A/N: And I'm back with a new one. This is an AU story, with some world building elements from the DCU, and a ton of inspiration taken from The Handmaid's Tale. Cover art was kindly and graciously done by Kiome-Yasha who has been instrumental in helping me forge this tale. Special shoutout to Nightglider124 for all her beta help, and inspiration for the Dick/Kory side of things as well!
"you're in love with a boy who is a prayer on your lips with no god to go to.
he's bleeding sunlight and you're trying to patch up the holes in his heart with trembling fingers and the blood keeps spilling.
you're in love with him, here's the best part: he loves you more than his own life.
he's golden as they come but he's bleeding out.
one day, someone will strike a match on him and he'll explode.
so, here's the worst part: he loves you so much more than his own life."
-sunlit lovers | m.j.
Blood of the Lamb
:Beginnings:
"Strip."
Gar stiffened, his back rigid like a board. His mouth had gone dry, tongue stuck to the roof, like sandpaper.
Green walls.
Gold trim.
White ceiling.
He just had to focus. Whatever went on in the room behind him was never any of his concern anyways.
"...Right here?"
Her voice, like velvet brushing along his skin, enough to make him shudder. It was all he needed to come undone. The key to the lock that caged the whispers of his blasted, no good heart.
Red drapes. Sheer curtains. Wood tables. Green runners. One, two, three, four, five embroidered roses. With their thorns.
Deep, steady breaths, but quiet-like. They weren't supposed to hear. He was instructed not to exist, and he'd practically gotten it down to an artform.
"What? Don't tell me you're worried about Gar?"
He held his breath, closed his eyes, fingers tightening behind his straight posture, knowing he was under scrutiny now. Even a nervous foot shuffle could give him away. Gar remained perfectly still, feeling the sweat build in little beads on his upper lip.
Green wallpaper. Green wallpaper. Green...Who uses wallpaper anymore, anyways?
Sebastian laughed. A throaty chuckle that made bile burn Gar's esophagus. "He's practically a eunuch. He won't care. Besides, he's loyal to a fault, like a guard dog. He won't tell and he won't look, isn't that right, Gar?" The Lordling called out into the foyer, raising his voice.
"Yes, sir." The response was mechanical, unfamiliar to his own ears, like an out of body experience. It came out of his mouth without thought. Without consideration. Never premeditated, he was robotic in his mannerisms. Yes, sir. Yes, ma'am. Yes, you fucking piece of shit, I've screwed your favourite maid with my nonexistent dick. More than once.
He clenched his jaw, fingernails digging into the skin of his own palms. One foot shuffle wouldn't kill him. Gar rolled his shoulders back.
"Only if you insist, my love."
My love. My love. My love. Sugar sweet, like sherry. Her tongue was dipped in it. But she didn't love him. Anyone with a brain cell knew that. The lie of the century, but Sebastian didn't care; he didn't want her love anyways. What he wanted was a lot more basic than that. And he could take it whenever he damn well pleased.
Chandelier. Crystal. Damn, the intensity of the lights overhead were making Gar sweat beneath the collar of the thick, black suit jacket. The nape of his neck was wet with it, dark hair curling and sticking to the salty skin. A drop worked its way down his temple, just as he heard the shuffling of her clothes, meticulously being removed.
Licking flames crackled in the fireplace, and her heavy dress hit the floor in a tumble. Gar's breath caught in his throat as he tried not to imagine the visual behind him.
"Keep the earrings on." Sebastian's voice was gruff, deep, laced with an unbidden lust. It was a command, not a request. Like everything he ever said to her. "In fact, keep all the jewelry on tonight."
"If it would please my Lord." She sounded so much like Gar, so preset in her responses. So devoid of emotion. A hollow doll. But Gar knew better. He'd seen her spark before, a secret light behind her eyes, fleeting and rare, but present.
There came the sound of gently clinking ice in Sebastian's glass of scotch as he swirled it around, distracting Gar's thoughts. He didn't really remember what the drink tasted like. Alcohol, for the servants, was contraband. Too expensive, too luxurious to waste on inconsequential people like them. Being caught with it would likely result in the loss of an appendage usually fitting the cause. In that case, probably the tongue. Maybe a finger. It depended on what your use was and if you needed the parts to prove fruitful.
