HERALD ELLIOT HONEYSETT-SEED ✤ the hellhound of holland valley
“Elliot is convinced that the deputy can be of use to us, if she’s allowed to—”
“Your wife,” Joseph interrupts, “shows a great lack of self-control asking such a thing.”
John bites back the gut-instinct response—that Elliot shows the most control for asking, rather than just taking what she wants, because as a woman capable of it, she can—and instead swallows back, “She would like to serve the Project, Joseph. In this way.”
“Yes,” Joseph acquiesces after a moment. “You and our most holy sister may pursue the deputy by your own means, but you must—” And here he looks at John, pointed. “—let the love into your heart, brother.”
“Of course,” John replies, smiling. “Elliot and I would do anything for you.”
john seed/herald!elliot honeysett + “i just want to feel something.” requested by my very own atrocity to god @faithchel
words: 2.7k
rating: explicit
warnings: canon-typical drug use but makes it dubious consent by proxy (rest assured that it is consensual, just--for safety, because it's almost sex pollen-y), religious trauma/sacrilege because of big joe himself, the implication if you squint and tilt your head you might see some pretty wack joseph "everyone should be obsessed with me and if you're not then i've got to change that immediately" seed poking his head out. explicit sexual content, mentions of disassociation + ptsd symptoms, blood, john trying his best not to be a thirsty bitch but what can ya do!
i did not proof this but i got so tired of staring at it that i thought it just needed to get posted and be done. i feel like the warnings do a sufficient job, but keep in mind that this does illustrate some not-so-healthy relationships and coping methods.
“Elliot, what are you doing?”
John’s voice snaps her out of a reverie. She blinks. There’s a strange haze that’s settled over her, static fizzing and popping electric in her brain and in her mouth. Everything about her in that moment feels imprecise, the delicate clockwork of her body laboriously grinding-grinding-grinding until it’s pushed to a halt. The stopping is sluggish, almost indulgent; thick and slow as molasses.
Yes, she thinks, staring at her hands, curled into fists in John’s shirt, what am I doing?
“I don’t remember,” she says after a minute, lifting her eyes to his. There’s a tiny furrow in his brow. She’s trying to think about what it was she’d been doing; Joseph had summoned her to the compound. Most holy sister, he’d said, in that way that he did, almost patronizing. Well, not almost—it was patronizing. Because she knew that Joseph did not think her holy at all.
John lifts a hand, curls his fingers around her wrist, presses the pad of his thumb against her pulse. Steady, steady, thump-thump, her heart rate stays slow. So slow. When did her body become so slow?
She blinks again, the feeding-frenzy-buzzing in her veins numbing her in the same way it felt to hold on to a lawn mower for too long. Elliot is afraid of how it will feel when the numbing goes away. Will her arms and legs feel like jelly? Will she crumple and fold in half? What if she finds herself craving the numbness again?
No, something inside of her whispers as John leans in close, nosing the hair at her temple, no, I’d never want to feel numb.
“You smell like Bliss,” John says against her skin. His hands squeeze her wrist, almost to reassure her. What is he reassuring her for? She feels fine. Fine and numb and like her whole being is composed of light and static at once. What had she been doing before, again?
Oh, yes. Joseph, and the compound. Joseph, leaning close. Most holy sister. The Hand of God, the smell of Bliss overwhelming her senses. That fucker had dosed her, hadn’t he? He’d been so fucking mad when she’d argued with him in front of the others, when she’d pointed out that they were doing all of the heavy lifting. After all, how many piles of bodies had she made examples out of? How much crowd-control had she done because Joseph had some infinitely more delicious purpose than to deal with the earthly ties that bind?
You forget yourself. Like she had ever known who she was. You answer to John, and John answers to me. Wives, submit to your husbands.
And then she’d ended up back home. And then John had come back, had said her name behind her and she’d spun, startled. And then she’d...?
Elliot says, “Oh.” She thumbs the button of his shirt absently. He smells like smoke. “What are you doing?”
A short, amused laughed barks out of her husband. He smoothes his hand down her forearm, pushing up the sleeve of her shirt when he does so that he can get more skin-to-skin contact. Oh, John, always the lover, greedy for more and never satisfied. He nuzzles the hollow of her throat.
