⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
── .✦ in which you are arranged to be married to Troy Otto for resources in the apocalypse
── .✦ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐
You swear you could hear bells ringing. They should've been, but the dry air of Southern California sounds through the ranch instead. No one claps. No one cheers. Everyone stares. Especially him.
Tall. Dirty blond. Scruffy.
You walk through an aisle just made from space. Your people stand at your right. The ones who control a nearby dam. The people on the left wore farmer clothes. At least, that's what you saw on children books. Plaid and jeans. Others looked like "rednecks" --- whatever your favorite youtuber called them.
He looks at you from head-to-toe, his hands resting on his hips, head a little bowed. You could tell he's assessing his bride. His arranged wife. His ranch's saving grace.
You get to the makeshift altar. No one could be bothered to prop up bouquets in the apocalypse, so the altar is only marked by the officiant. One of the people from your group. You never really bothered to know his name. Could've been Jeff.
"You cook?" Your husband says barely below a whisper.
He's smiling, trying to be kind but he comes out cocky, and right then do you notice his almost-perfect little teeth.
You know you sneered. But you still tried to smile.
"Whatever I can."
And maybe it started there. Maybe the transactional intimacy of his palms gripping your cheek, his teeth gnawing on your lips, his warmth only dampening your shoulder when he's holding your gun... Maybe it was then it all started.
After the ceremony, he barely addresses you unless it was to ask.
"Y'ever made what ranch folks eat?"
"Ever cleaned a whole cabin by yourself?"
"You're not as brown as I woulda thought. You mixed?"
"You ever killed?"
If he ever did try to talk without questions, it was about you.
His "exotic wife," he doesn't correct his militia.
How he has to "break you in," but that one's from his dad.
So when you got to his cabin, you knew he would make you sit on the couch first. There is no scent but faint gunpowder and oil. Somehow, everything is kept clean. Not bad for a man, you think, as you notice his boots neatly tucked in a corner.
"Name?" He asks, taking a journal and pen. He sits directly across you, his knees apart, body slacking. A coffee table sits in the center; a broken line meant to keep you apart.
"Y/N. You?"
Your throat knots, trying to swallow your own saliva that felt like a sandstorm after a day in the California desert.
He pauses and glances up, lips curling into a small smile. Cocky yet again.
"Name's Troy. Would do you good not to forget it."
"I see you cook and clean--- you told me that. You've killed a good number of those freaks yourself. Pat your back."
You continue to watch him. You knew getting married would suck, but who fucking knew it'd be like this? You could've made a resume before coming.
"And you can't seem to control your face." He laughs. "Not a problem with me, darlin'"
He closes his journal, wrapping the pen along its string. He places it on the coffee table, curling his fingers together as he leans forward.
"We live in a reckoning," he starts, "you do what I say when I say, else you want problems in our lil setup."
He looks at you. Just your eyes.
"You're a pretty thing, but that ain't workin' on me. We on the same page, Y/N?"
You nod. Before you could speak, he grins and walks away, his weight denting the sofa for a few seconds. You stay seated, confused.
A few moments go by before he comes back with a blanket and a singular pillow.
"I'll be sleeping here?" You ask almost in disbelief. But you can't lie. His sofa beats the stiff dorm beds back at the dam.
"You can't be sleeping with me. Not tonight."
He frowns, mood changing in almost an instant, but he catches himself.
You stare, just in silence. But he scoffs, setting down your solitary blanket and pillow.
"Look, I don't know you yet. One o' the only things I know is that your teeth look like a bunny's."
You sigh, sitting down on your "wife sleeping set."
"Look at you, all comfy already. Just tell me what you need, sweetheart," he says as he turns away, but you stand up, muttering an "I..." but the silence places it just above a muffled moan.
He stops, glancing at you.
"One of the things that made our families' deal is... your guns. I need your... protection." You almost whisper the last part.
He chuckles as he steps towards the door, locking it.
"You're my wife. Now, what kind of husband would I be if I didn't do that?"
He closes the space between you and him, his fingers wrapping around your cheeks as he props your head to look up to him. You hold onto his wrists and yet he doesn't move an inch.
You feel his grip on your face like a vice slowly tightening. You feel drool almost spilling out your lips, but he holds your face upwards to meet your eyes.
He's smiling
In the dim light of the lamps, you almost swear his eyes were still beautiful. Still blue. You knew he could kill you. But would it hurt to say you almost didn't mind? Almost?
"Long as you don't step outta line, you'll be fine," he continues, "but you get it, don't you?"
You nod, almost finding it impossible to move your head as his strength overwhelms your neck.
He lets go, his fingers traveling up your face, resting on your hair. The top of your head almost rings, his hand sitting snuggly on it.
"'S just you and me, bunny. This the safest you could ever be."
And he still wears that cocky grin.
