#and just *gnashes teeth* that drives me up the wall <- positive | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

patriciasage · 3 years

Text

i’ll cover you

Author: Patricia_Sage

Fandom: The Adventure Zone - Amnesty

Pairing: Duck Newton/Indrid Cold

Summary:

Duck’s not wearing his helmet.

That’s the thought that enters Aubrey’s mind as Duck flies through the air and into the side of the barn. He crashes through the painted wood and lands in a cloud of dust and hay.

[posted in full under the break but you can find me on AO3]

Duck’s not wearing his helmet.

That’s the thought that enters Aubrey’s mind as Duck flies through the air and into the side of the barn. He crashes through the painted wood and lands in a cloud of dust and hay.

“Duck!” Aubrey yells. Her friend answers with a groan and a cough. Aubrey feels a mixture of relief and concern; he’s alive, but he doesn’t sound great.

The abomination, an unsettling beast with many limbs and many, sharp teeth, moves to pounce through the hole in the wall. Aubrey’s about to blast it with flame but something beats her to the magical punch.

The Mothman crashes into the abomination and the two of them break a huge tree trunk in half with their impact. “Timber!” Ned shouts. He and Aubrey avoid the tree as it hits the ground. They make eye contact over the fallen log. “I was under the impression that Indrid would rather not engage in combat,” Ned says. Aubrey shrugs. She spies gleaming red in in the grass nearby and pockets Indrid’s glasses. They run toward the sounds of a monstrous scuffle.

This outing was meant to be reconnaissance only. The Pine Guard trio had brought Indrid just in case his visions could give them some clues. Instead of a peaceful investigation of Mrs. Rahimi’s acreage, they found the source. The abomination is a horrifying approximation of a creature. In the setting sun, they had seen it consuming one of the cows with a huge mouth and way too many limbs. It noticed them before they could retreat.

Indrid had stepped back, alarmed. “I’m not – I didn't see it until - I don’t have a weapon!”

Duck had moved in front of him, Beacon drawn and gnashing for a fight. “S’alright, dear, we gotcha. Hang back.”

Indrid is done hanging back, it seems.

The Mothman is locked in a thrashing embrace with the abomination, slashing with his claws and stabbing with his pincers. His huge, dark wings are fluttering to balance him. The abomination has too many limbs for him to block, though, and he’s taking some hits.

“Shoot it, Ned!” Aubrey commands.

Ned lifts the NARF Blaster with a steady hand. Aubrey can see the apprehension in his eyes, but his mouth is set in a determined line under his beard. He pulls the trigger.

The abomination lets out a guttural sound and twists out of the Mothman’s grip. To everyone’s horror, it begins running toward the barn. “Shit!” Aubrey says, letting out a blast of fire that misses the creature and smoulders in the grass. Ned fires another foam bullet, but it only catches one of its legs. It barely slows.

The realization that Duck hasn’t emerged from the barn yet sits like a stone in Aubrey’s chest. The abomination is coming to finish him off. Aubrey and Ned are sprinting as fast as they can, but they know they won’t be able to catch it.

There’s a thunderous beating of wings as the Mothman swoops down from above and grabs the abomination. As he raises it into the air, it goes limp like a cat that’s been scooped up by its owner. But as they ascend higher it begins to struggle. Aubrey and Ned watch in awe as the Mothman’s huge wings carry the abomination up into the pink sky. “I can’t believe he can carry it,” Aubrey says, catching her breath. Next to her, Ned agrees. They crane their necks and follow the red dots of the Mothman’s eyes as he gets smaller and smaller.

The abomination is dropped from an incredible height. It falls, flailing, until it meets its gruesome end. Aubrey and Ned flinch as the creature is impaled on a nearby fencepost. “Ouch,” Aubrey mutters. The abomination doesn't move.

“Your precision is impressive –” Ned says as the Mothman lands, but he pushes past them without even a glance and dives through the hole in the barn’s wall. Ned and Aubrey follow, avoiding the splintered shards of wood around the opening.

There’s a horrible, suffocating moment when Duck doesn’t move, crumpled in a pile and covered in bloodstained hay. Aubrey nearly rips Ned’s shirtsleeve in her grip. But then the Mothman places a gentle, clawed hand on his hair, and Duck stirs with a groan. “Wha’ happened?” he mumbles.

“Dude, you gotta wear your helmet!” Aubrey says. When she moves forward, the Mothman whirls around, snarling, wings fully extended as a shield. Aubrey freezes, looking up into huge, red eyes and pincers dripping with the abomination’s blood. “H-hey now.”

Ned is at her side again, hands extended placatingly. “Friend Mothman, we mean no harm.”

Aubrey can barely see Duck behind the Mothman’s imposing form, but she hears him hiss in pain as he moves into a seated position. “You don’t gotta talk to him like –” He cuts himself off with a sigh. The Mothman deflates a little and she sees Duck clumsily stroking the feathers of his wings. “He’s still Indrid. He just got scared. But I’m alright.”

“With all due respect, Duck, you don’t look alright,” Ned says. It’s true. Duck is bleeding from a head wound and his shirt is stained red where the abomination pierced him in its grip. He’s holding his ribs gingerly.

“Yeah,” he rasps, “I should probably go to the hospital.” He gives the Mothman a final pat on the back with his free hand. “Come on, ‘Drid. Let them in.”

The Mothman moves aside, allowing Ned to move to Duck’s side. His wings are folded and twitching and he’s wringing his clawed hands together in a very human way. Aubrey attempts to shake off the instinctive fear that rises at the sight of his imposing insectoid form and approaches him. She takes his red glasses out of her pocket and offers them.

He puts his glasses on and he’s Indrid again, tall, skinny, and pale. Tears are streaming down his face. He looks pitiful and Aubrey considers her inability to distinguish fear from anger in his Sylph form.

Duck hears Indrid’s sniffles and turns from where he’s now propped against Ned’s side. “Oh, darlin’, come here,” he says, beckoning with the hand not currently wrapped around his friend. Indrid hurries over and collapses into a cautious but desperate hug. He wraps his long arms around Duck’s broad shoulders and buries his face in his neck.

Ned is an awkward yet sympathetic part of this embrace, and Aubrey nearly laughs at his expression. It’s kind of a strange third-wheel situation. She takes pity on him. “Alright, time to go, boys! We’ll have plenty of time for hugs and tears when Duck is snug in a hospital bed.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry,” Indrid says, wiping his nose on his cardigan as he pulls away.

They exit out the front door of the barn. Mrs. Rahimi is nowhere to be seen, thank God, and they make their way across the field to Ned’s car. Aubrey wants to comfort Indrid as they follow closely behind Ned and Duck, but she doesn’t know whether he would want his hand held by her. He’s stopped crying now, watching Duck attentively with a worried and protective expression. She decides to just ask. "Can I hold your hand?"

He starts a little when she speaks. She realizes he must be entirely focused on Duck's futures if he didn't predict her question. He thinks for a second, then answers in his soft-spoken, unsettling way. "Yes."

His hand is cold. They walk in silence for a while. “You did good,” Aubrey says.

He looks down at her for a moment. “I don’t even really remember what happened, if I’m being honest.”

“You made an abomination shish kebab is what happened.”

“Oh.”

The setting sun reflects off of Ned’s car. Aubrey sits in the passenger seat next to Ned while Indrid holds Duck tenderly to his side in the back seat.

Aubrey picks up Duck’s helmet from the floor and hands it to him. He flips her off with a crooked, tired smile. They drive to the hospital.

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boundlessnerd · 4 years

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The Chase

Jackson x reader, Mafia au

violence, blood, injury, cursing, a lil fluff

The men had tailed you for at least two blocks. You could feel their stares as you slipped through the bustling city. No matter the crowd or your tactic, they would reappear in a few paces. Your heart quickened with panic as the busyness began to thin. Soon the streets would be empty save for your pursuers. You needed to think of a plan and do it quickly.

Your feet sped up and you spun around passersby, trying your best to gain distance. You slipped your phone from your purse, settling the strap across your body and fumbling with the fasteners. Running was becoming your best option. You slipped around a group of teens stretched in a line across the street and took off. The footsteps behind you shuffled, knocking bodies aside before giving chase. By the sound of it, there were more people following than you first perceived. There was no way you could take them all. Your eyes swung wildly, searching for a way out. You turned a sharp corner and picked up speed. The footsteps were louder now, traveling through the darkness. Another turn. Then one more. You found yourself on a nearly empty stretch of stores. You slid through the door of a boutique and crouched behind a display to catch your breath. The attendant peered at you from behind the counter, eyebrow raised. You smiled and pretended to look at the merchandise, picking up a blue leather clutch and turning it in your hand.

Your eyes flicked up to the glass, glancing at your followers that were now combing the street. The name of the first person you could think of to call flew from your fingertips onto your phone screen while you continued to watch the large window. You brought the phone to your ear, trying to listen above the noise your heartbeat made. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. You felt yourself go cold with the thought that he wouldn't pick up and began to look around the store, eyes settling on a glowing red exit sign.

"Hey baobei. What's up? I thought you were shopping downtown today for that dress you wanted..." Your boyfriend's cheerful voice rang through the speaker. You watched as a man in a black suit peered through the glass, studying the store and its blank-faced attendant. You let the bag slip from your fingers and froze. "Jackson," you whispered, interrupting his happy ramblings, "help me." The line went silent for a moment before movement was heard. "I have your location. Stay on the phone. How many are there?" You could tell he was running around your shared apartment by the heavy puff of air that left with each word. "I don't know. Too many." The man turned his back to the store. You slowly began to back yourself towards the exit, staying low to the ground and keeping your eyes on the street.

"Damn it y/n! I'm coming with the boys. Don't you dare hang up this phone." He was yelling now. You could imagine his furrowed brow as he gathered whoever was home and made his way to your rescue. "Hurry." You breathed into the mic as the attendant shifted her gaze to stare at your crouching position on the floor. "Ma'am?" She asked in a far too loud voice. You hurriedly shushed the attendant. "Is everything alright ma'am?" You shushed the clueless woman again, eyes fixing on the man outside. "I need you to look at your counter. Don't speak to me, don't look at me. Pretend I'm not here." The attendant followed your stare to the man who stood outside. She sighed. "Ma'am, if you aren't going to buy anything you should leave." The man shifted. Your eyes widened. "Shut up. Please. They can't know I'm here." "Should I call-" "No! Just be quiet! Sit still. Stop looking at me and be quiet." Silence filled the store. The man glanced over his shoulder at the attendant who stared at her folded hands, cheeks heated. He raised an eyebrow and turned his head again to study her. Damn it. He had to have known. The attendant was too obvious. He had to have known.

He turned away again. "Honestly ma'am, I can call-" you had lost patience with the attendant's meddling, though now her words were whispers. "Quit your blabbering or I swear if I live through tonight I will come back here and choke you to death with a handbag." You glared at the woman to complete your threat, attempting to scare her into silence. The attendant clamped her lips together, eyes welling up and face on fire. You swung your eyes back to the man, only to find him squinting in your direction. You held your breath - maybe he couldn't see you. He stared for what felt like forever before looking up at the attendant. Damn this woman. She met his gaze for a second before staring back at her counter. He continued to burn a hole into her skull before taking a step towards the door.

She flinched at the sudden movement and glanced at you. "Eyes. On. The. Counter." Your words were hard whispers. His stare carefully searched the store.. "If he comes in here, act normal. If he sees me and I ... do something, don't move a muscle or make a sound. Your eyes are glued to that countertop and your lips stay shut. Blink twice to say you understand." You glanced at her for confirmation before returning to stalk the man. He stood just outside the door.

"Jackson," You unzipped your purse, quickly ripping out the knives and tiny revolver hidden in its lining. "Hm? I'm coming. I hear you." His rough voice was farther away, meaning he was driving now. "I'm gonna have to take one out. I don't know what will happen," you shuffled to conceal the weapons on your person - gun in your waistband, one knife in your shoe, another tucked into your hair tie that held up your messy ponytail. "There's glass and an annoying woman here," You glared up at her while shoving a switchblade down your shirt. "I will probably be seen." You could tell he was speeding by the silent focus you felt on the other side of the line. "Jackson, I love you." You pushed your last throwing knife into the front pocket of your jeans and continued to watch the door, fingers rubbing the golden band that sat on your left hand. You tucked your body behind a display, out of sight of the counter. "I love you. I'm coming. Wait for me and don't hang-"

The door swung open and the man stepped in. You slid the phone from your ear, listening to his footsteps. "Good evening miss," he watched the attendant before lightly grazing the floor with his gaze. The woman was finally listening to instructions. "Is everything alright in here?" He stared her down. "You look distressed. Is there any way I can help?" She fidgeted. No, you thought at her. Don't do it, he's just trying to make you break.

"I..." Damn it. You reached into your back pocket for a throwing knife. "Yes, miss?" He placed a hand on her folded ones. She glanced over at your hiding place. Damn it. "Well," her voice caught. "Do you mind if I look around? Just to be sure everything is alright. It isn't safe for shopkeepers so late at night." He coated his words in sugar, luring the woman into his trap. The false sense of security loosened her lips. "She..." Damn it. "She?" He repeated. Her doe-eyes met the man’s gaze. You could almost hear the trap snap shut. She whispered, just loud enough so he could hear, "she has a gun."

You slid from your spot, knocking the man off his feet and ripping your knife into his legs to limit his mobility. He kicked at you, struggling against the pain. You quickly crawled up his body, dragging your knife with you and used your body weight to pin down his arms. "What did I tell you?" You covered the man's mouth with your hand and tore into his throat with your blade. His screams, which became gurgles, were muffled by your palm. The woman sucked in a breath. "Scream and you're next." You met her eyes and sighed. "You need to learn to listen better. If you would have been quiet, I probably could've just knocked him out and been on my merry way.” You tipped your head at the twitching man, emphasizing your point.

“Turn around and put your hands on the wall." The woman whimpered and complied. "I can't trust you not to get me caught so just sit still for a moment." Once the man's gurgling and twitching stopped, you stood, wiping the blood from your knife and fingers on his suit jacket. She was crying now. You rolled your eyes, scoffing. "Honestly. I'm not actually going to kill you." You moved your cross-body purse over your head and slid it from your shoulder, gripping the strap. "Now, do you know how to do a push-up?"