“Another silo went up,” he says, voice bleeding irritation, which she supposes explains the smoke-smell. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing absolutely Blissed out, my love?”
She doesn’t know how to answer his question, so she shrugs and undoes the button on his shirt. “Oh, y’know.”
“I don’t know,” John replies, “which is why I asked.”
“Bummer,” Elliot murmurs, and smiles at him dreamily.
She thinks maybe she should be more concerned, arriving at the conclusion that she’s fairly certain Joseph had dosed her on Bliss after she’d managed to avoid it all this time; she doesn’t like it, doesn’t like to feel out of control, she’d said, and yet here she is. Cruising. Too fucking high to be worried about it, really, even when she slips another of John’s buttons undone.
“Elliot,” he rumbles, cautionary, the hand not gripping her wrist going to her hip.
“Husband,” she returns demurely.
“I thought you didn’t like it.” He means Bliss. She shrugs again. The vibrating has dulled to a low roar, now, thrumming through her veins, heart pumping leisurely. Thump-thump, it says, we’re here. Here, but numbed. She doesn’t mind the humming, but hates the way the vibrations make her feel like she’s separated from her body.
“Don’t,” she replies, tilting her head so that their noses brush. She runs her fingers along the exposed skin of his sternum, up to his shoulder beneath the shirt. “But ‘m feeling kinda fucky, you know. I mean, funny. Lord Joseph summoned me.”
John’s thumb digs into her hipbone at his words. The pain sparks vibrant and bright, pulses behind her eyes, piercing through the fog of her Bliss-addled brain. She should be more worried at her husband’s apparent dislike of that knowledge, but she’s only thinking about how good it felt to break the cloud-cover.
She thinks, briefly, that she might have been spinning, earlier, to strike at John. If she searches in the vague, foggy memory of what she’d Been Doing Before, she thinks it’s full of anxiety—panic, paranoia, tonight you belong to me, you know I can do whatever I want to my things, echoing in her brain; and then John, saying her name, breaking her out of the stupor. But she hadn’t known it was him. Not right away.
“Do that again,” Elliot manages out. Her body sways a little. She undoes the last of his buttons, pushing at his shirt, feeling his breath fanning against her neck. He wants to, she thinks; he wants to indulge her, but something keeps nagging at him and he won’t just let it go.
John says, “What did Joseph ask you to the compound for?”
“Dunno.” She reaches down, glides her fingers over his hand against her hip. “I like when you do that—grab me a little harder than normal. Why are you wearing all of these clothes? ‘s hot in here.”
“Elliot.” He sounds irritated. “Think, won’t you? And tell me what—”
“My God,” she sighs, exasperated, “Brother John, what does a girl have to do to get you to fuck her? Doesn’t Proverbs say you’re supposed to be intoxicated with my love all the time, or something?”
The brunette pulls back. Now the furrow in his brow is very evident, but even though he looks irate, and concerned, his eyes sweep over her face and linger on her mouth with want. She thinks she can hear his molars click and grind for a second.
“You’re in a mood,” is what he says.
Most holy sister. The Hand of God. Talking to Joseph always feels like chewing glass. She wonders if he’s ever revolted by what he’s become.
“Had a lot of fire and brimstone today,” she drawls. Elliot tugs him closer, presses up against him, struggles to feel his heart beat through skin. “Numbed me out.”
“Ell,” John begins, but she doesn’t want to hear it; she doesn’t want to feel the way he’s flayed open the second she tells him she’s hurting, doesn’t want to think about the way he’ll push himself so close to try and suffer the burden with her, so she kisses him. It had been so long that they had been together like this, dreadfully intertwined, bound by the same sin and shared blood on their hands. Inevitable.
Elliot tangles her fingers in John’s hair and pulls. He melts against her instantly; a low, rich groan pulled out of him, his hands finding the backs of her thighs and pulling her up into his arms to carry her across the room (oh, yes, we’re in the bedroom, how could I have forgotten?, the thought absurd and threatening to make another borderline-hysterical sound come out of her if she thinks too hard about how much of her memory is gone from the last few hours).