All the women ever needed was their uterus, so everything else was nearly fair game. Unless they were maids, or Workhouse women who couldn't bear children.
Then again, what was life without a little risk? Like many servants, Gar drank anyways. Just not scotch. Not only was it a more difficult and expensive beverage to obtain from the black market, but he also remembered never liking the taste much anyways.
Sebastian downed his drink and slammed the glass onto the coffee table loudly. "Come here. Come to me," he commanded eagerly, voice low and hoarse.
Gar squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to think of something else. Of being somewhere else. But all he heard was Meganne's warning in his head; 'Don't get attached, Gar. This isn't some serving wench, or a Workhouse woman. She's Trigon's seed. She's Brother Blood's betrothed. Being caught just looking at her could make them cut out your eye. Maybe both if you didn't need them to drive.'
She was right, she was always right, of course. How many times did he have to learn this lesson throughout his life? How many times had he given himself the same speech from the moment he'd seen her face? He'd been doing so well, so well, before she'd come along…
Gar nearly laughed to himself at how pathetic he'd been back then; he'd never stood a fighting chance, and he'd been a stupid little fool to pretend that he ever did. She'd rendered him completely useless in a community designed for using people, and without uttering a word, she'd already changed his life so much. His uniform jacket being newly embroidered with the infamous symbol of Scath on the right shoulder was evidence of that.
It would be a lie to say that he wasn't entirely paranoid, though. Sebastian Blood was a serious man, and with his diabolical Mother hovering about, always plotting, the smallest gestures could mean a death sentence.
But he ran into her. He ran into her a lot, and frequently. Always conveniently in her way. In the dining room? He'd left the car keys on the table. In the kitchen? He'd needed a fresh washcloth. Was she walking down the garden path? He had to finish shoveling. Getting dressed in her room? He would be the one to fetch her if the maid was too busy.
Part of him wondered if Brother Blood knew. If his Mother's whispers regarding her newest daughter-in-law also concerned rumours of his inconspicuous driver, too. Was that why Sebastian had asked him to accompany them on this little getaway? Was his suspicion the reason he'd positioned Gar as his security detail, right outside the living room as he audibly fucked her on the couch? A not so subtle reminder of what belonged to him and him alone. Making sure the driver knew his place in the hierarchy.
His groans grew in volume, longer and more winded, the couch's wooden legs shifting against the rug beneath it. The gentle tinkling of her adorning earrings, bracelets, necklace, they became more frantic. Not even the fire was loud enough to drown them out anymore. The smack of Sebastian's lips where he hungrily kissed her flesh echoed down the hall in a torturous way. A special sort of torment, maybe even a punishment, curated specifically for Gar.
But none of that mattered, not so long as her silence endured. She didn't have a choice, and he took some comfort in that, no matter how cynical. She never had a choice. Gar did have a gun, though. And he knew how to use it. Not that he'd ever had to, but it was there nonetheless, secured in a hidden holster over his vest. His fingers twitched from behind him, palms having grown clammy with sweat. Guns were always a last resort. Drawing it alone required an irrefutable reason, and if it was drawn, then it had to be shot. And if it were to be shot, then it meant a required intention to kill. Those were the rules. Gar's fingers stilled, but he was still hyper aware of the butt of the weapon, pressed tightly into his side just beneath his freshly pressed suit.
"Say my name, Rachel. Say it!" Sebastian ordered her through his own desperate grunts of pleasure.
Don't do it. Don't do it, please.
"Se-Sebastian!" she cried out, breathless, damning one man and ingratiating the other with all but a word.
Gar stared down at the ground, down at his polished leather shoes. What did you expect? That she'd somehow forsake her own tyrant husband, power hungry father, deranged brothers, and all the devout followers of the Church of Blood, for the lonely driver who's been practically following her around like a lost puppy?
He kept his head bent, knowing the answer, even as Sebastian spent himself inside of her, bucking his hips impatiently and imbedding his empty seed as deep as he could go. There was a shuddering moan that left Blood's body, and Gar bit down on the inside of his cheek. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades.