She looked confused, but no less afraid, as she nodded. "Good. Let's pretend we're doing push-ups. Put both hands on the wall, feet shoulder width apart. And down..." Her body moved towards the wall and back as her arms bent awkwardly. "Well done. Now two." Her elbows bowed again. "Three." You pressed your body against the counter, quietly sliding on its surface. "Four." You reached your arms out, torso stretched over the counter. "Five." She bent once more. As she straightened her arms, you swung the purse strap around her neck. Her legs caught her before she could fall into the counter. You gripped tighter, watching her struggle and scratch at your hands. "Shhh now," you pulled her closer by the neck and wrapped a hand around her face to cut off her airway. Her teeth gnashed at your skin as she choked on her saliva. In seconds, the poor woman went limp, tear-stains marking her cheeks.

You hopped over the counter to lay her body on the ground, then disconnected the store phone and hid her cell. That would only hold her for a few moments. You dragged the man to the back of the store by his heels and dropped him out of sight of the counter. You removed his jacket and wiped at the blood trail that led to your hiding place with the dark cloth. Then you jogged back to your victim and searched his body for weapons. Despite your efforts to keep his death quiet, his colleagues were bound to notice a man missing and come back for him. You had to move faster, especially for when sleeping beauty came to.

You heard shouting from across the street. Your stalkers had returned. The voices moved past the store. They were loud and upset, but not distressed - they hadn't noticed the missing man yet. Your mind ran through your options. You picked up the phone, looking to see the screen still green with the phone call that never ended. It had been almost 10 minutes since you called him.

You decided to sit and wait for Jackson as you put the phone back to your ear. He was whispering curses, still driving to save you. You breathed a laugh, imagining the men in the car gripping onto the seats and handles in the vehicle to gain a semblance of security while your boyfriend endangered their lives with his reckless driving.

"Hello? Y/n? Are you there?" He jumped at the sound of your breathing. You opened your mouth to speak, then settled for a hum as a response when you heard shuffling from behind the counter. He sighed in relief. "We're almost there. Just wait for me. Hold on, baobei." You could feel the tension in his voice still. You knew he hated that he wasn't at your side yet. It was taking too long for his taste. He never liked being out of control when it came to your safety. You hummed another response.

The voices returned. You sat back on your heels to be sure you were out of sight. Just hold on, you thought to yourself. Jackson would be here soon. The woman's quiet cries echoed through the store, snatching your attention from the window. She was really trying to get you killed, poor thing. There was silence on the street as her sniffles grew to hiccuping, then to hysterical wailing. You rolled your eyes. She really will get you killed. They could probably hear her from across the city. Damn this woman. You listened and waited, crouched and ready to move for the door. There had to have been at least four of them and if they all entered the store, you wouldn't be able to take them all. The corpse only had a gun and a knife on him, but you couldn't guess how prepared the others would be. Your best option would be to run.

You slowly moved for the exit, placing your back on the wall nearest to the door and turning your eyes back to the street. The woman's sobbing never ceased and you almost felt sympathetic, but the reminder that her crying was making you vulnerable to attack killed any feelings you had for her. "Baobei? Is that crying? Are you hurt?" Jackson must've been able to hear the hysteria occurring across the store. You sighed. "I'm not crying. It's the attendant." You whispered, holding the phone to your lips to be heard over her wails.

A handful of men and women in black walked up to the glass, peering in. You stared at them wishing they would keep walking. The door swung open and five pairs of shiny black shoes stepped inside the store. They gathered around the counter. One of the women struck up a conversation with the endless fountain of tears that sat curled in the corner. The other four looked around the store, heads turning, but bodies unmoving.

"Ma'am, are you alright?" Her question was met with incoherent blubbering. "Slow down. What happened?" She tried again. A series of hiccups and sniffles left the attendant as she tried to collect herself. Almost in unison, a chorus of sighs and rolling eyes passed around the group. One of the men left his post beside the counter and began to take interest in a rack of pastel wallets. He moved around it, slowly observing every inch. You cowered further into the wall. "Th- there was a hic a hic wo-sniff-man." The attendant went back to crying. The group exchanged glances.

The man's eyes flitted across the back of the store. You held your breath, waiting for a sign that you'd been seen. He paused before turning to another rack of bags just a few feet away. One of his colleagues made eye contact. The man continued to look through the bags, one thumb hooked into his belt loop. Almost like a signal went off, your other followers shuffled around, looking at each other then returning to normal. You shifted, feeling uneasy in the newly tense room. They slowly moved their hands into their pockets while the man nearest to you slid one palm beneath his jacket.

Shit.

You were out the door before he could draw his weapon.

The exit led to a dimly lit alley. You pushed your legs to go as fast as they could, knees crying at the hard impact of your feet on the ground. Get out. Your brain frantically screamed everything you learned as a child in the mafia. Open areas are better than enclosed spaces. You ran harder, trying so hard to focus on your shoes meeting concrete. Tight spaces - small rooms, hallways, alleyways - make you an easy target. Ignoring the complaints of your lungs, you pumped your legs ever faster. All you had to do was outrun them. Just outrun them. Outrun them. Outrun -

Bang.

A sudden shockwave of pain in your torso made your steps stutter. Your running was slower now. Still you chanted: Just outrun them. Outrun them. Outrun them.

You heard someone grunt from behind you. A mass collided with your back - then you were falling. Panic set in. You landed on your elbows, quickly trying to turn to face your attacker. Your legs kicked erratically at the man who was still attached to your body. Anxious noises left your lips as the fear and adrenaline gripped your throat. His nose met with your knee, slamming his skull into the wall, and you were freed from his grasp. You scurried backwards, elbows and hands burning as cuts and scrapes appeared on the skin.

Two of the man’s colleagues came to join him. A woman lifted the man to his feet; the other man brandished a knife. He was on you in a heartbeat. You cried out as your back slammed into the ground. Your arms moved to hold back his weapon. When you gained an inch of distance between the knife and your body, you pushed with all your strength and sank your fingernails into his face. The man screeched and reeled back, giving you time to pull the small knife from your hair, snapping the band and releasing your hair to fall haphazardly.

The man grasped your leg, squinting down at you. He kneeled on your calf, planting one knee firmly on your own, and pushed his body weight into your joint. Your back once again hit the ground with the new pain. You lifted an arm to toss the knife at the man, but the woman came from behind him and firmly placed a foot on your wrist, halting your movement. Your fingers twirled the blade around and sliced at her shoe. You could feel her toes shift in her shiny, black loafers. She turned her attention to her teammates. Once her eyes fully left your figure, you switched your grip on the blade and slammed into her shoe with as much force that you could muster. “Shit!” She screamed, reflexes forcing her foot off your arm. You placed your elbows on the concrete, digging in so you could gain leverage on the man who still clutched his face atop your leg. You tried to shake him off, kicking at him with your free heel. “You’re done, bitch.” A click reached your ears. You snapped your head up, eyes wide, to see the woman pointing a pistol at you.

Bang. Bang.

She fell against the wall before sinking to the ground. Your eyes flicked over to your now-shocked assailant. You kicked him once more with all your strength then sat up fully and grasped the gun that pressed into your back. With two shots, he slumped over, dead. Still high on adrenaline, your neck twisted to look behind you at whoever shot the woman. A sigh of relief left your lips and you let your body relax as you saw Jackson’s familiar figure running from the other end of the alley. His worried voice reached your ears and you wanted to cry from the sheer comfort it brought you.

“Y/n! Y/n!” He clumsily fell beside you, hands shaking your shoulder. “Hm?” You blinked up at him. “Are you okay?” You felt his fingers skimming your body, gentle but frantic. You let out a tired laugh. “Just a few scratches. Nothing too-” “Oh my god! Is that a bullet wound? Did you get shot? Who shot you? Where are they?” A million questions rushed past his lips and flew at you in one long, barely understandable string. “Babe,” you interrupted his queries. “Can we go please?” The adrenaline was replaced by exhaustion and you were beginning to fully feel the pain of your many injuries. “Oh! Yes, of course baobei. Let’s get you some help.” Your sweet boyfriend shoved the dead man’s body aside and stared down at you. “Can you stand?”

You could only blink in answer, internalizing the question. Could you stand? You tested your uninjured leg feeling no resistance when you bent it. Now the other one. You visibly winced and let out a pained squeak. Jackson was back to speaking faster than you could comprehend. “Okay, okay, okay. Stop, stop. Don’t move y/n. I’ll help. Hold on. Don’t move.” He moved behind you and gently pushed your torso up into a sitting position. The pain of your gunshot wound moved through you in waves. Jackson’s words became a series of noises that increased in volume as he realized the movement was hurting you. “Okay baobei. We’re gonna get you up on your good leg. Just let me do it. I’ll hold you up, okay? Don’t try to move a lot.” His hands moved to grip beneath your arms, pulling your body up. You groaned, eyes shutting as you were placed on your feet, Jackson’s hands moving to keep you upright. You heavily leaned on your boyfriend, panting slightly. “Good job baobei. You’re bearing it so well. I love you so much. We’ll be home soon.” You breathed in the familiar scent of the love of your life and smiled.

“That’s the last of them.” One of Jackson’s men, Mark, walked towards you and Jackson from the direction of the store, thumb coming up to swipe at the blood on his face. Jackson’s tone was ice cold, cutting through the night. “Are there any who are still alive?” Another one of Jackson’s men, Jaebum, dragged a man by the collar as he made his way over. You recognized him from the bleeding nose as the first man who attacked you in the alley. “Just this one,” Jaebum shook the man’s collar to punctuate his sentence. “There’s one more inside, but Jinyoung is playing with him. He’ll be dead soon.” Bambam called from the backdoor of the store.

Jackson glared at the dazed and bloody man who struggled in Jaebum’s grasp. “Bring this one home and lock him up. I’ll talk to him later.” Jaebum nodded and dragged the man back down the alley. Jackson’s eyes moved back to you, softening immediately. “Ready to take a step?” His fingers tightened around your waist. You nodded in response and allowed him to lead you forward. Your small hop didn’t match his stride and you slipped, forcing Jackson to save you from falling. When your boyfriend managed to get you back to standing, he thoughtfully rubbed circles into your side with his thumb and peered down at you. “This won’t work, huh?” You shook your head, exhaling in a laugh. “Then there’s only one thing left to do.” You cocked an eyebrow at your boyfriend. “Just breathe okay? It’ll probably hurt at first.” His words made you more concerned. “Jackson, wha-”

He slid his arm further around your waist and gripped tightly. Then he carefully bent and hooked his other elbow behind your knees, sweeping you off your feet. You gripped at his shoulders in surprise before settling into his arms. You clutched onto his shirt and let Jackson carry you from the alley. His warmth soaked through your clothes and into your soul. You knew you were safe with him and allowed your eyes to close, simply feeling the gentle sway of Jackson’s steps.

“Yah!” Youngjae yelled from the store. “I found your purse, y/n!”

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iwannafuckyexiu · 5 years

Text

TENT STUFF — TODOROKI SHOUTO X MALE!READER、NSFW

2k words

todoroki’s top! once again :))

tent play ;)

"I can't believe I stargazed with my fucking best friend instead of some hot chick or something," you complained to Todoroki, sighing as you let yourself fall in the soft mattress in the tent.

"... ouch."

Todoroki was stunted for a bit before he let it go with a joking 'ouch'. Although, it was a puzzle how you even heard the joking tone in his voice despite it being indifferent as usual.

"Sorry man, it's the truth." As Todoroki crawled (yes crawled) into the small tent, you shrugged at him nonchalantly. "But luckily," you rummaged through your bag for a glass bottle and proceeded to shake it in Todoroki's direction with a huge grin, "I stole some white wine from home and brought it here!"

"Want some?"

"Sure." Todoroki received the bottle of white wine you held out to him, he took a brief sip while you downed a huge gulp.

"Y'know, ever since entering Yuuei, I haven't gone camping in the wild or anythin' until now," a little tipsy here and there, you began doing the classic 'spilling secrets and talking bullshit to your bff while drunk' thing.

"I haven't too since ...—" The weak smile on Todoroki's lips faded away as he trailed off into silence.

"Ahah well, this would be a first for both of us then!" seeing the desolate cast of shadow on Todoroki's face, you quickly interjected him and hooked an arm around his shoulder closely.

"Cheers!"

Todoroki pulled a small smile at your attempt of changing the subject, the bottle in his hand made a clinking sound as it clashed with yours. He swilled down a gulp of the alcohol while you downed nearly half of it, regretting it later on when the back of your throat scorched with the acidic feeling of the liquid flowing down.

"God, I forgot I couldn't tolerate alcohol well, now I feel dizzy as fuck—" your blurry vision concentrated on Todoroki — the way his features were enhanced in the faint light of the torch, how his adam's apple moved as he drank the alcohol, his face that was brisk yet gorgeous as always, "—and Shouto, I feel like I have an urge to do something," you said to Todoroki amidst your drunken state, an intoxicated grin lighting your features.

With the aid of alcohol driving you to the locked-up space in your brain, you lowered your head and planted a solid kiss on Todoroki's lips, the tail of your eyes narrowing into a tipsy and crazed smile as you did.

A hand shoved you back before you even knew what you were doing, your jaw slacked open once you realised what had happened.

"Do you—" Todoroki uttered before halting himself midway, his wide, heterochromatic eyes gaped at you, lips opened in shock at the gesture.

Burying your coloured up face in one hand, you mumbled through your palm in a muffled tone, "... yeah—I-I ... might have a ... crush on you."

Todoroki didn't respond, you thought perhaps he didn't hear you. "Sorry, I didn't know what got into me—I-I-I really didn't mean that—no wait I did but—" you sighed, "I'll just—get out of here myse—" you hastily apologised to him, your gaze averted to anywhere except for Todoroki's eyes, picking up a bottle of white wine that had a lost cap (you could care less about that) for you to drink outside.

Todoroki stifled your rambling that was going out of control with his lips, he pulled you back into the tent and onto him. The uncapped bottle began spilling on both your bodies and the mattress, but both of you paid no notice to the knocked over liquid.

Your legs tangled together, your wrist in his hand as you hovered over him, your elbows propping you up as you stared at Todoroki.

