said their own polite goodbyes and moved off in search of less fraught conversation.
As soon as the woman’s acquaintance had wandered off, it was like a leash had been slipped or a floodgate opened. The other chatterers had meandered away before during the conversation between Him and the woman’s friend, and so the woman and the man found themselves blessedly, terrifyingly, wonderfully alone. Granted they were still surrounded by people because the party was not yet over, but they were off to the side in a less open area. Not entirely private, so they were still constrained by social convention, but private enough for small touches, private smiles, and the kind of innuendo laced talk that would have sent the gossips’ heads spinning and rushing to the nearest telephone. The wine flowed as well as the conversation. Rich and decadent like His voice. Ordinarily, they woman judged harshly those who left with a person who had been drinking, but in this case, she had argued to herself, she had already given enthusiastic consent to anything the night held before she had started her second glass. She had intentionally waited until they had some sort of privacy before she had allowed herself to have any more than the one glass. She wanted no misunderstandings and not miscommunications. She wanted him. She wanted to be His. Even if only for a night, but ideally longer.
After her complete and total surrender to Him, the night progressed quickly, also but oddly in slow motion. It was like a dream. And like in a dream, time seemed to have a mind of its own. It sped up and slowed down at random, for no real reason, although on further reflection, the woman supposes the slowest moments may have coincided with the small touches the two exchanged throughout the night. Fleeting touches. Burning touches. A hand on an arm while laughing. A piece of escaped hair tucked behind an ear. A dance than nearly had caused spontaneous combustion, though there was nothing provocative or indecent about it. A firm hand on the small of a back. A soft helping hand into a car. A guiding hand to motel door.
And just like that, another rule was broken. Several actually. One: Never sleep with a man the first night. Two: Never sleep with a man you don’t know. Three: Never stay in a
motel.” Hotels only, the more stars the better. And the last, four: Always, always, stay in control. Of yourself. Of him. Of the situation. Always stay in control. With the combination of the wine and Him, the woman more out of control than she had ever been. She swears she remembers His sex-soaked voice chuckle darkly something about knowing she’d be a hellcat in bed. At the time, she hadn’t cared, and now she can’t be bothered to be offended even if she could remember exactly what was said.
And that was another thing. There were many things said that night. Filthy things. Things that would have normally had her stalking away with a stinging hand. Things that only served fan the flames higher and higher until total combustion and meltdown her only options. She knows all of this, but the words themselves escape her. Six months on and all she is left with is a deep, dark rumble purring in her ear, dripping with sin and promise. A promise what was absolutely fulfilled. Again, and again, and again, it was fulfilled.
The remainder of the night had been a blur of flesh and sweat, pleasure and pain, whispers and shouts. She is certain she did a fair amount of that shouting, if not outright screaming, if only because when the night had reached its inevitable conclusion, her throat had been quite sore. Then again, the woman muses, shouting was probably the least of the causes. A chuckle escapes her lips and she shifts in discomfort once more. Remembering that night always made her uncomfortable. Not in a negative way, certainly, but every time her skin would feel hot and tight, her heart would race, and her body would invariably prepare itself for a lover that would never appear. Ordinarily, she would force her body under control until she could get to her home. She lives alone, so she has complete freedom to take care of her needs where ever and how ever she sees fit within her four walls. It is a good thing to. Her thoughts and actions as she seeks out that same loose-bodied, exhausted high make her blush even now. Depravity is the privilege of the powerful, well-connected, and well thought of, the woman scolds herself. Blushing, like tears, will serve no purpose and so will not be tolerated. Besides, she had and has nothing to be ashamed of. Though she hadn’t been as sure of that then when morning came as she is now six months later.
When dawn broke after having spent hours with the man, the woman had been just sober enough to be ever so slightly horrified at her actions. She realized, now that the lust had faded what exactly she had done. That overwhelming lust would never completely disappear, of course, but it had loosened it grip enough by morning for the woman to be able to think a bit more clearly. And the first thought that had crossed her mind as she saw the sun make its arrival known, was that she had to leave. She had to get out of this bed. Out of this room. Out. Now. Oh, she didn’t feel like she was in danger, in truth she had never felt safer than in his arms, but the knowledge of Broken Rules and suspect behavior came crashing down on her and all she could think to do was run.