What did she look like beneath him? Empty? Where did her soul go during these instances? And her mind? Her heart? Where was her spark when Sebastian would scoop her up into his arms and place tender kisses along her shoulder, as if everything he'd done was an act of love and not just some elaborate lie?
Maybe Gar didn't want to know. Being kept in the dark was good for some things. He wanted to double over and vomit his meager breakfast, and it lurched heavily in the pit of his stomach in defiance. Instead, he swallowed at the bile, thinking about his gun again. He couldn't even begin to imagine how she was feeling.
Even with his heart aching, it was hard, fighting off the instinct to turn around and check on her, but orders were orders. He'd have to steal a glance later, when Sebastian wasn't looking. Like when he'd inevitably go to wash off. The man didn't like the taint of fresh sex on his skin.
Antique wooden cabinet, filled with even more antique tea sets. Gar stared at his own reflection in the glass doors. He looked tired, pale despite his natural tan. There were frown lines around his mouth. And then there were eyes, not his own, locking with his. At first, he thought it was a trick of the light, maybe just some stray glare, but there it was. Unmistakably. Undeniably.
Gar's heart stopped in his throat. The air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. She was staring at him.
He didn't dare blink when he caught her gaze, scared to miss a beat, as if it would somehow make it less real. The Lord's wife was nestled into the crook of her husband's shoulder, everything below her eyes obscured from view. Her bare arms — save for the gold, chunky bracelets that had chains which snaked up to a ring around her finger — were draped around his back, but not tightly, not affectionately. Just wrapped around him like a placeholder while his breathing eased into a normal rhythm.
But she was looking at him, there was no question about it. Resting seductively beneath perfectly shaped, dark brows, her sultry eyes caught the red glow of the fire in the hearth, looking like burning coals in the reflection. Gar gulped, realizing too late that his jaw had slackened.
For the first time, finally, Rachel actually saw him...
[Several months prior…]
Dick Grayson never figured he'd be living in a time where no news was good news. Truth be told, he was itching for a fresh fight, a change of scenery, growing restless in such complacency. Whereas some of his men had slacked off over the course of the slower years, Dick kept himself in pristine shape. His body was his primary weapon, after all, regardless of the various guns and swords made available to him. If he wasn't slaving away at the office, pouring over endless paperwork, he was at the gym or the shooting range, honing his skills. Despite being at the ripe age of thirty-two years, Dick had opted out of marriage, no matter how much the Church of Blood members had tried to push it onto him ever since his promotion.
He'd more than earned his place in the community years ago, and was thus justly rewarded with the right to take a wife and have children. A position, he learned, that was highly sought after by many of the daughters of the old families, as well as their overzealous parents. It had seemed he'd built a sort of reputation, even though the Rights prohibited such ways of thinking. For all the cruelties the Church of Blood enforced, they were awfully lax on these whispers of giddy young girls.
Many of his men had not hesitated in accepting the same marriage offer once their own promotions would come through — and they always did; Dick Grayson's recruitment methods were definitive. What red-blooded male dared say no to frequent sex that wasn't outlawed, and thus wouldn't result in getting their dick cut off if caught? In fact, turning down the proposal of union was heavily frowned upon, and could often launch an investigation that ended in execution. Dick knew all too well about those. It was always just easier to get the marriage ceremony over and done with. Then fuck whoever you wanted on the side, in secret, when a man grew bored. Despite his own skewed views on marriage in this society, he never dared stop those who took to the union.
But being a family man, having a wife and potential child to contend with on top of all his other responsibilities...Dick knew better than to jeopardize the lives of the innocent.
Not that he did much other than shuffle paperwork around on his desk these days. And life at home was fairly...lonely, which was why he spent more and more time training.
He remembered briefly entertaining the idea that maybe, a bit of news wouldn't be altogether too bad, even if it wouldn't be entirely good news. If only just to keep him on his toes, help him find a sense of purpose again.
What a mistake that had turned out to be.
"A gift, Commander." The soldiers stepped aside, parting the way towards the cages in the warehouse, like a sea of black and red. Perfect unison. Military.
Tucking his hands behind his back and ignoring the smell of the musty warehouse, Dick walked in a straight path. He fought the urge to yawn. It was three in the morning. There hadn't been any urgent news that required him to be up at such an hour in so long.