"What was that?" you questioned through your panting.

"My answer—to your confession," Todoroki whispered, his head dipped down, hiding the bit of red painting his neck and cheeks but revealing the heat climbing up his ears to you.

Oh, fuck everything, whoever can take this definitely isn't a man, you thought as the last string keeping your sanity together snapped at Todoroki's answer.

With the last bit of sanity in you gone, you tugged his chin up and connected your lips swiftly. As s if a switch had been turned on, Todoroki pushed you down to the soft mattress, taking the dominant role from you.

Todoroki straddled your waist lightly, his tongue embroiled with yours, your teeth-gnashing against each other while he pinned you down with force. His icy palm cupped your cheeks, another hand was rested beside your head to keep him suspended above you.

The sensation of Todoroki's tongue rubbing against the walls of your oral cavity, his body close to you, the aroma of his shampoo you could smell as strands of his red hair fell on your face sent blood gushing down to your cock. It poked against Todoroki's back proudly.

Withdrawing his lips from yours, Todoroki twisted his upper body back to look at what had been so uncomfortably resting against his back. His lips that were now red and swollen (very porn-ish, you'd remark) parted as he raised a brow at the thing that had been poking him in the back.

"Stop staring and g-get on or don't do it!"

The irritated look in your irises contrasted the streaks of crimson burning around your eyes, your lips were inflamed with his shallow bite marks, and to Todoroki—it honestly just made him want to fuck you until you can't get out of bed even more.

"Okay." Todoroki gave a faint laugh at the red rim around the tip of your ears before he unzipped your pants and pulled it off.

Almost immediately a wisp of cold air hit your bare legs, you winced at the frosty touch of the breeze but the feeling of something on your clothed cock distracted your focus. Todoroki palmed you through the thin fabric of your boxer, his middle finger slowly stroked your cock up and down.

The pleasure you felt on your cock was limited from the indirect touch, you wanted more. Craving more contact, you cuffed your fingers onto Todoroki's sweatpants and pulled it down along with his boxers.

You sat up and tugged the band of your boxers down, clasping Todoroki's cock in your hand, you drew his crotch closer to yours and rubbed both your cocks together.

"A-Ah ..." you let out a quiet whimper as you felt his cock scrape against yours, your neck arching up and eyes rolling up at the sensation.

Todoroki's eyes grew dark at the slipped moan, he covered your hand with his, holding your hand and beginning moving it along your cocks as he stuck another hand up your shirt.

Stroking and pinching at the two sensitive spots on your chest, your hand that was in Todoroki's grip grew weak at the twitching in your cock, you fell back on the soft mattress.

Todoroki's digits were shoved into your mouth, you curled your tongue around his fingers on instinct, wetting the skin. When he withdrew his fingers, they were trickling with your sticky strings of saliva that shone in the dim moonlight.

With his drenched fingers, Todoroki circled the rim of your hole slowly before pushing a finger into you.

You took a deep breath at the strange feeling of Todoroki's slim digit moving in and out of you. Your breath hitched when he added force to his two fingers and pressed down on a certain spot in you.

"Don't—don't touch that place," you lowly gnarled, though the hoarse, husky voice only weakened the vicious intent in your tone.

So obviously, Todoroki didn't listen.

Convulsing as Todoroki rammed his fingers into the same sweet spot every time, you clawed onto the surface of the mattress under you.

"I got—ngh ... condoms in my—bag."

One hand, fingers stroking at your prostate inside you, another hand fishing through your bag for the condoms.

Todoroki brought the condom foil to his mouth and ripped the package open with his teeth. Tossing away the foil, he swiftly put the condom over his cock and parted your legs to the side widely.

Sinking his cock into you at a slow pace, Todoroki clenched his jaw to contain the brimming urge to just take your waist and slam into you as he felt your walls tightening around him.

Both of you let it a breath of relief when his cock buried in fully, the pain at your ass gradually dissipated away and replaced by a shock of pleasure every time the thing in you hit your prostate hard.

Furrowing his brow at the unsatisfaction of your current position, Todoroki pulled out, earning a whine from you as your thirst was left to burn. He hauled you up onto your knees, his arm was hitched around you to keep your body up.

As his cock pushed into your body, a croaky groan slipped from your throat, your torso fell back into Todoroki's embrace and knees stretched out wider to enable him to reach deeper places in you. So deep to the point that you were wheezing for more air.

Todoroki's hand crept down to your erected cock as you arched your back at the heavy thrust he gave you, straight to the deep spot in you again. His fingers tightened around your rod, palming you while he worked behind you.

You turned your head back midway through the process, welcoming the sight of Todoroki's face that was so tempting that you wanted to push him down and fuck him instead (not possible).

The sweat on Todoroki's temples was glossy in the dark torchlight, leaking down the side of his cheek, the grim desire in his eyes threatened to eat you up, his throat that was protruding and chiselled, littered in sweat too. He released the hand on your waist to pull your chin and smashed his lips on yours.

"You said you wanted to fuck me instead?" Todoroki asked all of a sudden unexpectedly, usually apathetic voice dyed with amusement. His lips hovered in front of yours closely, hot breath tickling against your skin.

The slightest bit scared of him, you shakily laughed and replied to him, "Ahahahah, where did you hear that from Shouto, I—" The boy behind you stopped you before you could continue further. He pulled his cock out to the tip and slammed into you harshly, his tongue roaming deep into your mouth, leaving nowhere untouched.

The constant teasing from Todoroki, licking and biting at your lips, while his hips didn't stop rocking into you rake and crush his bare arm, probably going to leave red marks for both of you to discover the day after, at the overwhelming pleasuring coming from your joint site.

The enclosed space felt hot and steamy, your face couldn't help but grow red at the heat and the pleasure from the continuous rocking movement under you. The feeling of Todoroki's cock in you, penetrating through your gut and your legs, even your whole body, that bounced forward in at every thrust while you were in a kneeling position.

"Hah ... can you s-slow down ...?" you begged with cloudy puppy eyes, voice gentler and softer than before with an erotic tinge to it — it only brought you more misery, as Todoroki locked your arms behind your back and plunged his cock into you harder to the point that you couldn't speak a full sentence properly.

You yelped at the sudden increase in pace and the frequency of his cock pressing against your prostate, your body gave out on you and the only thing keeping you up was Todoroki's arm circled around your torso, abusing your nipples.

"Sorry."

You could hear Todoroki mutter a brief apology, his soft lips planting messy but calming pecks around your nape, yet his actions below never slowed down or halted once.

Your eyes sealed, you gnawed on your lip and took the relentless blows of thrusts on your prostate behind you plus the euphoric feeling of Todoroki's fingers serving your cock in front, letting out an accidental moan or wail every now and then.

All of a sudden, as Todoroki thrust his hip up and slam against that sensitive place one last time, your cock twitched while the shock of the last hit travelled through your body and caused you to spill out all your seeds on both of your bare bodies.

With the unintentional contraction of your walls around Todoroki's cock, only moments after your orgasm, you felt a rush of warmth inside you as he released his load into the condom and tightened his arm's grasp around you.

Both of you were exhausted after the intense exercise, or so you thought Todoroki was tired too.

You rested on the mattress, ready to put yourself to slumber when a hand squeezed the ticklish skin by your waist. Your ears picked up the sound of foil being torn and rustling behind you before slender fingers spread your legs apart and a hot, stiff object poked against your back entrance.

Oh shit.

"Another round?!"

#todoroki shouto #todoroki #shouto #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #bnha x male!reader #bnha smut

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impala-dreamer · 6 years

Text

Conditioned - Chapter Two

SPN FanFic

~Dean always feared the Apple Pie Life, but with Y/N he felt secure enough to try. He should have known better.~

Dean x Reader, Sam, OMCs

1,985 Words

Warnings: Angst!!

A/N: Hang on to yer butts!

~ Series Masterlist ~ Feedback is Gold ~ Masterlist ~ Buy Me a Coffee ~

“Listen, if you need some Bro Time, that's fine. Just tell me. I have things to do here.”

Dean smiled and grabbed her hand, pulling her close.

“Have I told you how much I like you?” he asked, invoking their old joke.

Y/N shrugged. “‘Bout as much as I like you. So not very much.”

Dean laughed and bent his chin to chase her lips. The kiss was warm and soft, and Y/N sighed.

“Go,” she said, giving his shoulder a shove. “Go play Ghostfacers with your brother. I'll be fine. I have some toilets to scrub and some Netflix to catch up on.”

Dean let her go, but came back quickly for one last kiss.

“Love you,” he whispered.

“Ditto.”

Sam waved from the balcony and Y/N returned his goodbye with a smile.

“Have fun burning some bones, Boys!”

Dean gave her a smile over his shoulder as the big metal door closed behind him, refusing to look away until the last sliver of light disappeared, taking her image away.

“You really ready for this?” Sam asked, leading the way up the stairs.

Dean emerged from the shadows with a confident smile and clamped a hand on Sam's shoulder. “Sammy, I have never been more ready for anything in my life.”

Sam smiled and nodded. “OK, then. Let's go pick up the ring.”

Y/N actually liked being left alone in the Bunker. It wasn't that she didn't miss the guys when they were gone, but it was nice to have a moment to herself. The Bunker was a vast labyrinth of rooms yet to be discovered and Y/N loved nothing more than slowly wandering the halls in search of something new.

She was about to embark on her latest expedition when a loud knock on the main door called to her from above.

Y/N shook her head and climbed the curved staircase. “What'd you forget?” She pulled back the heavy door, but the stairwell was empty. “Hello?”

Her voice echoed in the nothingness and a chill ran down her spine.

“Dean?”

Her heartbeat staggered and kicked up, but she did her best to calm it. Probably just your imagination, she thought and closed the door, not forgetting to throw the ancient lock into place.

Halfway down the stairs, an incredibly loud crash boomed, followed by another, and then a third. Y/N jumped and gripped the rail as she ran down the steps.

“What the fuck?”

She turned left, towards the noise just as an alarm went off, telling her that the security door in the garage had been breached.

“Crap.”

Dean had set it off a few times, arriving home too late and tired to remember to shut it down, but it was the middle of the morning, and Dean wasn't known for making such a ruckus anyway.

Maybe an animal got in. She tried to reassure herself that all was well as she raced down the corridor towards the noise.

The lights were off and at the end of the cavernous garage, a bright red light bulb pulsed beside the door.

Y/N ran to it, jumping over a metal rack of oil cans that had mysteriously lept from its position against the wall, noting quickly that, once again, there was no one around. Dean's tool box lay scattered across the gray tiled floor, but there was no Dean, no intruder, not even a sneaky raccoon.

She silenced the alarm and pressed her back against the door, catching her breath.

“OK, what the hell is going on?”

Even as the words left her mouth, another impossible thing happened. The horns on every vehicle in the room began beeping, first with quick little taps, and then prolonged screeches, as if their horns were being held down by heavy hands.

Panicked sweat broke out across Y/N’s body and she reached into her pocket for her cell, but it wasn't there. A vision of her phone perched on the kitchen table flashed in her mind, and she pushed away from the door, breaking into a run.

The horns died down as she flew passed each car, and by the time she reached the end of the line, silence rained down upon her once more.

She spun around to investigate, but the room was as it should be: dark and empty.

“This is not funny,” she groaned, gnashing her teeth and taking a deep breath. “What the fuck.”

Call Dean.

Remembering her phone, Y/N ran to the kitchen, her clean white socks making a true run rather difficult on the smooth floor.

Just as her fingers closed around the case, another painfully loud alarm went off, and the Bunker fell into darkness.

Y/N froze; fear spreading through her system with each heartbeat, making her hair stand on end and her mouth run dry. She closed her eyes and counted to three, waiting for the emergency lights to kick on, but they were less than comforting with their blazing red pulses.

Dean. Call Dean.

The phone felt like a rock in her hand, heavy and useless. She tapped the screen, but there was no signal, no way to reach out for help.

Fine. I'll handle this myself.

She left the phone on the counter and replaced it with a chef's knife. The nine inch blade was cold in her hands, its weight reassuring.

Blade held tight, Y/N set off down the hall into darkness. If the commotion was all a computer malfunction, she could reboot the system from the panel in the War Room. If there was someone playing with her, there was a pistol hiding under the big table. If it was a ghost or other, well, she'd figure that out later. All signs pointed to a human intruder anyway, though why or how she couldn't figure out.

There was silence around every turn, empty rooms that meant nothing; something, someone was there, she could feel it.

As she stepped foot in the War Room, the alarm came to an abrupt halt. Her ears rang from the absence and static took its place, making her cringe and shake her head to try and clear it.

“The hell?”

Y/N blinked into the brightness as the power came back on and bright white flooded her vision. She held up a hand to shade her eyes as the room came into focus and she found that she was not alone.

A tall, thin man stood at the bottom of the staircase, his light blue eyes locked on Y/N. He was pale and frail looking, barely filling out the expensive suit he wore. As he stared at Y/N, she stared right back, noting his manicured fingernails and perfectly set blond hair; he was not a fighter, which was good for her, but he was still a threat.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” he said in greeting, a creepy smile curling his thin pink lips. “What a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at the thick English accent and spun the knife in her hand. “I’m sorry, who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing here?”

The man sucked his teeth disapprovingly. “Such language, Y/N. I’m being polite. It wouldn’t kill you to extend the same courtesy.”

“Um… sure.” In a subtle show of sarcasm, Y/N kicked her right foot behind her left and bent at the knees, curtseying for the strange visitor. “Welcome to my home,” she added, and then dropped her respectful tone. “What the fuck do you want?” She took a step towards the table, hoping to get a moment to collect the gun.

He matched her steps. “Come now, it’s not really your home,” he retorted, opening his hands to gesture to the room. “Doesn’t belong to you. Doesn’t even belong to the Winchester Brothers, though they have made themselves quite… at home.” He frowned at the mess on the table, last night’s empty pizza box and a few beer bottles.

Y/N bit her tongue as anger boiled up inside. “See, now you’re just annoying me.” She waved her knife towards him, jabbing the point in the air between them. “You break in here, cause a big ruckus, act like you know a thing or two, whatever, I can deal. But now you’re talking about my boys? Nah.” She shook her head and clicked her tongue against her front teeth. “Again, who the fuck are you?”