As the morning sun kissed the treetops, the woman brushed a kiss across the sleeping man’s lips, gently so as not to wake him. He deserved his rest, especially after the night just ended. She looked for her clothes, and felt shame try to creep itself into her mind. Shoes on either side of the door. Last night’s dress in crumpled heap on the floor. Last nights panties next to the bed, silk ruined beyond saving. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and the shame crept further in. Hair in disarray. Makeup smudged. Lipstick gone. Skin stained red in various places from a scratchy beard and large, strong hands. Dark splotches dotting otherwise creamy skin. She had to get out of there.
Once the woman was finished dressing and attempting to make herself look presentable, she decided to scribble her phone number on a piece of paper and laid it on the lone table in the room. The one covered in books whose names she couldn’t make out, but looked like they belonged in a museum rather than a no star motel in a small town. She had shrugged it off assuming that they were for the case her was working in the next town over, and would only later wonder why he needed books so old for no one knew anything about in a town just as small as the one she lives in.
When she was as presentable as she could possibly be, given the situation, the woman walked to the door intent on using the payphone at the and of the row of rooms to call for a taxi to take her home. Before the turned the handle to leave, she looked back at the man still sleeping on the bed. She studied his features once more and thanked a God she wasn’t sure she believed in for bringing him into her life. She was so sure that would not the last time they would see own another and so did not linger long. If she had known then what she knows now, she may have stayed longer. More likely, she would have just stayed in bed and fallen asleep with Him.
But, she didn’t. And she left. She called the cab and was gone less than ten minutes from leaving that motel room. But while she sat in the back of that cab in last night’s clothes with last night’s passion written across her skin, she did then what she does now…
Rating: M? (just to be safe, since there is discussion of sex and violence in later parts.)
Pairing: Female OC x ??? (it's a surprise/choose your own-ish? There is a reveal moment, but you could easily put in whoever you want I suppose)
Warnings: implied rough sex/choking/etc., torture/violence in later parts
Word Count: 1523
Cross posted on AO3 @- Lupine_Princess
My first ever fan fiction, so please be gentle. This is going to be in 3 parts, because the rabid plot bunny would go away and the Main Female stfu...this so did not go how I thought it would, but the character wants what the character wants right? Right...? Part 1 seems to be the shortest of the 3, but part 2 is a *beast* so I'm preemptively apologizing now. lol
Anyway, this is a song fic, but I'm not tagging the song or the singer in the first 2 parts to as not to give it away, but *will* be giving credit where it is due, because I'm not a total asshole. Also, there's no real dialogue in this, because writing dialogue, the same as writing smut, scares the hell out of me right now...maybe one day...
Also, to @kittenofdoomage, thank you for the inspiration and encouragement. You rock! ❤️❤️❤️
Alright, well...here we go...
Part One
The woman lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling as her mind wanders over the course of her life to this point. She can remember with perfect clarity certain events, or more accurately, certain people. People such as her past lovers. She can remember each and every face, their names, how their liaison began, how they went, and especially how it ended. It should be noted, she points out in her own mind, that not only did none of her relationships end badly, they also never began before she knew everything there was to know about the man in question. She was near obsessive about knowing who she was involving herself with before the event took place. A woman can never be too careful after all, she says internally with a sneer that would have her Mama clutching her pearls and reaching for the nearest switch. Of course, if Mama were still alive, the woman knew she wouldn’t have allowed the situation that led the woman to where she is right now.
Oh, Mama. I’m so sorry, she sighs. She fights back the tears that spring to her eyes because she hadn’t cried thus far, and she doesn’t intend to start now. She will keep what dignity remains to her or die trying. Also, Mama always said that if the tears didn’t benefit you, they were pointless wastes of time and energy better spent achieving your goals by other means. Tears won’t help the woman now, she knows, so the best thing she can do is make Mama proud and control herself. If nothing else, the woman can and will take pleasure in frustration her lack of tears would cause. The thought makes her smile briefly, before she realizes that particular train of thought will only lead to pondering her current circumstances again, and she doesn’t want to do that right now. Instead of dealing with that, she casts her mind back to thoughts of her former flames.