John’s hands feel scalding hot against her skin. When he deposits her on the bed, she hauls him down for another kiss, parting her lips beneath his and feeling that vibration sing higher in her veins—yes, yes, just what we needed, it says, rattling in the roots of her molars and making her taste copper. A whine crawls up out of her when she realizes the copper is just blood in her mouth, her lip stinging from where he’d been none-too-gentle with his teeth, and she squirms under the weight of him as they fumble out of clothes.
It feels like the temperature in the room has increased tenfold. John’s body pressed against hers is a molten lava-flow, his hand skimming down her body to hook her leg around his hip and then dip to the apex between her thighs. But there’s still a hesitation, and when he doesn’t give her attention where she wants it the most, Elliot squirms underneath him.
“Stop that,” he orders, making her spine tingle with anticipation. “Ell, look at me.”
She does. When their eyes meet, his are blown dark—almost black—with want, and she thinks, that was fast. But then she thinks too, maybe, that if she smells as much like Bliss as he’d said, that he’s feeling it too. Maybe it’s seeping from her skin, from their kiss; maybe he’s crawling right up there with her.
“I want to make sure—” John stops, wets his lips; Elliot shifts again, sighing in a way that pitches a bit higher than normal, bordering on a moan. “I want to make sure, Elliot, that you’re—would you stop making those infernal noises?” He snaps out the last of it, but his voice is a little hoarse. “I’m trying to make sure you’re alright, if you’d just stop—I can’t focus—”
“Holy shit,” she moans, half-miserable and half-turned on by the way he buries his face into her neck and glides his fingers against her, inspiring her to lift her hips a little. “W-Would you just—f-fuck, I just w-want to—I just want to feel something.” And then, because it’s terrifying to be open about this out loud, because giving the numbing emptiness inside of her legs makes her stomach wrench with terror and a kind of grief, she adds, “I need you.”
He makes a broken sound against her throat. She feels like she’s burning up from the inside out, a dull ache throbbing through her, and when John pushes two fingers into her a wrecked, desperate keening noise comes out of her; a different time, a different place, she would have felt ashamed at the want in her voice as she sighs his name, but not this time. Not this Elliot. She twists John’s hair between her fingers, and her hips jerk up against his touch instinctively, hungry for more. His movements are too slow to push her over the edge, but not slow enough where they stop being satisfying, so all there is inside of her is a smouldering burn blooming in the hollow of her chest, splitting and spreading through her body down, down, down.
Vaguely, she’s aware of John grinding out a string of curses against the curve of her neck. She whines.
“Not enough,” Elliot manages out hazily, like the way the heat rips through the haze—but it drifts off too quickly, like this. “John, please.”
“Fuck, I—” He sucks in a stuttering breath, beckoning his fingers against her and making her whimper. “Wish you’d just tell me—”
She kisses him again—hauls him in, arches up against him and shoves at his hand a little until he gets the picture. He hikes her leg up higher around his hip and worries the split in her lip from his earlier love-bite before he’s pressing up against her, into her; yes yes yes, she thinks, but it’s words coming out of her, drawn tight in a vicious whine as she digs her nails into the soft skin at the base of his neck and moans, wrecked and drenched in longing.
John’s breath hitches as he finishes the slide home and he grinds out, “F-Fucking—that’s all you needed, huh? Just needed a good—thorough—fucking?”
That shoots straight up her spine, slices right through the fog and haze in her brain, viciously ripping her from the world of not-feeling. John pulls back, like he wants to get a good look at her, one hand gliding up the pillar of her throat so that he can dig his thumb into her bite-tender lower lip; she feels him push against the lovingly-sore spot, the liquid slide of the pad of his finger dragging blood across her mouth before he dips his thumb past her lips.
It tastes—feels—hot and wet, like sucking on a penny, and John digs his free hand into the curve of her hip and snaps into a little harder; obedient, and desperate to see him lose his cool the way she feels like she has, Elliot drags her tongue against the curve of his thumb and hollows her cheeks to moan around it, wanton.