The man stood up straight, squaring his narrow shoulders, and clasping his hands in front of him. “My name is Marcus Winthrope,” he said, giving a tiny nod in place of a bow.

“Awesome.” Y/N took a breath, pretending to absorb the name, assign some meaning to it as she moved closer to the table. His eyes never left her, he barely blinked, so she distracted him with another round of sass. “Now for question number two: what the fuck do you want?”

“You.”

Her blood ran cold. “Me?” Her feet refused to move. The finality and absolute confidence in his voice kicked her panic sky high, but she swallowed it down. “Sorry,” she grinned, “I’m spoken for.”

Marcus laughed politely. “Yes, by the Elder Mr. Winchester, we are aware.” A devilish smirk pulled at his lips. “Congrats on the engagement.”

Once more, he shocked her completely.

“The what now?”

“Too soon?” Marcus shrugged. “Ah, my mistake. Anyhow, let’s move this along, shall we? We’ve a long drive ahead.” He moved towards her, but Y/N threw up her hands, and the knife, in defense. His footsteps echoed steadily through the room, and Y/N rounded the table, desperate to reach the gun. “Don’t bother,” he suggested, removing the gun from his back pocket and placing it on the table across from her. “I’ve removed the bullets as well,” he added as she seethed.

“You’re really gonna have to cut the b.s. and tell me what’s going on. I’m getting real tired of your face.”

“Oh, all right,” he surrendered, “if it’ll shut you up.” His smile was terrifying. “You’re coming with me. Now.”

Y/N chuckled through the fear. “I really doubt that, buddy.” She twirled the knife and stared him down.

Marcus sighed. “I’d rather not get physical.”

“Dude, you weight what, a buck thirty?” She dropped her eyes down his thin frame, sizing him up. “I could snap your neck with my thighs.” She took a few steps to the left, hoping to reach the stairs and run. Sure, she could probably take him, but he had magic too, if he was able to cause such distractions and sneak in. Not worth the risk alone. Running was a better option. “Good luck grabbing me.”

“Oh, I have help.”

She missed the first step and stumbled forward. “What?”

Marcus simply grinned as Y/N was grabbed from behind; two giant hands clad in black gloves pulling her back. One hand closed around her mouth and nose, the other around her waist, lifting her high as she kicked backwards and clawed at the attacker’s arms.

“Now, now, Y/N. Just relax, please.” Marcus took his time walking towards her, carefully withdrawing a syringe from the inner pocket of his coat.

Her eyes grew huge with fear as he uncapped the needle and leaned in, pressing it to her throat. “Well, do what you want,” he retracted, “in a few seconds you won’t have a choice.”

The liquid burned as it went in and terror gripped her mind. She struggled to breathe against the thick fingers, screaming as they refused to budge. She tore at the heavy forearms, kicked fruitlessly back and forth, fighting to keep her eyes open as the drugs took hold.

“There, there…” Marcus’ skeletal fingers brushed a strand of hair from Y/N’s eyes as they rolled back. “Just… relax.”

FOREVER TAGS: (closed) : @akhuna01 @akshi8278 @amanda-teaches @bambi95-blog @because-imma-lady-assface @brooke-supernatural16 @capsheadquaters @captainradicalpassion @charliebradbury1104 @chelsea072498 @colagirl5 @courtney-elizabeth-winchester @covered-byroses @crispychrissy @curly-haired-disaster @dizzy-sunshine @disneymarina @deansgirl215 @dean-winchesters-bacon @doa1518 @docharleythegeekqueen @dubuforeveralone @duncedgoofball @dustycelt @ellen-reincarnated1967 @emoryhemsworth @emptywithout @ericaprice2008 @fandomimaginesftw-personal @eternal-elir @evansrogerskitten @fandomismyspiritanimal @feelmyroarrrr @grace-for-sale @growningupgeek @hazeleyesstolemyheart @herbologystudent252 @idreamofhazel @ilsawasanacrobat @imgetting2old4diss @jayankles @jaremish @jotink78 @justcallmeasmodeus @katy80us @katymacsupernatural @kdfrqqg @kittenofdoomage @ladylaylo @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @lefthologramdeer @letsby @lizmalfoywayland @maddiepants @mariekoukie6661 @meganwinchester1999 @mery-magizoologist @mistressofallthingsgeeky @mjdoc90 @mrsdeanfuckingwinchester @mrswhozeewhatsis @niamandthings @ms-allenbrown @newtospnfandom @notesfromalabprincess @nyghtshadow @oneshoeshort @percussiongirl2017 @plaided-ani @pink1031-blog @pisces-cutie @pilaxia @prose-goddess @purrculiar @queen-of-deans-booty @slut-for-cas @riversong-sam @roxy-davenport @roxyspearing @sandlee44 @serpentbaby @sgarrett49 @speakinvain @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @spn-fan-girl-173 @spnbaby-67 @spnwoman @starry-chaos @super100012 @supernaturallymarvellous @superwholockmarauder @starry-chaos @sylverminx @thegrungequeer @thehardcoveraddict @trunk-full-of-ideas @violetsaucer @waywardasfudge @waywardbaby @whimsicalrobots @wonderxland00

Conditioned Series Tags: @mirandaaustin93 @babyimp1967 @anotherwaywardsister @rebelminxy @bbycloudz @allonsy-yesiwill @demon-snacks @artisticpoet @sculptorofbeginnings @peachhes @shayrey @blxrrytylxr @gabavaldman @sasquatch5 @sasquatch5 @winchesterhound @spnskinnyballs @live-like-a-girl @melbelle45 @maui137 @arses21434 @bluestarshining @lovelyrocker @greyeyedsmile14 @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @wayward-gypsy @peridottea91 @unlikelycollectortimetraveler @stellaa33 @pjofangirl18 @05spn18

#dean x reader #angst #series #conditioned c2

446 notes · View notes

sseizonsha · 5 years

Note

five times kissed ~

Disclaimer: this drabble features a lot of triggers. You’ve been warned.

one.

Physics demands that moving objects remain in motion unless acted upon by an outside force. When he’s not in the thick of everything, it often feels like the sheer force of will alone keeps him going.

The return flight from Greece makes a long and uneventful thirteen hours, but after the riots and discourse that saw him fetching the Economic Officer from a compromised location, doing absolutely nothing at all beats getting punched in the back by an M84. Turns out a bruised kidney and a number of fractured fingers are actually enough to earn a leave of absence.

Mister Diplomat exits the plane first, all smiles and PR-worthy waves for the waiting cameras, and Leon steps gingerly out after him as the first of several protective agents in detail. It burns the question to know how the press would’ve played the narrative differently, were it public information that the rescued man pissed himself after a firebomb detonated close enough to ignite his jacket. But Leon’s lips are sealed: a matter-of-fact promise offered to soothe the hysterics out of a stumbling man coming up at twice his weight.

“You live to fight the good fight another day, Sir. There’s no shame in that.” Pretty words for the sole benefit of a man who’d only ever been caught in the crossfire. Leon holds no truth in them for himself.

It’s not a sizeable envoy of congratulations and well-wishes that greets him off the tarmac’s edge, but she’s more than a welcome sight. He sees her coming: spots the worry lining her brow and the red denim jacket that’s almost faded to pink in its age, and his pace quickens faster than is probably recommended. Rushing into a reunion hug is a pipedream when his back screams the way it does, but Claire shoulders that burden by meeting him more than halfway. She folds herself into his edges, mindful, and Leon groans in relief as she tugs his backpack from a white-knuckled hand.

“You’ve gotten scruffy,” she says.

He flashes a smile laced with aching and shoots back the reminder that ladies love the stubble. He’s gotten too old, too rough around the edges, to keep the boyish charm of a baby face. As for a full-on beard? Well. It’s not for lack of trying. “How do you like it?”

Claire’s smile twists, unceremoniously flirtatious. “You’re a dreamboat. Who could possibly resist that jawline? Now give me a proper hug so we can get out of here, and maybe I’ll wax poetic on the drive back.”

It’s an opportunity if he ever got one, and Leon seizes it—hungrily and with both hands. He slides his touch from her wrists and higher: along her bare forearms and up proud shoulders, to both sides of her neck.

Claire’s hair trickles between his fingers, splashes over his knuckles. Her pulse ticks just this side of wild, and if he could he’d gather the rhythm in his palms and carry the memory of her back to a drab, empty apartment. She feels real. She feels warm. She feels here, welcoming, open—anything but mindless or hostile, and when he tips her head back to lay his mouth against her brow, Leon closes his eyes.

And he breathes in a lungful of home.

two.

Sometimes the force thrust upon an object is violent and sudden and out of anyone’s control, and the only thing left to do is rediscover ground zero, pick up the pieces, and heave it all straight into a fucking fire.

Ten years to the day of Raccoon City’s destruction, the US government and subsequent do-gooders publicly announce the plans to construct a memorial site outside the quarantine zone. When Claire sends a resentful text about the entire thing sounding like a capitalization on “lessons learned” and “better tomorrows” before the upcoming election, Leon agrees in half as many words: that’s exactly what it is.

Leon’s position as a government agent guarantees a secure place out of the spotlight, but Claire’s rising influence through TerraSave lands her right under the hottest beam of it. Tell us about the gravity of it all, Miss Redfield. What was it like, surviving Raccoon? “It was…a nightmare,” she says at first, reluctantly agreeing to answer touch-and-go questions between public appearances. “I wouldn’t want to wish the experience on anyone. It doesn’t make a good story.”

The buzzards disagree. Demands for exclusive interviews swoop in every time she changes location and when one particularly chaotic pursuit resulted in a broken camera, Claire calls him mid-way through an anxiety attack. He’s on a plane within the hour.

Adam grants him an official order to accompany her to and from every PR function that month. Press conferences called to discuss TerraSave’s latest global and local community cleanup projects derail off topic once Claire Redfield opens the floor. It’s all about Raccoon City and the final hours before the fire. Did anyone else escape? Did you find help any children? Did you have to kill—? Claire stops answering questions after that.

She takes a vacation. Leon’s orders still stand, but they’re nothing more than a letterhead: a favor granted with the knowledge that he wouldn’t have left her side—authorized or not.

Despite the invitations, they don’t attend the ribbon cutting ceremony. Or agree to promote any of the sensationalized media plugs in the weeks following. Leon would’ve preferred to keep the tv off, but Claire insists they watch it beginning to end. Maybe she thought the anger would be easier to mute with a screen and several hundred miles of distance between.

It doesn’t. She watches the tv, he watches her, and for the first time in a long time he worries that ghosts have finally clawed their way in to make a home.

The program fades out on a sober but hopeful note that carries on as the shot pans into a cloudless sky and one lasting message: We survive. We remember. We endure. Remote in hand, Leon sends a picture of the American flag collapsing in on itself, and his chest pangs with the dread that she might end up doing the same.

Wordlessly, Claire unfolds from the couch and slips into the other room. Her silhouette spills across the floor when the bathroom light flicks on, and as the door closes, the light wanes into a needle-thin sliver. Then even that piece of her is gone.

Five minutes pass. He checks his watch. Ten. Pushing a hand through his hair, Leon stands and paces to the kitchen twice and checks his watch again. He paces. Spins on his heel. He paces right up to the closed bathroom door, lifts a knuckle, and raps gently upon the wood.

“Claire?”

“Leon.”

He lets himself in. Thick, warm air fills his mouth as he takes in a deep breath and glances about the room. Nothing looks out of the ordinary for a woman taking a bubble bath. He worried, God, but he worried—and that’s something he doesn’t apologize for. Even if he does feel like an idiot. “I thought you were…”

“Making a break for it out the back window?” Claire smiles without teeth, and she tips her head back onto the water-speckled tile. Her hair, though damp and dark at the ends, sits in a messy knot at the top of her head. One stray piece falls loose along her collarbone. “No. I haven’t done that since I was fifteen.”

Leon shakes his head and strides farther into the room. He tries again. “I thought you’d—”

“Drowned in the tub?” Claire hums, thoughtful. When she inhales in preparation for a long, cathartic sigh, the bubbles froth and hiss around her bare shoulders. “Sometimes I think that might be easier. I’m doing what I can to keep my head above…everything.”

Leon nods. He turns, sinks down to press his back up against the cool porcelain, and balances both arms on either knee. A splash and a trickle of wet heat spreads down the back of his shirt before Claire’s fingers curl into his hair. He turns into the touch—and freezes when her mouth brushes against his jaw.

The idea of Claire floundering as she sinks into a place he can’t reach twists something ugly in his belly. It grabs and twists so hard that his dinner lurches and burns on its way up and gets stuck at the back of his throat. “You aren’t alone here.”

“No,” she agrees, moving to settle her chin against his shoulder. “It’s just you, me, and all the demons we forgot to burn.”

three.

Real survival stories don’t nicely wrap up with ribbons and foiled edges trimmed in sunrise gold, and the people in them don’t walk into the horizon so much as into a space free of the darkness where monsters liked to hide.

There’s always something to wear by the end of it: a smile for the picture, a medal for the commendation, a splint or two for the fractured bones. He never remembers how he gets there—only that the smile is the always first of those things to go.

Smiles insinuate there’s something to celebrate; and living when others have died in his place never gave him much cause to pop the champagne. But guilt? Relief? One feels like being drawn and quartered, and the other like the release after waking up from that god-awful fucking dream, only to realize—no, no, it wasn’t. None of it was.

It feels like being frayed at every seam and that smile is the last thing that needs stitching. At least the pieces that are left aren’t not sloughing off so badly that it’ll take a well-placed warhead to fix.

For the first time in ten years, they drive to Raccoon City, and it feels like everything’s come leading up to this return—this inevitability. Only it doesn’t feel like they’re coming home; it feels like they’re walking back into the graveyard they’d crawled out of. If it wasn’t for the chain-link fence and the quarantine wall rising up behind that, maybe the city would’ve opened a hundred thousand pairs of fire-glassed eyes, gnashed a hundred thousand sets of teeth, and finally succeeded in swallowing them both whole.

He parks his Jeep a few dozen yards from the memorial site. Kills the gas with a sharp turn of his wrist. Beside him, Claire releases a shaky breath.

In the distance, a rainbow of sun-faded ribbons snaps and waves along the chain-link fence. The flowers planted there have already wilted and died in a cracked plot; nothing grows around the edges anymore.