She smiles as she remembers them. Each one tall, handsome, and if not rich, then powerful. Or connected to people who were. Her first success began in her junior year of high school. Robbie, the Mayor’s son, was so sweet but painfully stupid. She did help him smarten up a bit and was even responsible for his graduating. His family was very grateful and had all but adopted her at his graduation ceremony. Mama had never looked so proud. Eventually though the woman had tired of being unable to hold an intelligent conversation with him a predicament nothing could ever change, apparently. Still, she didn’t want to let him go completely so, as would become a matter of course for her, her modus operandi if you will, she introduced him to a very pretty, if somewhat dim, friend of hers that he later married. Robbie and Grace now had three beautiful children, who seemed to already be smarter than their parents, possibly due more to the woman’s own place as the children’s godmother than their parent’s child-rearing skills. After the oldest was born, Robbie had decided that he would run for his father’s old position, and of course the woman became his campaign manager and right-hand woman when he was elected. Someone had to take charge and help him muddle through actually using what passed for his brain (or otherwise do his thinking for him, the woman adds with a smirk), and it certainly wasn’t going to be his sweet, easily satisfied, simple-minded wife. Oh, tongues may wag, as they are wont to do in a small town, but the woman would never dream of engaging in inappropriate behavior with dear Robbie. Nor would she allow him to engage in such things with anyone else and risk a scandal. The very idea was laughable and frankly insulting. As if she would risk everything for a night of lukewarm passion. HA! she scoffs to herself.
And so, it went. Troy: the banker’s eldest, married to Bethney, one child and one on the way; always happy to lend a hand the woman needed financial advice or help getting a loan once his father retired and handed the bank over to him. Jordan: the Chief of Police, married to Cora, two kids, precocious twin boys that were the apple of their Godmother’s eye, just like all of her other godchildren, the woman refuses to play favorites, thank you very much; always pleased to send an officer to investigate any suspicious noises or walk her to her car when she left the office late at night, not to mention the fact that she hadn’t gotten a parking or speeding ticket in years, even though she probably (most certainly) should have. Brian: the District attorney, married to Angela, no kids just yet, but there will be a beautiful little girl gracing their home within the next few months assuming the adoption goes through without a problem, which it should considering all of the work the woman has put in ensuring that the couple can grow their family like they so dearly want; not exactly useful just yet, but the woman had no doubt that, should his particular expertise be necessary…well, it’s better not to even contemplate that actually. Premeditation is an ugly word that gets thrown around far too easily after all.
Last was Zachary, never Zack, the woman remembers with a shudder of pleasurable fear and a secret smile: a businessman who made his money in various industries including oil, automobiles, construction, and more, married to Trisha, no children and the couple didn’t want any they were happy to tell anyone who asked. The woman didn’t judge of course, it even made sense in a way what with all of the traveling the couple did…among other things. Zachary is the most dangerous of the woman’s former lovers, after all, and arguably the most useful due to his versatility, intelligence, and ruthlessness, and his less than totally legal side businesses meant the money never stopped flowing. She had very nearly decided to marry Zachary herself, the woman recalls, but when she found out that he categorically refused to have children out of fear that his enemies would try to use them against him, which wasn’t exactly and unfounded fear if the woman was honest, she had decided against it and introduced him to Trisha, who not only did not want children, but was unable to conceive because of an injury she suffered as a child herself. Darling Trisha had made peace with having her choice taken away like that, which she had told the woman had bothered her more than the fact that she would never grow a child in her own womb, and Zachary had accepted all of this with relish. The woman privately thought it was at least partially due to the knowledge that there would never be any “accidents” or “surprises,” but again, the woman didn’t judge. One of the things the woman had loved about Zachary was his practicality after all.
There were others interspersed in between them over the years, none of whom were ‘flings’ (the woman nearly retches at the thought) by any means and all of whom had left town and done well for themselves elsewhere, but together Robbie, Troy, Brian, and Zachary represented her most useful former lovers and her biggest successes. But perhaps it was the woman’s liaison with Zachary that awoke in her a need for a different type of man, and a recklessness that would seem to be her rather sharp downfall. Someone or something has to be to blame for her current predicament, because it certainly isn’t entirely her alone, though she can see her own missteps, especially when she allows herself to recall the one man she was with that she hadn’t vetted. And not ‘hadn’t vetted completely or properly,’ no. The woman hadn’t vetted him at all. She nearly drove herself mad trying to find out information about him after the fact, which is never as effective, and had produced absolutely nothing. The nothing, as well as the absolutely mind-blowing sex she had enjoyed with the man, meant that he rarely, if ever, leaves her thoughts unless she is actively trying to think of anything else. Even her work had suffered and made Robbie concerned for her.
