Hoyt drives and cries; just past a little hidden clearing where Jessica feeds on the wolf. He begs for her mercy; she wraps herself around him and continues eating. He deserves it, for what he would have done to her; her beast turned out stronger than his. It's that simple.
Sookie's house is torn apart. Wolves, and fights, and death; a goddess of raw nature who aged it impossibly. Brought the outside in. Forces and magic beyond understanding. What was once comforting, Heimlich, has gone wild and wracked and strange, and magical. What was inside now also and partially takes part of what's outside. The definition is perforated, like a neck. What was safe is now continually questionable; the alliances you could once come home to are now just more places for them to hurt you. Once-bright corners now host strange shadows and can't be trusted. The house groans under its history, strange even to itself. Its whole life is at night now.
And upstairs, in a pile of wreckage -- the scissors, the gun, a teddy bear speckled with blood -- Bill and Sookie are fucking, harder and harder; she pushes him down against the floor, and she pushes his arms away, and down, and she pushes his face away, and he struggles with her, and she struggles with him, and his hand is around her neck, and her hand is around his. But they don't let go.
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