He wants to blast the whole granite slab from its base and tear it out of existence. He wants to smother this shining fucking beacon of hope—and the government’s greatest theatrical excuse for an apology along with it. He wants to crush each and every fucking one of those ribbons under his shoes and cut his hands on that rusted chain-link fence. That’s what the city wanted, right? Blood? Maybe then the ground would drink. Maybe then it’d take its fill and finally leave him—and Claire—alone.

“We’re here.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to get out?”

“No.”

Slender fingers slide across his hand, and it’s only then that he realizes it’s been closed into a fist this entire time. He lets go. Color bleeds back into his knuckles, and feeling too, and then his seams are torn, ripped open. His eyes are burning—he’s blind, all but for the warm splash of red that turns him bodily and rises up to shoulder his brow.

I’m sorry, he says, I’m sorry.

Claire thanks him for the apology. She combs her fingers through his hair and presses her lips to his crown, and when she hums a soft, mindless tune, it reverberates behind his ribcage like she’s found all his cracks and poured herself between them. When he quiets, gradual and sputtering like the last dregs of a heavy storm, Leon wraps his arms around her, tightening his grip in a hungry, silent squeeze.

Monsters aren’t the only ones who refuse to let him go.

four.

Two objects can only gravitate closer and closer so many times before collision becomes the inevitable result. Leon counts his lucky stars for a well-recorded history of crashing into things, and for a while he believes it’s his experience in avoiding the pitfalls that keeps their relationship from steering off course.

By the time Claire careens into him, welcome and without warning, Leon quickly realizes she’s been the one at the wheel from the start.

Uninterrupted furloughs are so rare that when opportunity presents itself, it takes everything in his power not to board up the windows, uncork a bottle, and unplug the phone. The only variable stopping him from doing just that is respect to his councilor to get out there, get busy, get lost anywhere else but his own idle headspace. But when Claire visits? When Claire visits, having a quiet, uneventful evening is the best thing he could hope for.

Hope never feels more within reach than when he’s with her, and reach he does—mindlessly and often. When Claire curls up beside him on the couch, Leon frames his palm around the nape of her neck and works his fingers into the tenseness he finds. It bleeds out of her posture like ink across water, quietly bubbles up from her mouth in what he dares to call a sigh of pleasure.

His mouth quirks up at one corner. “You need a massage.” Before she has a chance to point out the technicality, Leon adds, “A real one. From a professional.”

She reaches up to pinch his chin between thumb and forefinger, and Claire gives him a little shake. “And you need more than one good of sleep. You’re starting to get eye bags.”

“We could just call it a night right now.”

She hums an insinuating note that twists up in question, and the sound draws his attention like the slide of a fingertip across his jaw. In the cool light spilling out from the tv, Leon fixes his gaze on her expression. Somewhere quiet, nestled between his breath and the allowance of a shrug, he hears himself say, “You make it easier.”

Claire softens. Her mouth sets into the thoughtful, stubborn line he’s seen a million times before, but then she leans close—really close. Her breath warms his mouth, her lips are soft, and where her palm slides up against his chest, it feels like he’s taken a nosedive off a cliff and made a break for water. Except there is no water at the bottom; she keeps kissing him and he keeps falling, and it’s getting more goddamn difficult by the minute not to drag her over the edge with him.

When she pushes up and mounts his lap, Leon hisses in a breath between clenched teeth. He’s excited and they both can feel it, and fuck, he can’t decide if the worst thing to do right now would be to stop her or let her continue.

“Claire—”

“I’m here,” she says. “Aren’t you?”

He wonders if this is what feels like, coming alive a second time. His arms wind around her waist, and it’s all he can do not to tangle her hair between his fingers and tighten them into a fist. Claire rolls her weight down into him. Again. A firebomb goes off in his chest. Flames spread, licking up and over his eyes, in his mouth, across his tongue.

I’m here, she told him. No. She isn’t—she’s not just here. She’s above him, on top of him, in his lungs every time he comes up for air. She’s shaking in his hands and arching against his chest, and her gasp shudders in his ears more than even his own pulse. She says his name to warn of the head-on collision, and when he doesn’t get out of the way, Claire shatters—

Everywhere.

five.

Physics demands that objects at rest remain at rest unless acted upon by an unbalanced, outside force. Given who they are: one rescuer, one fighter—two survivors trying to do more than just exist again? Leon suspects none of this ever will truly stop. Not until they do.

He’s never liked the big cities; they serve too great a reminder that there are innocent people waiting to be trapped like rats in a goddamn science experiment—that there are too many variables and too many wild cards for one man to account for twice. But when he’s with Claire? When he’s with Claire, her smile lights up like a clear horizon free of nooks and crannies.

When he’s with Claire, those skyscrapers look less like rows of jagged teeth and more like the fingers of an outstretched hand.

She takes him to a cafe that’s got a good view of the cityscape before it wakes up. Claire corrects him on that note, reminds him around a mug of tea that New York never truly sleeps—in fact, it’s almost as restless as he is.

Restless. A good word for a man who never stops moving long enough to enjoy a coffee on the government’s watch. His phone rings. Right on time.

Claire turns her face toward the window and smiles into the sun, and something about that expression feels like surrender, like acceptance. Leon’s chest pangs. She never did like the finality of goodbye, and so they never say it, content to substitute it with temporary noncommittals. Call me later. Don’t be a stranger.

“Gotta go,” he says. Leon dips his head into the unfolded frame of his sunglasses, chair scraping as he gets to his feet. Claire doesn’t rise to meet him. He doesn’t mind.

Her mouth is warm where he presses a kiss to the corner of it, and Claire’s exhale quakes at the touch. She won’t cry. He doesn’t either. Tears are for the couch and for the car—you don’t pour them over coffee when it’s there’s already one bitter taste on your tongue.

“Try not to get killed.”

“You, too.”

#sls60 #cleon #tw ptsd #tw drowning #tw death #tw riots #tw body horror #nsfw.#One week. This took me. A whole week. To write.#sls-60 #drabble.

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boogiewrites · 6 years

Text

Choking On Sapphires 42

Title & Song: Dreams

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Word Count: 5400+

Summary: Genevieve has another dream and realizes her feelings for Alfie and sees trouble on the horizon. She seeks out advice from the person she trusts the most. She receives bad news, but makes the best of it.

Warnings/Tags: Language. Angst. Fluff. Explicit Sexual Content.

**Chapter song is Dreams by The Cranberries.**

Positive feedback is MUCH appreciated! Reblogs, likes, asks and comments feed me to write more! Let me know if you’d like tagged in my work.

My Masterlist. (Includes Parts 1-41)

You awake to the warm hands of Alfie on your clammy, sweat covered skin. He'd slept in your bed again after the usual Friday night of habit of sleeping together, which you welcomed now. And after waking up from a dream like the one you just had, you found yourself especially thankful he was there.

"Shhh, luv, it's just a dream innit?" you hear his voice soft and deep as his hand pushes back your hair, an open palm on your stomach, as your chest started to ease in it's heaving. But it wasn't always "just" dreams with you, was it? He forgets it was your dreams like this that are the reason he's still alive. Although this one was far easier to interpret than the previous ones you'd had about him.

You were standing on a beach. It was cold and you could feel the salty sea wind biting at your bare skin, feeling vulnerable and raw. You see your mother, your brothers, and sisters by the water together. Your heart leaps at the sight, as you hadn't seen them in so long and you start to move forward. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Alfie walking beside you, it was a lovely scene. You were excited to have him meet your family, you felt warmer as soon as you noticed him. But then appeared your father. He was like a great wall, a force that pummeled icy air upon you, separating you from your family. You want to scream and yell and attack, but you can't. He's in your face, teeth gnashing and spit hitting your skin. You feel small, frightened just like you had when you left home and you start to cry. He hits you across your face, followed by shoves and grabbing your hair and shoving you to the ground. Just like he had the night you left home. He shakes you and hits you against the wall he'd created with his appearance, separating you from Alfie. You look to the confused man and try to run towards him, the only thing besides your father with his hand around your throat that you can see, your head being knocked back against a hard surface. You call out for him and reach and fight and grasp at nothing but he's just out of reach. Your father turns, seeing that he's there and starts to pull you away by the waist. You can't get out of his grasp. Your fathers screaming at Alfie, throwing threats and telling him how you aren't worth the trouble, you're just a broken little girl who lives under his rule and he can't be with you. His insults then turn to Alfie himself and you fight back. You fight with all you have, but he keeps pulling you away from him. You think you might have hurt him enough to free yourself, feeling your body falling, and that's when Alfie's presence in real life snaps you out of the dream.

So you're gasping on your back, wide-eyed, face wet with sweat and tears. You hold your hands up to see them, they're shaking and Alfie takes them in his.

"C'mere, sweetheart," he whispers, pulling you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you as you come down from the trembling mess of a girl the dream had turned you into. He shushes you, face buried in your hair at the top of your head. You put your hands on his chest and feel his warmth, his heartbeat and you try not to cry. You're angry at yourself for the dream, for letting your father have this effect on you and your life. "I've got you, Gen, hush now, luv, nothin' gonna get ya while ya, while I'm here, is it?" he says in a warm, smooth voice that washes over you like a heavy blanket. You found yourself believing his comforting words. You move your arms around him, pressing your face against his chest, fingertips gripping into his back as you hold onto him like an anchor to reality. He continues shushing and cooing at you, kissing the top of your head as you settle, and eventually, you do. He asks no questions and demands nothing, just strokes your hair and bare skin lovingly until the both of you fall back asleep. ---------------- Alfie had gone out to the city, only after you gave him the go-ahead to do so after the state you'd woken up in. He said if you were too shaken he'd be happy to stay, it was only a few things that he had to do that'd help the workload of the next week move smoother.

His willingness to stay if you needed him and his reaction to the vulnerability you'd unwillingly shown make your chest ache. But not in the sorrowful way that you were used to. You watch his car leave down the drive, chewing your thumbnail in thought. This had gone beyond your original intention, hadn't it?

"Fuck." you swear out loud to only yourself in your bedroom, shaking your head. "You silly, silly girl. What have you done?"

You sit in the comfiest chair in your room by the fire, the autumn air starting to chill you even in the daytime. You pull your thick dressing gown around you and settle in, placing a phone call. There had only ever been one man previously in your life that you'd always trusted and you knew loved you and would never do you any harm. That was your uncle Altar. And seeing as you've found yourself in dire need of good advice, you call your favorite man in the world, the only man that had ever been a father to you.

"Surely the operator is lying, no way my little Lily is calling me out of nowhere?" you can picture his big grin under his beard, brown eyes so similar to yours shining with amusement as he spoke.

"She was not lying it's me." you say softly.

"Oh my favorite niece, it is a beautiful sound to hear you speak again my dear." he coos.

"And the most comforting to hear yours, uncle." you reply in earnest.

"What do I owe this pleasure my sweet princess?" he asks, getting to the point, just like he always had.

"I hate to admit that what I'm calling for is both, for you, seemingly good and bad news."

"Oh, Genevieve, my darling, what's happened? Are you alright?"

"That's debatable." you say with a bit of humor to your voice and you hear his warm laughter that makes you smile.

"Out with it, c'mon, who knows how long I've got on this earth, tell me before it's too late." he jokes.

"I find myself in need of some advice."

"And you've come to me? Oh, bless you, child, I'll talk the ears off your head, please go on."

"You're not going to believe this...I hardly believe it myself." you sigh.

"When it comes to you absolutely nothing could surprise me." he teases, it makes you smile. You missed him so.

"I've met someone."

"And I stand corrected." his voice goes higher pitched in surprise.

"And it's a man."

"Well fuck me, Lilly you've gone and got me all excited. Who is this demi-God, for he must be to have captured a demon's attention like yourself." his voice holds nothing but affection for you.

"I'm afraid it's more than a bit complicated. I'm not sure how to move forward, or if I even should...with my feelings for him I mean."

"If it's love how can it be that complicated?" he says supportively.

"I am very fond of the man but don't get ahead of yourself." you chuckle.

"No such words have been spoken. We're not even a couple really. I started sleeping with him out of convenience as he was a handsome friend and my idiot self has gone and started to go all doe-eyed and crave him romanticly and not just physically." your voice is grumpy now.

"Better to be friends first anyway. Don't be like me and jump into marriages over a great pair of tits and some tricks in the bedroom." you both laugh.

"I did learn that lesson from you." you chuckle, "Too bad you can't learn it yourself." you joke. "Although his tits and tricks are rather nice." you giggle.

"Oh don't try to change the subject dear, please, tell me who this man is so I may give this advice you seek."

You take a deep breath. "His name is Alfie Solomons. He's the leader of the Jewish Gangs in London." you feel your heart beat in the pause that follows.

"Fuck me girl, that is complicated isn't it?" his voice is still light. "Don't get me wrong, I'm elated at the news myself. You know I have no issue with that."

"I know you don't."

"In fact I prefer it." he chuckles. "A tough man that can provide and protect you." you can practically feel his chest puff up with pride over the phone. "Not that you require that darling."

"I know."

"So you have gone and gotten into the underbelly of London I see." his voice more judgey this time.

"I have." your voice flat.

"You said you weren't." his voice is still full of tease, he knew you too well.

"I know." you admit sheepishly.

"I knew you would, my child it is in your blood." he says proudly.

"Don't tell mum, please." your voice pleading slightly.

"I wouldn't! Wait, bought the crime or the man?" he laughs.

"Fucking both." he laughs again and you smile with it this time. You let out a heavy sigh into the receiver. He breaks the silence.

"Does your father know?" he asks, voice more serious.

"I've not been contacted but I've heard rumors he has. He wouldn't know of my feelings for the man, just the working together." you softly explain.

"Well that's a bit of good luck." he offers.

"If that's what you want to call it." you roll your eyes.

"Are you worried about him?" his tone more concerned.

"I'm afraid I was conditioned to be." you weakly admit.

"You've gotten rid of a lot of the things you were conditioned to be, dear." he says supportively.

"He's the hardest to shake yet." The dream come back into your mind and you feel the sting of tears. "What if he comes for me? Or what if he comes for Alfie? What if he tries to take away everything?" he can hear the choking in your throat from holding back tears.