The woman sighs again, this is why Mama taught me to never go with a man if I didn’t know everything about him. And what do I do after years of success using Mama’s lessons? I have a one-night stand with an unknown person! Mama would be so disappointed. The woman has to sniff back tears at the thought, the vile waterdrops attempting to sneak passed her iron control. The action and the thoughts of Mama and her lessons, make the woman realize the time has come to deal with the man that refuses to leave her mind in peace and try to work through exactly how he led her to this point, because it honestly doesn’t make sense to her. So, the woman does what she does best in an unknown situation.
I am in the process of writing my first ever fan fiction. I have been a reader only for many years, but I finally listened to the encouragement the wonderful and esteemed @kittenofdoomage gave me at least a year or two ago now. Yeah, I know...it took that long for me overcome my own self doubt and silence the little demon in my brain that says mean things all the time, but I never forgot the lovely human above telling me to go for it.
While I am enjoying writing again (I've written for years but never really shared any of my work that wasn't for a class), I am finding myself having much more respect for writers than I already had and it was a LOT I swear. Just today I have spent an hour and a half on this story and the plot has moved forward...none. I've written quite a bit, but Main Female will *not* stop drooling over Main Male. Last night I stopped right after she firat saw him and her brain started functioning again. The story now just finished her reacting to him speaking for the first time. It took me an hour and a half to get here y'all! I mean girl, same, but this was *supposed* to be a one shot of maybe a couple thousand words. You know, just dipping my toes into writing again? This thing is now 10 pages long...I clearly underestimated a *lot*.
That's not to say there's not actual story happening, there is. But I'm a little freaked out by this and frustrated at the same time. Its a song fic, too so...given I'm telling the story of the song, it should have been easy-ish. Or easier than coming up with a story completely on my own right? Not. At. All! (And please note I'm not saying writing of any kind is easy, I just seem do better personally when I have something like a mental road map. Not everyone feels that way and that is totally fair and valid.)
Thing is, I shouldn't be surprised...this is a rabid plot bunny that has been tormenting me for *years.* The thing makes this thing ⬇
look like the very height of sweet and cute and cuddly. If I actually thought it would be quick or easy in any way, I clearly wasn't paying attention...
Anyway, I am going to be posting this thing in three parts on AO3 at the very least. On here, it might all be in one long post, because frankly, I have no idea how to do any of this or how complicated it will be. I'm really hoping someone will read it and give feedback, good or bad (constructive only if bad please), so I know what to work on. I really want to get back into writing again, so hopefully this will help?
I'm going to tag a few people when I post this thing (hopefully that's okay with them), because I follow them, love their work, and respect their opinions as writers. Anyone I follow that I don't tag, its not because I don't absolutely adore them, its because I can only summon so much bravery and that means that not everyone will get tagged that I would love to, unless they give me permission.
I'll go ahead a tag a couple of people so if they want to give or refuse permission, they can do that. Thanks in advance to everyone!
Seriously, the sound I made startled my kids and made my husband laugh. Thank you so much. I have no words to express how much this means to me.
I am hoping to have the story finished and ready to post by Monday. *glares at Main Female* if that goes to plan, then I just have to try not to mess up posting here lol
I am in the process of writing my first ever fan fiction. I have been a reader only for many years, but I finally listened to the encouragement the wonderful and esteemed @kittenofdoomage gave me at least a year or two ago now. Yeah, I know...it took that long for me overcome my own self doubt and silence the little demon in my brain that says mean things all the time, but I never forgot the lovely human above telling me to go for it.