“Oh, fuck me,” John moans, his movements stuttering a little. They resume, but rougher this time; each connection of their bodies, each snap of his hips, sparks delicious heat in the pit of her stomach. “F-Fucking filthy, hellcat—”
Most holy sister, numbing vibrations up and down her spine. The Hand of God, the sickening, floral scent of Bliss washing over her in tidal waves. How can you prove that you are loyal to us, John moaning her name and dragging his thumb from her mouth so he can grab her by both hips and well and truly rail her. Wives, submit to your husbands, as to the Lord.
“Please,” she gasps out, eyes fluttering as a sickening roll of nausea hits her. Oh, she doesn’t want to think about that, would much rather think about the way John is looking at her, the way he tastes when he leans down to kiss her, the way it feels when he threads his fingers through her hair and pulls so that her throat is bared to him; and so she does, and does not think of the Hand of God but instead of this hand—
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” Elliot whines when John reaches down between them, circling her relentlessly. She feels him grin against her throat, the scrape of his teeth there, insistent on leaving a mark the way that he always does—Mine, it says, Mine is a noun if you capitalize it—and the dig of his teeth sparks just enough stinging pain to pull her apart.
Maybe it’s the Bliss, or maybe it’s the emotional turmoil, but it feels less like she’s finishing and more like John is desecrating her, defiling their marriage bed, breathing out reverently against her skin and her bodie pulls tight-tight-tight and white-hot pleasure flickers in rapid, unforgiving waves through her body.
John’s movements grind, laboriously. He’s close, and he doesn’t want to be. Elliot arches up against him and tastes the blood on her mouth when she kisses him, tastes the want when she rambles, “Come on, baby, I w—want it so f-fucking bad—” and it rips a wrecked, desperate sound out of him, just the way that she likes.
“Again,” he grinds out breathlessly, “say it again.”
She’s feeling generous. That’s probably the Bliss. “Please, John, I want—I want you inside me, m-more than anything—”
He moans brokenly into her skin when he comes undone, gripping her hips and holding her there, fucking her through it. The act itself is enough to try and drag her close to a second finish line, but not quite push her over; instead, it keeps her perched there in an aching, wanton purgatory, wobbling on the edge of a climax.
“So fucking perfect,” the brunette moans into her throat. He pulls her up tighter against him, like he’s reluctant to depart from her—and probably, he is. John always feels the closest to her like this. “Like you were made me for me. Weren’t you, hellcat?”
Elliot blinks rapidly, trying to come down from the high of her finish while also trying to come down from the physical high she’s apparently been in. A dull, pleasant ache flutters through her body, making her sigh and squirm, and she loops her arms around John’s neck and buries her face there.
Wives, submit to your husbands, as to the Lord.
“Yes,” she murmurs tiredly against his neck, “just for you.”
favorite character aus » herald elliot honeysett-seed
“Mrs. Seed."
I fucking know you. No surname fuckery is going to throw Burke off the scent. There are so many boogeymen and monsters in the world that don’t want you to know their name, and he thinks Elliot Honeysett-Seed might be one of them.
She doesn’t stop smiling at the misnaming, necessarily—her expression smooths out into mild amusement—and then she opens her mouth and pushes the lit end of her cigarette onto her tongue. Pratt says, under his breath, “Jesus Christ,” and Burke thinks he can hear the sizzle for a split second before it’s out, and then she tosses the cigarette to the side.
“Marshal,” she greets him, and he slows his walk for just a moment. “Lookin’ a little flush. You not used to the hot weather, honey?”
she's got so many names now, while we always just knew her as elliot, little honeysett, elli. not anymore; now it's all doom and gloom with that bitch. hellcat. crowd-control. the beginning, the end. the hellhound of holland valley. can't get any goddamn peace in fall's end anymore, not with john's little patrols leaving her branding everywhere like love notes. every flat fucking surface in holland valley's had the warning carved or painted on it at least once: motherfucker i'll be back from the dead soon.
HERALD ELLIOT HONEYSETT-SEED ✤ alpha and omega, beginning and the end.