"You've not been on his money for years, my sweet." trying to build up your confidence.

"I know but what if he tries. I've worked so hard." you rasp out, hand covering your mouth, eyes shutting as you begin to cry.

"I know that better than most anyone, love." his voice is so sweet and caring, exactly what you'd needed and hoped to hear. "Is this Solomons worth the risk?" his voice prys, and you let it.

You pause, sighing and looking into the fire as you wipe away a stray tear. "I don't know." he hears you sniffle and realizes this is quite serious for you. But otherwise, you wouldn't have called him about it if it hadn't been. "I've just..." you take a shaky inhale. "I've never met a man who would be and here I am...risking punishment from my bastard father over one who could be. Exactly where I said I'd never be. Afraid of my father and afraid of my feelings and-" he can tell you're getting worked up and cuts you off.

"Hiding." he interrupts, his voice sterner, but he knew that's what you needed.

He hears your sob despite how you move your face away from the phone.

"I've always told you, you can do anything, my little Lilly. I have always believed that. As soon as I held you in my arms, I knew you were different. I don't mean to come at you so hard dear, you know I hate to upset you... but don't you see the root of all that trouble?" his voice is more desperate, wishing he could hold his darling niece in his arms and comfort her like he used to.

"Me?" you say weakly, it hurts him deep in his soul that that was the answer you gave.

"No! No, no, absolutely not, cheri. Try again." his voice kind and warm again.

Alfie certainly wasn't the problem, just the side effect. So was it men? Were you truly weak to men? Also no. Then your father. "Father." you whisper out.

"You have always been smart my child. You do not need him to approve of you."

"I know that."

"Do you? Because you're still denying what you are and when you came to me that summer after you left home...."

"I remember."

"You said you'd never let another man tell you what you could or couldn't be. And what does he still do?"

Your anger surpasses your sadness with his words. He was right, but of course, he was.

"He did it to your mother. He's done it to your brothers and sisters. You are not like them. You know where your soul lies. You didn't have it trained out of you, domesticated like some beast. That's not you, is it Lilly?" he asks, voice harsh.

"No." your voice matches his and he is so pleased to hear the fire burning in you again.

"Then what do you have to do?" his tone is slightly condescending but warranted.

"Not hide anymore." the fire in the fireplace reflects in your eyes, burning down into your chest and possibly down into your very soul.

"That's my girl." he cheers. ------- You're in your office, chewing your lip at the ledger for Abeille. You hear a knock on the door.

"Come in." you say passively.

Claire says, holding one single letter in her hands. You can tell by her body language that something's wrong. "This came for you." she say softly, laying the letter in front of you on the desk. You shut the book and move your face to see what she's sat down.

"Fuck." you rasp out, hesitantly picking it up and rising from your chair. "I suppose this was inevitable." you say weakly, a groan to your voice as you move around your desk to the fireplace to get a good look at it. It was from the address of your father's office.

"I've been on edge waiting for it honestly. Or a phone call or God forbid he show up here." she shudders at the thoughts.

"I've been worried as well." you let out a heavy sigh. "Let's see what threats the jellyfish bastard has for me then." you roll your eyes and open the envelope. "From the secretary-" you scoff loudly. "Not even signed from him." you shake your head."Couldn't be arsed to write a letter to his daughter...fucks' sake." you clear your throat. " From the secretary of George Greene III..." you scan over the letter. "Your father has asked me to write to you to express his distaste for the news of you working with the Jewish gangs that he's received from London. He would like to remind you of the family's agreement and orders that you cut off your ties with them. In his mercy, he is willing to forgive this oversight in your judgment. If you do not cease and follow his demands, he will be forced to take further action against you." You swing your head to Claire, a deeply annoyed look on your face.

"Sounds about right." she says with a stiff face and angry eyes.

"I don't know about you Claire...but I'm about fucking tired of his bullshit." you say with vigor.

Claire smirks, happy to see some fire in your eyes. She hated your father almost as much as you did. "You know I prefer to not live in anyone's shadow. Especially those I do not respect." she gives a single controlled head nod.

"I fucking hate him." you say with absolute certainty. You roll your eyes and let out a heavy sigh, "I spoke with Altar..." you begin.

Claire grins, she loved your Uncle. "This should be good." she smirks.

"Oh it is!" you give her a bright smile. "After giving me a much needed talking to about who I am now, and where I've come from. How I don't live on his money and I rule without hate, unlike him, I believe it might be time to give 'ol daddy the big, fuck you that I've longed to my entire life."

"Oh." her eyes wide, not expecting this."Really? And he supports this?"

"You know he hates him more than anyone." you speak with passion. "Perhaps it's time to expose George for what he really is." your eyes narrow. You give a single strong nod, balling up the letter and throwing it into the fire.

"Never thought I'd see the day but I can't tell you how equally happy and fearful I am." she offers with an unsure smile.

"Me too Claire." you move to her and place your hand on her shoulder.

"But isn't it time we got out of that monsters shadow? He doesn't deserve the sunlight on his skin, we deserve it on ours instead." you speak with certainty, back straight and eyes bright.

"I"m with you no matter what Genevieve." she puts her hand on top of yours.

"And to celebrate a small victory, to indulge in a bit of childish rebellion, I'm going to go and fuck the leader of the Jewish gangs in London." you say with a warm laugh.

"I can't even argue with it at this point." she grins. "The man's growing on me, I'll admit."

"He's growing on me as well." you say with a coy smile, a mischieveous smile on your face as you both look at each other.

"Don't think I haven't noticed." she says with a tilt of her head.

"Can't hide anything from you, can I Claire bear?" you lilt out, looking at her over your shoulder before crossing into the hallway.

"I know you better than you know yourself, Genevieve. Go have your fun." she smiles and waves her hand for you to go on.

She never thought letting Alfie into the house would end well. She never thought that he would bring on what she'd always wanted for you. Peace of mind. She knew that cutting the cord to your father, letting go of that hate for him and the hate he'd put of yourself into you, that even if it all crashed and burned that the weight off yours, hers and Aggie's hearts might just be worth the trouble. ----- "Alfie!" you lilt out, a devilish smile on your lips, and an exaggerated sway to your hips as you enter the study to find him seated on the couch.

"What is it Genny?" his eyes raise from the papers in his hands, head still facing downward.

"You've been working all day and night, darling." you say with a pout that makes his eyes narrow.

"That's because I got a lot to fuckin' do, luv." his faces raises, a small smirk on his face.

You stand over him, one hand in your hair, twisting a curl around your finger, the other reaching out to run through his hair. "Why don't you take a break, handsome?"

The touch is welcome but he hesitates, he really did have a lot to do. "Eh..." his mouth opens in a gruff stutter, shoulder shrugging slightly. "Didn't want to lose me focus."

You sit next to him, one leg bent up on the seat, torso facing him. "You're stressed, sweetheart."

"Of fuckin' course I am I got all these fuckin' leeches tryin' to bleed me fuckin' dry 'n that's not even the worst of it, I-" he begins, he sees your eyes narrow at him from under your thick lashes and he knows to stop his complaints. "Right." he groans out, eyes narrowing back at you mouth hanging open for a moment. He huffs noisily out of his nostrils and sets the papers down on the table in front of him. "Get that fuckin' look off ya face." he says as if he's angry with you, but you know it to be false. The sly smile you give him makes him more certain of the decision not to run you off. "'Ello luv." he says, resting a hand on your knee. "How are you this evenin'." his lips pout at the delivery of the words, his body and attention now on you.

"Wet, Alfie." your eyes grow dark, your teeth grazing over your plush bottom lip as you say his name.

A low groan comes from his throat, eyes now looking you up and down.

"I wanted to help you clear your mind..." you say sweetly but it's entirely a front as your fingers walk their way up this thigh. "And your balls." your eyes swing up to his, your tongue peaks out your grinning lips at him.

"I wunnit lyin' 'bout bein' busy." he says, almost as a warning, chin pushing into his chest.

"Then I'll just have to be quick about it, won't I?" you whisper against his lips. You ignore his tone and move to push his back against the sofa with your hands on his shoulders. You continue speaking as you lower yourself to your knees in front of him, between his legs. "I find myself craving you very specifically and strongly tonight, Solomons." you say as your fingers work to undo his belt and buttons to get to the twitching length of him. "And I'm not going to take no for an answer when I really....really want something... am I?" you quirk a brow up at him, a wicked smile on your recently licked lips.

"No you are not, pet." he groans out, his hands resting at his sides, just soaking up the attention and the need he saw in your eyes.

You take him out of his pants, not all the way hard yet and you purr at the opportunity. You take him into your mouth with no verbal response back as you hear the hiss escape his lips. You press your nose into his stomach, tongue swirling and lips sucking away at him, feeling him grow hard in your mouth. One of your favorite things, and something you rarely got to indulge in with him. You moan around him, you feel a groan grow as you run one of your hands up under his shirt to drag down his broad chest, the other around his back to firmly grasp at his bum.

Once he's back to his usual diamond level hardness, you slide him out of your mouth, saliva still connecting your lips to his tip as you pull away, wrapping a hand around him to work him as you spoke. "Feeling you get hard in my mouth like that gets me so wet, Fie." your eyes burn into his, tongue out of your mouth and lapping at him in an exaggerated way, cycling from licks to indulgent sucks of his now red tip.

His sexy half smile, a huff of laugh that moves his chest at your words makes you moan around his head again. "You like 'at do ya?" his confident and cocky tone back to where you desired it.

"I love it." you say, your mouth never leaving his cock.

"Fuck Gen." he rasps out as you work him with your hand and your mouth simultaneously. "If it's a ride you're wantin' you better hurry the fuck up before the train leaves the fuckin' station." he laughs, hand moving to hold back your hair.

You give him a big charming smile as you let him pop out of your mouth. "Wouldn't want to miss that now would I?" you whisper against his lips, leaning over him, quickly removing your silk underwear, hitching up your skirt and straddling his legs.

His hands grab at your thighs, smacking their sides at the sight of your stocking and garters, pinching the soft flesh just so in the most appealing way. HIs nostrils and brow twitch watching you reach down to rub yourself for a few breaths time, his hands now firm on your arse and kneading away. You lean forward to kiss him, a firm slap to your arse in response as your tongues mingle among your crashing lips. You raise up your hips, and being the gentleman he is, he holds himself so you can lower onto him. You rise up away from his face, hand yanking down the neckline of your dress, exposing your breasts and his hands move quickly towards your heaving chest, and just like a baker he gets his strong, ringed hands kneading on you again.

"Oh, fuck Alfie." you whimper as you take him into you completely, now resting hip to hip against him. You waste no time as promised, running your hands up his chest. Your back arched to kiss him as you rest one hand on the back of the couch, gripping the hard wooden trim for support, the other, sliding up his neck, fingers nesting in his beard as you feverishly kiss him.

You move slowly at first, drinking in his moans as a hand moves under your skirt to hold you by the hip, guiding you along. You set a steady pace, the heavy thud against him gives the pressure you crave, feeling the pleasure building now, you break the kiss and rise up, placing your hands on his shoulders, moving up and down at a steadily increasing rate, your breathing matched in passionate panting as you look into each other's eyes. The first moan from you breaks the eye contact, your head falling back as you move to grind back and forth against him.

"Ah, that's it now, luv." he groans out, one hand still on your hip tightly encouraging the movement from you as he knew it'd bring you closer sooner, watching your hips drag and swivel, he licks his lips at the feeling, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You take his other hand, placing it on your hips as well, drawing his attention back to your undulating body on top of his.

"Hold me tighter," you command with a gentle nod of your chin. He obeys and his white-knuckled fingers squeeze, pushing you down harder onto him as you whimper out with growing need. "That's it, good boy." your eyes shut but the wicked smile remains. "You feel too fucking good I'm getting close." he knows this position can finish you off quickly but your slower paced approach surprises him once again. "Keep hold of me." you whisper, leaning up, hands on the back of the couch as you rise and fall with a pounding force on him, still slow, steady steps to get to your destination together. Your chest now directly in his face, your tits knock about on his cheeks and he snakes his head around to suck one nipple into his mouth, causing your mouth to drop open and your chest to bounce as you let out a small, helpless sound gasp. He moans as the pace grows quicker, both hands still held onto your hips, slamming himself up into you as you crashed down against him, a moan knocked out of you each time with your deep breaths.

His lapping tongue is distracting, panting and roaming against the hard nub, taking it between his teeth and nibbling with taunting pressure the louder your sounds together became. You can feel the throbbing grow more intense, him moving inside you just so with the direction of your swiveling hips, "How do feel so fucking good inside me, Alfie?" you whine, your whole back now twisting as you gave over to the feeling.

"It's these fucking serpentine hips of yours you wicked thing." he huffs out, hand reaching up to pull your lips to his, he needed you. He needed your breath mingling with his as he bites and sucked away at your mouth that cried out for him. His other hand disobeys orders, reach up to grasp your breast tightly, thumb and index fingers pinching and rolling your nipple. He plants his feet firmly on he ground and bucks up into you hard, making you loudly cry out his name. He responds with a growl. "Fuckin'g take it Gen. You know how much I love making you come all over this cock." he huffs out in an intoxicatingly dominate voice.

"Oui." you whine out against his lips, resting your bobbing forehead against his when you had to catch your breath. Your eyes are tightly shut. "Fuck." your chest stutters as you let out the prolonged cry for him. His teeth hold your bottom lip with a pinch. "You're going to make this little cunt come for you, Alfie." moan out helplessly, your body being pumped into fiercely underneath with the full power of hips. You couldn't have stopped yourself if you'd wanted to. Your ears ring and your hands tremble against his shoulders, a high pitched, sharp gasp of breath is the only sound that leaves you as you give him what he asked for with open, trembling lips.