While I am enjoying writing again (I've written for years but never really shared any of my work that wasn't for a class), I am finding myself having much more respect for writers than I already had and it was a LOT I swear. Just today I have spent an hour and a half on this story and the plot has moved forward...none. I've written quite a bit, but Main Female will *not* stop drooling over Main Male. Last night I stopped right after she firat saw him and her brain started functioning again. The story now just finished her reacting to him speaking for the first time. It took me an hour and a half to get here y'all! I mean girl, same, but this was *supposed* to be a one shot of maybe a couple thousand words. You know, just dipping my toes into writing again? This thing is now 10 pages long...I clearly underestimated a *lot*.
That's not to say there's not actual story happening, there is. But I'm a little freaked out by this and frustrated at the same time. Its a song fic, too so...given I'm telling the story of the song, it should have been easy-ish. Or easier than coming up with a story completely on my own right? Not. At. All! (And please note I'm not saying writing of any kind is easy, I just seem do better personally when I have something like a mental road map. Not everyone feels that way and that is totally fair and valid.)
Thing is, I shouldn't be surprised...this is a rabid plot bunny that has been tormenting me for *years.* The thing makes this thing ⬇
look like the very height of sweet and cute and cuddly. If I actually thought it would be quick or easy in any way, I clearly wasn't paying attention...
Anyway, I am going to be posting this thing in three parts on AO3 at the very least. On here, it might all be in one long post, because frankly, I have no idea how to do any of this or how complicated it will be. I'm really hoping someone will read it and give feedback, good or bad (constructive only if bad please), so I know what to work on. I really want to get back into writing again, so hopefully this will help?
I'm going to tag a few people when I post this thing (hopefully that's okay with them), because I follow them, love their work, and respect their opinions as writers. Anyone I follow that I don't tag, its not because I don't absolutely adore them, its because I can only summon so much bravery and that means that not everyone will get tagged that I would love to, unless they give me permission.
I'll go ahead a tag a couple of people so if they want to give or refuse permission, they can do that. Thanks in advance to everyone!
obsessed with the idea of Bucky picking up Mjolnir just to move it out of the way—he’d almost tripped on the damned thing. Thor looks at him funny, but whatever—‘s not like it’s that heavy; it’s not like he hasn’t seen Steve lift it. Bucky doesn’t get what everyone makes such a fuss about.
Steve’s looking at him funny, too, though—with something like awe and pride. But he doesn’t mention it again until they’re alone, walking back to their apartment. (Holding hands because they can do that now in public.) “You’re worthy of it—the hammer.” The setting sun paints Steve golden. “It ain’t about strength. It’s your character.”
Bucky stumbles a step; stops walking. Obviously, there’s been some kind of mistake. He frowns. “It’s defective, then. Someone should tell Thor.”
“Doesn’t work like that, pal. It saw everything. And it decided you’re good.” Steve grins, dropping his hand to sling an arm around his shoulders; to kiss the side of his head. “You have a good heart, Buck.” (It sounds like I told you so.)
And what’s he gonna do, argue with the fuckin’ hammer? His only choice is to believe it.
Yes, good. Excellent content... But I can definitely imagine Bucky arguing with the damn hammer. Next time he sees Mjolnir just lying around (I mean, Thor must really think it's a non-issue if he's leaving his most prized possession just unattended in the open like that,) Bucky checks over his shoulder to see if anyone is watching this time. Doesn't look like it, and even though he thinks it's fucking stupid - that he's fucking stupid for doing this- he reached down and picks up the hammer. Just like that. No resistance, no lag, just hefts it up in his hand like he's seen Thor do plenty of times.
He holds it out before him, staring a moment. And because he's alone and already in the realm of absurd, he finds himself talking to it in a hushed voice. "You're not fuckin with me, are you?"
Mjolnir hums. Honest to god, it vibrates just a little in Bucky's hand. Almost as if it understands him. As if it's responding to his question. Almost as if it's chuckling at him???
Bucky isn't sure exactly what to do with this knowledge. It's weird, right? A magical hammer silently laughing at him? He must be losing his marbles... what marbles he feels he has left.
But still, Mrs Barnes didn't raise an ungrateful little shit of a son. And it's probably hardly the weirdest thing he's ever seen. I mean, there's a talking tree and raccoon paired up somewhere in the universe. Bucky places Mjolnir back where he found it, gently, before murmuring "Well... thanks, pal."