"Two gifts, actually. The Dark One has truly blessed us today."
The Devout followed at his heels, like a lapping dog. This one was especially pious, going as far as donning the traditional red, white, and black robes that not even Sebastian Blood cared for anymore. A twitch of annoyance pulsed at Dick's temple. "He better have brought us some coffee while he's at it given the time of night," he grumbled, earning him a sharp glare from the elderly man. "And what's with that disgusting smell?" Dick scrunched up his nose in aversion, feeling his stomach churn at the pervading scent, despite being empty. "Did an animal die in here?"
The Devout did not answer him directly.
"Not for anything, Commander," he spat his title out venomously, but Dick had no allusions of what some members of the Church of Blood thought of him. "But you may want to stay a good ten feet back. This one is quite feral." A soldier then came up to block him just a little short of the cages.
Dick raised a brow, a little defiant in the face of such insubordination. This was, after all, his sanctum, and he'd worked hard to earn his seat at the table. The Devout may have not had to listen to him, but his unit certainly did. "And why would I do that?" He fixed his glare at his man instead of the elder beside him.
As such, it was his soldier who replied. "One of them...she's dangerous, sir. Not drained yet entirely. It's like she's saving fuel to choose her targets. She's already injured several of our team, and killed three for certain. None of us have been able to get close." A boy in a uniform and with a gun capable of slaughtering hundreds, barely more than eighteen years old, Dick surmised. It explained why he easily grew nervous in the face of his leader.
"Clever, considering how primitive her kind appear to be." A new voice entered the fray, soft like butter, but with the memory of death tainting the syllables. Dick knew it anywhere. Like a wisp of a shadow, Slade Wilson stepped out of the darkness, as usual, armed to the teeth, and in full scale mercenary armor. Dick's jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed at the man.
Perfect, he thought sarcastically. Just what I needed.
"We don't know that she's primitive. That's an assumption you're making just because you don't understand her, Commander Wilson," challenged Dick and not without some malice.
Slade only smiled, eyes the shade of ice glittering in the dimly lit room. "Oh, she speaks English well enough. Her first victim, she did the strangest thing to him," he began to explain with an unsettling sense of calm, like he was telling a bedtime story to a child. "Before she snapped his neck, she kissed him, the little minx. Poor fool didn't even see it coming." He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. Kissing was forbidden by the Rights, especially between people who were unwed.
"How about you all stand down and just let me do my job?" Dick finally seethed, not waiting for an answer and pushing roughly past the guard. He was cranky, tired, and the very last person he wanted to deal with so early in the morning was Slade fucking Wilson.
There were mild protests from the men nearby, but they all knew better than to interfere with their Commander. Dick Grayson stalked closer towards the cages, back hunched and shoulders forward. There was a twitch in his jaw, and he could feel Slade's eyes boring into him. Now that his agitation had simmered somewhat, Dick could sense the promise of danger emanating from deep within the dark cage, the fine hairs on his arms standing on end. It didn't escape his attention that many parts of the metal bars were singed black in an oval pattern, and there was still a streak of blood on the ground from where they'd dragged their dead away. With a disturbing finality, Dick was finally able to decipher the source of the stench that had plagued him from the moment he'd set foot in the place; charred human flesh.
Sweat beaded at his temple, and his mouth suddenly felt dry.
The metas Trigon brought them, they were always deadly, and losing men wasn't uncommon when trying to tame them. But, everyone broke...eventually. Everyone.
Still, his unit was known to have always lost the least amount of men. Caged, this woman had single-handedly already murdered three and sent half a dozen more to the healer's infirmary. Record-breaking for Dick.
"Your funeral, Grayson," Slade called out from behind him, but the Commander ignored him.
He could see them now, the two alien women, one of which was tucked away in the corner of her jail, cowering. Being with the Church of Blood for as long as he'd been, Dick had grown familiar with unusual looking 'refugees' from other planets that Trigon's army would plunder and pillage. Every so often, the demon king would bring back gifts, prizes that he'd claimed when he'd taken rule and had no use for himself. Dick wasn't an imbecile, however; these people were slaves. Spared and plucked from their homes because they were worth something. Because the Church could use them. And being useful was always the key to survival in a place like Belial.