Once the tremors have mostly passed, you can open your eyes, another sharp gasp of breath against him. His teeth now gnashed together, his jaw tight, heavy, masculine grunts and growls fill the space between your bodies as his hands move to your hips to hold you and fuck up into you to finish himself off. You tighten yourself around him, your head swinging to the side, mouth and tongue moving fast against his neck and up to his ears and back again, moaning into his thick beard and pouring dirtyy words into his ear to finish him off. "Come for me, 'Fie. I want you to fill up this little cunny you magnificent beast. I'm absolutely soaked from that thick cock of yours. Make it even wetter for me, would you? Make a fucking mess of me, darling." you hiss and rasp into his ear, your tongue working its' way into its grooves and panting as you wrap your arms around his neck to hold him close. He lets out a loud and guttural moan, a hand slapping your arse hard. "That's it," you say in a condescending tone, your hips pounding back into his. "This tight little cunt's going to make this cock mine, do you understand?" you growl, hand tugging at the hair at the back of his neck. "You're going to fucking come because it's what I want. And you'll give me anything I want won't you Solomons?" your voice is dark and directly antagonizing and his eyes roll back in his head. Fuck he loved your filthy mouth.

"Fuck!" he growls, eyes meeting yours as your lick the sweat from the side of his face. "Anything." he helplessly moans out into your smirking mouth.

"Then fucking come for me, Alfie." you growl, biting down onto his thick bottom lip. You know the strangled sound that squeaks out of his throat, how his fingers press into you, nails breaking the skin that he's giving you what you want in that moment. Holding himself inside you, before finishing off with a final few hard thrusts to finish the job.

As his soul falls back into his body, his eyes focus, hand moving to the back of your head, pushing you against his mouth, a deep and passionate kiss builds, despite your hips powering down. As you move to a slow and wet pace, lips smacking together, broken with smiles and happy hums between the two of you, you lean to kiss the tip of his nose.

"That's a good boy now, hmm?" your smile isn't condescending like the words would suggest. Your fingers wipe the sweat from his forehead gently, smoothing his hair back and gazing down at him.

The look in your eyes doesn't go missed by him, in combination with the warm smile and the soft tone you praised him with, he basks in the heavenly sight of you looking down on him adoringly. That's what it was, wasn't it? A sparkle that hadn't been there the last time he looked. What had he done to deserve a woman like you looking at him like that? He didn't know, but he didn't want you to look at him any other way again.

Pt 43 Daddy Issues

@fangirlfreakingout @jaegeeeeer @cosettewinchester @lookuptheskyisfalling-blog @brianaisasongbird @cry5t4l-w4rri0r @iliveonchocolateandnetflix @jess2464 @hardygal69 @thegarrisonpublichouse @a-flock-of-angry-pigeons @pootle @negansdirtygirl22 @musingsby-night @wtf-is-wrong-with-this @shine-dont-shadow @inkinterrupted @vale0413 @lafayettes-baguettes-1 @sxlomons @aphnxrising @emerald-bijou

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raendown · 6 years

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And that’s all of them! @eruditeempress was the third place winner of my 1500 Followers Giveaway and this was her request! Big shout out to @mallml for offering me a bit of inspiration! ^^

Pairing: KakashiSakura Word count: 4670 Rating: T+ Summary: He hates and hates and hates until he loves her, slowly and in small pieces.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

Crowns Of Blood And Bone

She doesn’t like him, that much is obvious. Kakashi eyes the young woman from across the room without bothering to try and hide it. There is little point when she is staring straight back at him with a completely blank expression which somehow conveys the world of pain she quite clearly wishes to rain down upon him. He isn’t exactly offended though; the feeling is entirely mutual.

Knowing that his new teammate has been rescued from ROOT makes less impact when he knows her ‘rescue’ hadn’t been entirely voluntary. Shutting down Danzo’s organization was possibly the smartest decision the Sandaime had ever made, one which Kakashi hadn’t truly believed the man was strong enough to go through with, but it has also left numerous messes to deal with in the aftermath. Among those messes are the human shadows who have been raised from infancy in their shadowy organization and never known another life. Some of them are coping well. Others, like Sakura, are not.

Now Kakashi is stuck with an extra member on his team and tasked with integrating her back in to regular society as best as he can. He would question the decision to put him, of all people, in charge of someone else’s mental health if he weren’t aware that every team now has at least one or two of these strange new additions to deal with. It’s only been a couple of weeks but Sakura is proving to be incredibly competent in solo combat, though wildly incompetent in several other areas. To be frank, she does play well with others.

It isn’t as though she questions his orders. Sakura has been raised her entire life to follow orders to the letter on pain of death and now that the Hokage himself has declared Kakashi her new minder she has yet to push back against any of his decisions. On the other hand she seems almost to search for ways to be deliberately difficult while still doing as she is asked. If he tells her to watch the target she will – but she will not report their movements, nor will she support her team if they fall under attack. She is used to fighting alone. Defending her teammates appears to be a foreign concept to her.

Sometimes Kakashi wonders who is the more broken, him or her. Is it better to drown in an overload of negative emotions or is it better to have none at all? He might ask her opinion if he thought she could properly comprehend the answer.

Obito’s eye feels too big inside his skull as Kakashi deliberately turns his attention away and pretends to ignore her. It won’t fool her but that isn’t the point.

Her mind is surprisingly sharp whenever she manages to actually open her mouth and say something. Kakashi despises it. The sound of her voice is soft and lilting, so completely at odds with her dead expression and brutal competency in a fight.

Even the way she exists rubbed at him the wrong way. She takes up so little physical space with her average height and slim physique and yet she fills every single room she walks in to. Kakashi feels her there without having to use any of his senses. He knows she is in a room before he’s even fully opened a door just by the chill that settles at the base of his spine and the way his jaw instinctively clenches, like the stench of her hatred can somehow reach his nose even before the deceptively floral scent of her hair.

Trying to think with the smell of soft flowers in his nose is becoming increasingly difficult lately.

“Another mission, kids,” he murmurs to the room at large, doing his best not to look directly at her; maybe for once he might be able to hold on to a good mood for a whole entire day. “Pack your things, we leave in an hour.”

While the rest of his team nods politely and turns back to their conversations, Sakura stands from where she has been perched in the corner and moves towards the door. He notices that she is staring directly at him as she walks and he holds his ground just to see if she will ask him to move. His answer comes in the petite shoulder that crashes in to his with the same amount of force a falling house might have.

“Out of my way…taichou.” The pause before her acknowledgement of his authority is what truly irks him and he hates that she already knows what buttons to press.

“You could try saying excuse me,” he says in a deliberately mild tone. When he peeks over his shoulder at her retreating form, she hasn’t even bothered to look back let alone respond to his useless statement. He hates that she knows that will bother him too.

His nose wrinkles under his mask and his teeth gnash together until Tenzou wanders up to pat him consolingly on the shoulder.

“I’m going to live to regret getting myself involved,” his friend mutters, “but if you want my opinion then I think you let her get under your skin a bit too easily. She’s a dick. Get over it. Lots of people are dicks, Kakashi, and one of those people is you.”

“Funny, I don’t remember asking for that opinion,” Kakashi growls but Tenzou only shrugs.

“Well you got it anyway.”

An orphan from infancy, Tenzou grew up in one of the state funded orphanages within Konoha, a member of the ANBU black ops since he turned four and it was discovered he possessed the mokuton through some latent Senju ancestry. He is Kakashi’s closest friend and the one person who isn’t afraid of setting his captain’s head on straight whenever Kakashi gets a big too big for his boots – or when he falls in to one of his maudlin depressions and starts moaning about the world hating him again.

Heading out the door to follow behind their newest teammate, Tenzou looks back at him with his already large eyes wide and falsely innocent. “Are you sure you don’t want to pull her pigtails and call her a stupid head?”

“We’re not children,” Kakashi protests. “Careful or I’ll stick you on second watch every night!”

Just like their other teammate, Tenzou doesn’t so much as grant him the dignity of a response. Kakashi grumbles under his breath about betrayal and mutiny as he goes after both of them.

Months pass, missions come and go, and the only constant in Kakashi’s life are the members of his team. Some days he spares a thought to wonder where Itachi is and whether or not he’s doing well. He stamps those thoughts out when he can, not wanting to spare time or energy for a boy who betrayed his own village.

When he isn’t thinking about wayward teammates or the people he’s lost along the path of life, Kakashi’s mind is occupied with Sakura, always Sakura. The pink of her hair is obnoxious the way it draws his eye in battle. He despises how many times now he has accidentally recorded her with his Sharingan rather than pay attention to his own opponent. When he lays in bed at night it takes but a single whim to bring up the smooth rotation of her shoulder as she rears back to punch out a man’s solar plexus, the barest quiver of her thigh muscles as she falls from fifteen feet in the air and lands with perfect balance, even the tiny shape of her fist when it cracks the earth open beneath her.

He isn’t sure why he replays these images again and again. When he’s angry he fancies that he’s studying her movements for possible weaknesses to exploit the day she finally tries to drag his teeth out one by one. Other times he finds himself filled with a strange curiosity and closes his eyes to watch the memories, memorizing them all over again until he finds some new detail he hasn’t bothered to pay attention to before.

That there is always something new about Sakura baffles him. How can there be anything new about her when she is plain and unchanging? Behind the mask of the bear her face never shows more expression that a blank disinterest. Outside of her uniform she dons training blacks, only ever inside headquarters at home. She eats her food slowly, one bite at a time, never adding sauce or garnish of any kind. It drives him up the wall. What he wouldn’t give to see her step out of the perfect mold she fits herself in to just one time, to break away from the expected and do something new.

So how it is that he continuously discovers new details about her? As she shatters a man’s kneecaps Kakashi notes that her toenails are all perfectly filed down to the same length. When she takes first watch and sits with her back to the rest of them he lets his eyes skim over the shape of the muscles in her shoulders, almost startled by how developed they are. Until now he’s thought most of her strength must be augmented by her chakra control and it is an oddly pleasant surprise to see that some of it is simply natural muscle. Why he cares is beyond him and he tears his eyes away before anyone else can note his unnecessary staring.

Five minutes later he tells himself just one more look.

It’s a lie.

When she finds him he is suffocating, no lungs to draw air and no heart to pump the blood through his veins. Or, that’s what it feels like at least. The nightmares always feel like this.

Upright on his futon, sheets twisted around his restless body, Kakashi stares with wild eyes at the figure crouched in his window. Sakura doesn’t look particularly interested to know why he sleeps in his kitchen rather than the perfectly serviceable bedroom just down the hall. He’s grateful she doesn’t ask him to explain himself but too distracted to note that it’s the first positive emotion he’s had towards her beyond a creepy amount of curiosity.

“Sandaime-sama wishes to see us both,” she tells him in her usual flat tone. What is unusual is the tilt of her head that takes in the sweat on his face, the rapid thundering of the pulse in his neck, the exposed whites of his eyes and the way he heaves for air like a man drowning.

“Okay,” he gasps. It’s probably the lack of any snarky comment that draws her attention.

“You are unwell. If you are unable to complete the mission–”

“No,” he cuts her off sharply. “I’m fine. I’m not ill.”

Hidden behind a mask as they are, he still feels her eyes boring in to him. “Emotional turmoil,” she notes clinically. “A good shinobi never allows their emotions to overwhelm them.”

“Yeah well a good human being feels them every one in a while so what’s that make you?”

“How hurtful.” The flat delivery of her words might be mistaken for sarcasm if he could bring himself to believe she is capable of such.

Still a bit shaken from the nightmare, Kakashi blurts out his words before his mind can catch up to who this is with him or how little she cares. “I was dreaming about Rin. Sometimes I can still feel the way her heartbeat felt against my wrist and I hate it. It was slippery and warm and I hate it.”

Completely motionless in the windowsill, Sakura observes him in silence until he catches his breath and lives to regret his hasty words.

“Never mind,” he mutters. The sheets rustle loudly in the silence until her words stop him.

“Blood does not wash off of human skin. We are all, each of us, stained from birth. Come. The Hokage awaits us. If you are not ill then you must do your duty.”

Moonlight catches the pink of her hair, like watered down bloody froth falling like silk around her head, and Kakashi can’t help but agree with her. All humans come in to the world covered in blood. It is a shinobi’s fate to never be clean again. He wonders how much blood she has bathed in to come out the other side with hair dyed pink and a heart with nothing left in it.

It isn’t until he has extracted himself from the blanket, dressed, and crept out in to the night that he gives any thought to how out of character it is for her offer such poetic sounding words, words with no practical purpose. Were it anyone else he might think she has tried to comfort him but that’s a silly thought, easily dismissed. She barely cares for her own life, has been trained not to care about those around her. The idea of her taking the time to offer him soothing words to help him calm down is a ridiculous one.

Still, the mission they are sent away on goes more smoothly than any other has before. Kakashi attributes it to their growing knowledge of each other’s style rather than any possibility that he might be getting attached.

Watching her take a life is like watching the shinobi equivalent of an intricate dance, a performance he could watch unending and never get bored. Her steps are sure, always perfectly placed, and her body is always where she needs it to be. Her fists make perfect arcs in the air while her back bows to make way for the blades sailing over her head. If only she were more expressive she would make the perfect candidate for undercover work posing as a graceful courtesan.

Even the small bits of other people that cling to her form only serve to make her more of an image captured in time, more than the monster she is, that they all are. Her black gloves are covered in blood, fragments of shattered rib dust through her hair, and there is what looks suspiciously like brain matter draped across the toe of her left boot. She looks like what he imagines a goddess of death might look like, eyes focused and intent without a hint of mercy for those she strikes down. Death, the equalizer of men, who comes for all without discrimination and takes without care for what gets left behind.

He memorizes her for perhaps the hundredth time and then turns back to the woman trying to remove his spleen with a broken naginata, fingers open and bleeding where they grip the blade but fighting onwards despite the pain she must be feeling. If she weren’t his enemy he thinks he might feel sympathy but instead all he feels is her flesh against his own when he slides his hand through her chest, guided by lightning until the ending of her life beats frantically against his wrist as so many others have before.

When it’s over he pushes her corpse away from himself and watches it slump to the ground. Sakura watches him; he can see her from the corner of his still active Sharingan. There’s a tilt to her head that he cannot decipher and the mask she never bothered to unclip from her belt stares at him too with its hollow eyes.

At first he thinks she means to simply stare at him until he moves again but then she speaks and he realizes that his hands are shaking.

“You do not like to use that jutsu,” she states, an observation rather than a question yet he answers just the same.

“No. I don’t.”

“You use it anyway.”

“It’s efficient.”

“Ah.” Her head returns to an upright position and nods once. “That I can understand.”