‘hellcat’, john seed calls her. ‘my hellcat’. but that’s not completely accurate. the hellhound of holland valley is a better name for her. crowd control. the beginning, and the end.
john/elliot + “he/she can’t make you feel the way i make you feel” set in pre-fc5 events herald!elliot au, like it can’t get anymore complicated i am SORRY
words: 1.2k
warnings: some SPICE, just a lil, mostly like. naughty words they’re saying in a room full of people. also jealous!elliot maybe should get her own warning i’m SORRY these two are in pUBLIC AND THEY NEED TO STOP
There are very few things in the world that make Elliot Honeysett-Seed jealous. In fact, there are so few that she can’t even count them on one hand—they don’t exist. The realm in which she would find herself feeling jealous or possessive over her husband is so slim, barely slipped between the veils of other realms that she doesn’t even walk, that she thinks maybe she’s never felt jealous in her entire life.
But something strange has happened: they’re at a party, celebrating the new offices he and Isolde had moved into, and there are a lot of women.
This isn’t normally a problem. Elliot likes eye-candy, and John knows this. But it seems odd, doesn’t it, she thinks, watching John greet a group of them, sparsely integrated with a few three-piece suits, that he knows so many of them?
She’s not jealous. She can’t be. John is incredibly loyal to her, and they had literally just barely made it here because they’d been too busy with each other, and maybe he fucked every single woman in this room, and—
Oh, she thinks idly, when a spike of hot, angry emotion rushes straight up her spine. Maybe he did.
And then: I don’t like that at all.
John says something, and they titter, and she’s sure it’s very funny—her husband is practically a comedian, after all—and she sips her drink. She wonders if Isolde has invited all of these women for a particular reason, or if John has invited them for a particular reason, and what those reasons might be. She likes Isolde. Even if she’s in bed with the walking God-complex. So what gives?
“Penny for your thoughts?” John asks, having sidled up behind her. She’d been so engrossed in her thoughts, stewing, that she’d barely noticed him making a break for it and escaping the clutches of what is surely engrossing conversation.
Elliot brings the glass up to her mouth and takes a long drink, swallowing a mouthful of champagne even though it’s certainly not the way it’s intended to be had. Isolde does not buy champagne that gets gulped.
Her husband prompts, “Ah, more expensive thoughts, then?”
“How many of these women have you fucked?” Elliot poses the question lightly, as though it were nothing, as though this were not a business function but rather the comfort of their own home. It shouldn’t matter (and it doesn’t, it doesn’t matter,) but now the question has fixed itself in her brain and is running a track over and over again.
John slides an arm around her waist, nosing past her hair. “Hellcat.”
“John,” she replies, mimicking his cloying tone.
“Are you jealous, baby?”
“How many?” Elliot prompts again, turning in his arm to look at him now. But John’s grip doesn’t loosen, and she thinks a lesser man might have crumbled immediately, tried to come up with some story about how many of them he knows and that he’s just a friendly guy, that’s all.
“A few,” John admits, which could be anywhere from a handful to fifty, knowing him.
And then, unwilling to let go: “Are you jealous?”
She drags the pad of her thumb along the rim of her glass before she sets it aside on the nearby table. “No, honey,” she says innocently, liking the way his eyes are drawn to her mouth when she sucks the dredges of the champagne from it. “What do I have to be jealous about?”
It’s not true. She is jealous. But more than that, she’s covetous, and she thinks that the latter might be worse than the former; only by a little. But at least when she covets, she feels good, because John’s eyes darken when she winds his tie around her hand and she can feel eyes on them.
“Plenty,” he rumbles, voice low. “Plenty to be a little jealous about.”
“It’s a sin,” she intones dutifully. “For where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there will be disorder and every vile practice, and so on and so forth.”
John leans in close. She can tell that he wants her to be jealous; he wants to feel the sting of her reprimand, for entertaining women he’s fucked without her, women that still want him. But Elliot is nothing if not a reasonable, practical woman, and to act on such insecurity, she thinks, would be something close to hysteria.
“If I tell you an exact number,” he says, hands coming to her hips, “will you be jealous then?”
Elliot arches a brow loftily. Gotcha, she thinks, and it does feel good—a momentary lapse of control, but it’s good, now. She’s got it all perfectly where she wants it.
“Maybe. But every night, my sweet husband—” She tugs on the tie, pulling him down until their noses brush. “—you come home to me and you say, oh, Elliot, please let me fuck you, I've been so good. Isn't that right?”