Two sets of glowering, unusual green eyes blinked dimly in the darkness of the cage. He heard shackles rattle as one of the women came to her feet. Dick staggered, pausing in his step and waiting for her to come further into the light. At this angle, in the poorly lit warehouse, all he could make out was their silhouettes.
From what he could tell, she was tall; taller than any man, and her eyes...Dick gulped, blinking as he took in the unusual sclera. She had no pupils. He waited for them to perhaps change, as some did, but they remained an unnatural green — one you'd never find on Earth — pulsing with light, big and slanted like the eyes of a lion. The heavy chains dragged along the floor, and she walked steadily towards him on two bare feet, staggering from her harrowed weights. He could hear her laboured breaths. By the time she'd made her way to the bars, he could see that even her skin glowed an unusual orange hue — like the embers of a fire, golden. The red of her hair only accentuated the theme of flame the alien woman possessed. It sat tangled and ratty atop her head, the long red curls obviously having seen better days. It was obvious that she hadn't gone down without a fight. The alien snarled at him from within her cage, fingers gripping the bars hard enough to bend the metal if they hadn't drained her of her strength. Even her clothes were tattered, barely covering any of her more private parts.
That wasn't going to do, not with the Church of Blood.
With her state of dress — or lack thereof — Dick quickly realized that it was likely her ferociousness alone that had kept the men away from her. Although some did have wives, many of his guard were young, new recruits who hadn't seen a woman naked likely their entire lives. And although he tried to reign them in, there were moments when he wasn't always around, and rape was, sadly, common with the meeker prizes, especially after they'd been drained. So long as no one was witness, however, there wasn't much Dick could do regarding the matter. Which was partly why he supported his men during the Ceremonies of Night, and taking a bride.
As if having a wife would somehow make men abstain from coveting a beautiful, vulnerable woman in their possession.
The Workhouses existing were proof that it never panned out that way, despite the Rights and all they dictated. Half their clientele were often married men, but men in power had a habit of always breaking their own rules.
Dick licked his lips and undid his weapon holster, carefully setting it down on the ground before his feet while maintaining eye contact with the flame-haired warrior woman. She watched him curiously, but still with contempt and hatred, not that he blamed her. Meanwhile, the other alien remained a pair of glowing green, mistrusting eyes in the back of the cage, watching it all unfold, unblinking. It was evident which of the two was currently labelled problematic and, as the Devout had put it, feral. Women they couldn't control were always labelled such unsavory titles.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Dick avowed softly, slowly raising his arms up in surrender, palms out and empty when he stood back up to his feet.
The alien woman then did something he'd never seen before from a new migrant. She mimicked his movements, and for a moment, he'd thought that maybe he'd made some progress, that Slade was wrong. That the Devout was wrong. Except, unlike Dick, she was certainly armed. Impressive fire, literal fire, impossibly shot out from her hands, and Dick ducked from the sudden intensity of heat in his face, raising his arms in a defensive position and cowering to the floor when his skin bubbled and burned.
"Sir!" Soldiers' booted feet were heard running to his aid in moments, plated shields up and at the ready to fend off her attack. They'd done this once before, and Dick wondered if Trigon didn't put warning labels on his 'gifts' on purpose.
Even though her flames were dampened, and her reach was abysmal due to the drain, Dick could still feel the heat of the fire like he'd popped his head and his arms into a burning oven. All he could hear was the orders from his second in command as they piled forward in droves, heavy combat boots thumping in unison. Someone had started dragging him out of the way, hauling him from under his arms as he was far too heavy to lift, and all he could think about was the old trail of blood marking the floor from the same maneuver.
Somewhere in the distance, one of his men screamed, and the smell of singed flesh and smoked clothing filled the warehouse in nauseating waves. The alien woman let out a battle cry, and Dick found himself suddenly missing the years of pushing papers at his desk…
A/N: You probably have a lot of questions, and that's okay. Suffice to say, there'll be an explanation for a lot of it as we delve further into the story. For now, however, thank you for reading, and I hope this has sparked some interest as I'm very proud of this story and all I have planned for it! Reviews are appreciated.