"Yes," he says a little breathlessly, instinctively. He leans into her as she beckons him, no space between their bodies, nudging her legs apart to slide his thigh between them, and it’s easy to forget they’re in a public place—maybe the lighting is a little dim and ambient, and maybe they’re in a nice little corner by themselves, but still. "I do, just for you."
She murmurs, “They can’t make you feel the way I do.”
John makes a noise. It pitches low trapped right between them, and she supposes for a second that she might be fine if they did this right here, in a room full of people—if she really wanted to.
But she doesn’t.
“John?” she prompts, expectantly.
“You’re right,” he says. The expression is automatic, ingrained in him, a surefire way to get what he wants from her—he’s learned quickly, this husband of hers, the ways straight to her heart. You’re right sits at the very top. He grins, flashing his teeth at her, and leans in for a kiss. “I like when you get a little vicious—”
“I know,” Elliot replies, tilting her face just out of his reach. Her eyes narrow. “So who invited them?”
“Oh, Ell.” John sighs. “Does it really matter?”
“I’ve never asked you a question that didn’t matter.”
The brunette leans in and kisses the corner of her mouth, because this time she lets him; he cards his fingers through her hair, kisses the slope of her jaw, the hollow just beneath it, humming into her skin.
“Isolde.” He noses the spot just below her ear. “But it’s because she’s tired of them asking about me when I’m gone, and she knew you’d do this.”
“Do what?”
She feels him grin against the slope of her neck. “Mark your territory.”
“Fuck you,” she idles, but she feels a little pleased. It’s nice, to be recognized. To have someone know you well enough to predict something you’d do. Most people find it insulting, or frustrating, but in this instance, she finds it endearing.
Pulling away from John, she picks up her champagne glass, smoothing out his tie. What a fine man, this husband of hers—with a cloud of lovers trailing after him, and all hers, anyway. She’s not so prone to jealousy; it’s because in moments like this, she thinks, that’s mine, and look at how wanted he is.
“Well, it wasn’t necessary, anyway,” Elliot says, reaching up and thumbing a bruise welling on his neck, a remnant of their previous activity that John must have missed when he was hurrying to get ready. “You’ve been walking around with my mark the whole party.”
She blinks at the deputy. She’s a little pleased at the pet name, but she doesn’t want to let it show. “Plan?”
“Yeah,” Diana says, rolling her eyes. “C’mon, I’m not fucking stupid. What’s the plan? What’s the dynamic? John sends you in because you’re the pretty one, soften me up, and then he comes in to finish the job and cleanse my sins or what the fuck ever it is he thinks he’s doing?”
Elliot feigns bashfulness and flutters her lashes. “You think I’m pretty?”
hello yes, i am once again asking you to love my wild feral girl elliot! as an early birthday present to myself, i got the chance to commission @majorashby for the second time, and she did just the most INCREDIBLE job capturing herald!elliot’s viciousness. the wedding ring, the red halo, her eyes??? fucked me UP, it’s just so good, thank you so much major!!! if you get the chance to work with her, i can only highly recommend her!
this small excerpt was taken from this oneshot, and deputy diana baker belongs to @shallow-gravy ♡
DHDKSJSK STRAFE. you're out here tryna get me to air my filthy self-indulgent animals !!!! u brought this on urself 😌✨
UNDER THE CUT BECAUSE NSFW FILTH, EXHIBITIONISM, BLASPHEMY, IDK MAN THIS IS GARBO
It's hot. Too hot to be cramming her body into a tiny side storage room while the sermon drags on a floor below, but here she is; knotting her fingers into John's hair while he pushes the hem of her sundress up around her hips, his teeth digging into the juncture between her shoulder and the pillar of her neck.
"Teasing me all fucking morning with this dress, Ell," he grinds out against the skin just below her ear. "Think I didn't notice? Think you were just gonna—get off the hook without me catching on to your little game, hm?'
It's baby-blue, and sweet, cuts far enough in the front to draw eyes and remains modest enough that things are left to the imagination. John has remarked, once, that it's his favorite dress on her, "because it's your color", and certainly not because it rides up her thighs when she's sitting down.
"Not trying to be sly. I did plan on—ah, getting off," she manages out in the spaces between her heartbeat, thundering against her chest because that's what John does to her—makes her thoroughly, viciously wanton.