Kakashi looks from his hands to her, brows pulling together and glad for the double masks that hide the bewilderment plain in his expression. “You were trying to understand me?” he asks incredulously. Her expression does not change but there is something about the way her lids fall half closed, not quite the same narrowed eyed look she gives in irritation but not quite deep thought either.

Confusion, he thinks, and marvels at the novelty of it.

“Is that not what teammates are expected to do – understand one another?”

“Oh, are we teammates now?” Kakashi huffs. The familiarity of their snarky interactions is a comfort. “And here I thought the rest of us were just the nameless canon fodder you had been burdened with by his Hokage-ness.”

“All shinobi all nameless canon fodder,” she replies flatly.

Then she shakes then blood off her gloves and turns to leave while Kakashi gapes after her. “Did you just tell a joke!? Wait, get back here, that’s a serious question! Do you even know how!?”

She keeps walking away and he never gets his answer.

Tenzou is somewhere out there in the forest and it’s impossible to tell if the trees are creaking in the wind of the storm or if that is him fighting for his life. Lightning flashes across the sky, illuminating the dark battle ground for a single moment. It’s enough for even Kakashi’s regular eye to memorize the sight of the carnage around him and feel the nausea rise up in the back of his throat. This is his life, he thinks. This is all he is meant for.

He doesn’t want it.

He wants more than this.

He has never deserves more.

Sometimes he wishes he were part of the regular forces, able to go on simple mission with less certainty of death, that he didn’t have to spend every day of his life mired in shadows and nightmares. Right now is one of those times. How much longer will he survive this pace? Eight years is a long time to serve in ANBU but he doesn’t remember how to exist in any other patterns.

His body jolts when Sakura lands on the branch beside him, bringing his attention to her. For the first time since they met he feels jealous of her. The emptiness he had always hated must be incredibly peaceful.

“You feel too much,” she tells him with the air of someone noting the color of fresh painted walls.

“And you feel nothing,” he snaps back. “Must be nice.”

“What I feel is the rain. We should find shelter.”

“Tenzou is still out there!”

“He will find his way to us or he will not. We should still find shelter.”

Kakashi snarls at her. He might be jealous, intrigued, slowly growing attached like a cancerous growth on a host he didn’t even want to infect, but in this moment he hates again. It’s as ugly of a feeling as it always has been. “I will not abandon my friends.”

“I have no friends to abandon. Shelter, taichou.”

“You have comrades!” he explodes. Anger runs hot through his veins, burning away the cold terror that froze him to his perch only moments ago. “We’re a team, damn it! We would never abandon you but you don’t give half a fuck about us, do you? A team is a family and I will not abandon Tenzou. You find shelter if you want, Haruno. I’m going to find my friend.”

He pushes off from the branch and lets his body free fall, raindrops stinging his face until he bunches his legs and kicks off the trunk of another tree. Sakura’s chakra remains stationary behind him for a long enough time that he almost cannot sense her anymore before she finally begins to move.

At first he thinks she had taken his advice to seek shelter on her own. She moves in the same direction as him and he thinks she must be headed towards the caves he just passed.

When she finds him again he is carrying Tenzou’s exhausted body across his back, one leg dragging from the hit he had taken for his friend, soaked through with blood even more so than the rain still coming down in torrents. She says nothing as she relieves him of his burden, only points the way back towards the caves. Kakashi would thank her but instead he passes out for lack of chakra.

He wakes up somewhere dry, rolls over, and marvels that all of his wounds have been healed. Since when do any of them know how to heal? They’re ANBU; all they know is killing.

“You lied to the Hokage.”

Kakashi stops walking and sighs. “I didn’t lie. Omitting certain details is not lying. I told him all the information pertinent to the success of our mission.”

“Lying by omission is still a lie.”

“He really doesn’t need to know every single detail of what we do. Should I have told him what we ate for breakfast every day? Which underwear I put on this morning?”

“You believe that I am a danger to your team; you should have told him that.”

“Just because you can’t stand us doesn’t mean I’m giving you an out so easily.” Kakashi finally turns to glare at her over the edge of his cloth mask. “I meant what I said. The rest of us on this team, we don’t abandon our comrades and for better or for worse you are one of our comrades. Whether that means something or nothing to you doesn’t matter to us. We’re going to protect you anyway.”

Sakura stares at him like she doesn’t understand. He wonders if it’s his words or just him that she doesn’t get – or humanity in general.

“I am supposed to say thank you, I suppose.” She sounds unsure. It’s a question, he realizes, and it’s enough to startle him out of the impending hissy fit.

“Not necessary,” he says.

He counts the seconds. It is nearly half a minute before her brilliant green eyes look away from his and she continues walking down the hall, just long enough for him to remember their shade, their shape, the way she blinks, all of playing back inside his mind as he sits in a tree later and pretends to read his book. He wonders if she knows that she is beautiful.

Wherever he goes there is a pointed gaze following him, sharp on the back of his neck. Kakashi thinks he would hate it a little more if it were anyone else. But it is only Sakura and he’s pretty used to it at this point. At least now there seems to be some kind of purpose to the scrutiny, something more than just the distrusting gaze of an outsider looking in he had suffered when they first met.

For whatever reason, she seems to have chosen him to mimic in her attempts at pretending to be human. She’s got poor taste but it’s better than the empty shell he’s known her to be so he’s certainly not going to discourage the choice.

They’re posing as bodyguards for Tenzou, who looks extremely uncomfortable in the robes of a well-off textile merchant. Infiltration isn’t usually one of them missions given to their team but the target is high profile and rumored to be very strong. Sakura keeps one eye on Tenzou and one eye on her team captain, mimicking every move he makes. If he shakes hands then so does she; if he remains quiet so does she; when he smiles benignly she attempts to do the same.

It’s the first time Kakashi has ever seen her face move and the muscles of her face are clearly unused to it. Still, the expression suits her more than he expects it to. One of the merchants takes the time to mention so to her and the perplexed way she stares over at Kakashi, questioning how she is meant to respond, is the absolute highlight of his day. Laughing at her reaction is an excellent distraction from the hot flash of jealousy which run through him. He is grateful. Kakashi does not want to be jealous. Jealousy would imply he cares, that he wants, and neither of those things would be ideal directed at someone like Haruno Sakura. He likes to think he’s smarter than that.

Sakura smiles again like she is testing a new weapon and Kakashi looks away. Her teeth are blades slipping past the walls around his heart, finding cracks in the armor he wears to protect his emotions. It’s here and now in a moment so unmomentous that he understands he’s been doomed from the very start.

He hates and hates and hates until he loves her, slowly and in small pieces. They are both of them shattered mockeries of humanity and he wants to glue them back together in to a single work of art that only he will find beautiful.

It hurts but so have many other things. As he always does, he forges on.

She finds him in the daytime, lounging in a pool of sunlight with nothing better to do than to sit and recover from the wounds of their most recent mission. Kakashi can sense her when she approaches his window without hesitation. He can’t imagine her ever hesitating to do anything.

“You feel too much,” she tells him. He blinks over at the small machine dosing him with morphine and thinks that he doesn’t feel much of anything right now.

“So you’ve told me before,” he mumbles instead.

“Teach me.”

Kakashi stares at her, his head floating in cotton clouds and a dopey smile on his unmasked face. “To what?”

“You express emotion so easily. You feel so easily. Teach me how to do as you do.”

It’s probably the morphine but his attention slides away from her words to focus on the ethereal crown of light around her head, no doubt from the window at her back even if his drug-addled mind starts thinking about angels and death again. If he were a god he would give her a crown made of bones hard like her eyes and weave it through with flowers as soft as her voice.

What comes out of his mouth is hardly an answer to her request.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he whispers. She steps closer, intent.

“I want that,” she tells him. “I want to feel. I want to love. Teach me.”

Kakashi dares to reach out and pull her down until her face is level with his own. When he kisses her she lets him, her lips unmoving against his own but not resisting either. She tastes like the soldier pills they eat on missions to maintain calorie intake.

“Did that feel good?” he asks, eyes closed to savor the images he sees inside his mind, memories he has played back a hundred times and more.

“I don’t know,” she tells him honestly. “Will this teach me how to feel?”

“Maybe, maybe not. How about this: let me love you. You like to learn by example, don’t you?”

“Will you kiss me again?” There is honest to god curiosity in her voice and Kakashi shivers in the warm sunshine, opening his eyes at last to see the way her eyes look at him as though he is the only thing in the room.

Smiling again, he asks, “Do you want me to?”

“Yes. I think so.”

It takes the better part of an hour to teach her how to kiss.

It takes the better part of a year until she smiles at him quietly of her own volition when she thinks he cannot see her.

It takes the better part of his humanity away when he is relieved of his duties as an ANBU agent, forced in to training a team of the next generation. To leave her behind feels like leaving behind his soul.

She follows. And that is the moment when Kakashi realizes that she loves him too, though it takes the better part of three more years before she finds the words to say so.

#rae writes #kakasaku #kakashi #sakura #same age au #fanfiction #naruto shippuden

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fixomnia-scribble · 6 years

Text

Blue Bloods 8x22 “My Aim Is True” Recap and Ramble

SPOILERS SPOILERS OH BOY SPOILERS

Firstly, may I just say what a pleasure it’s been to ramble with you lovely people all season. I’m already looking forward to a fanfic-filled summer until the circus opens again in the fall. There’s always a conflicted excitement and hesitancy at the thought of watching a season finale, especially with so much vested in it. (Way to crank expectations to fever pitch, there, Wahlberg.) But, armed with iced coffee and Oreos and the anticipation of a teeth-gnashing, hair-pulling post-game analysis, here we go!

“My Aim Is True”…the title has me Googling for references. Not much but the refrain from Elvis Costello’s “Alison”, with its haunting image of a young girl about to give up on her dreams and ambitions to settle for far less than she deserved. Hmm. More on that later, no doubt.

Opening scene: Outdoors. A graveyard and heavy snow. Danny talking to Linda’s headstone, as if she’s standing right next to him alternately rolling her eyes and hugging his arm tight, as in old days. Anniversary reaction time. He admits he’s having a really hard time, and misses her. Baez, who Danny has just referred to as a Godsend of a partner, emerges from their patrol car and tells him it’s time. Danny brushed away a tear, kisses his fingers, touches Linda’s headstone and gets in one more “Love you most,” and I’m already swallowing hard. I hope Amy’s watching.

CUT TO: One PP Media Room. Frank is at the podium speaking on the positive outcome of a community program. An Exposition Fairy dressed as a reporter asks about a five million dollar settlement awarded to each of six wrongly imprisoned men who spent nine years in prison, and asks if Frank feels any personal responsibility. Garret smoothly slides in and tries to deflect the line of questioning, but she persists. Standing on the wall, Baker looks perturbed. She knows exactly how deeply the case got to Frank.

CUT TO: Danny and Baez are speaking with two older women of fragile health, on a streetcorner. Jesus. It sounds as though they witnessed a point-blank shooting of a friend of theirs. They opine that the shooter “sounded white and male”, and that he was driving a foreign car. The paramedics swoop down on the pair as Danny and Baez leave them. “Life’s rich pageant,” pronounceth Danny, as they step by a rather graphic blood puddle for this show.

SMASH CUT TO: Jamie approaches a smoking, wrecked white BMW. The driver is okay but stuck inside. Jamie pulls out a door jimmy and pops the door in half a second. The young driver looks shifty, says, “Thank you, Officers,” and starts to speed-limp away before Jamie and Eddie grab his arms. He has no license and swears the car is his brother’s. Turns out the car does belong to his brother, Manuel, but Eddie, ever the walking Criminal Code, rattles off the menu of charges the fifteen-year-old driver is in for as they head back to the precinct.

CUT TO: Erin and Monica are walking downtown in the rain, gossiping about Monica’s plans for a romantic weekend with her ex. Erin could probably tell her a thing or two about that. In fact, Erin’s about to ‘fess up to her own reunion with Jack, when Monica is shot in the back with a silenced gun, and collapses into Erin’s arms. WHOA. Monica blinks, confused, and fades out as Erin, spattered with blood, lowers her to the ground and screams for help. This is no please-don’t-hurt-my-family moment. Nothing can prepare you for that.

Title cards. I take a deep breath.

CUT TO: The One-Two. Eddie and Jamie are walking Luis into the precinct. His brother charges at him, saying he’s going to kill him. Eddie and Jamie shush him down. (Of all the things you never want to say in a police station, “I’m going to kill you” surely tops the list.) Luis’ Mama, a very well dressed, coiffured Latina lady, cries that the cops have taken enough of her family. It turns out that Manuel was just released from prison after nine years: he was one of the Prospect Park Six that Frank was grilled about earlier. Jamie puts this together, and apologizes sincerely. Which is very Jamie, and very very against any regulations – there’s no way he should apologize on behalf of the NYPD, but hey, he’s Jamie. Manuel and his mother decide to lawyer up even to sign Luis’ release papers, not trusting any part of the system. Can’t exactly blame them for that.

CUT TO: Erin’s apartment. The family has gathered there to support her. Henry is sitting on the couch beside Erin, with Nicky on the other side. Danny is pacing. Jamie and Tony are chatting at the kitchen island, pouring drinks. Jamie asks Tony to do what he can to make Luis’ pending charges go away, since the Escobars deserve a break. Tony promises to talk to some people.

Danny tries fruitlessly to talk to Erin, who is shattered. As tough as she is, she doesn’t work on the street level of the family business. Crime scenes are not her métier, at least not until they’re written up on paper. Danny pushes harder, and Erin snaps. Nicky and Jamie step in, and remind Danny of “his other job”, which he is also really good at: being a solid rock for his little sister to lean on. He sits beside her and lets her break down against him.

CUT TO: Office of F. Baker (Baker! Baker! Baker!) is giving Frank a report on a third shooting: Ida, Monica and now a sixteen year old girl. Witnesses give varying descriptions of a dark sedan with “out of state plates”. Frank is clearly moved beyond his usual grim sadness at another tragedy on his watch. “They’re not murders, they’re assassinations,” he states with conviction.

Frank becomes quite dynamic as he explains that while it doesn’t make any sense, his intuition is telling him that the assassinations are linked with the Prospect Park Six. Frank rolls his eyes at himself, saying he can’t reconcile it, but the voice won’t shut up. This is as deeply as I’ve ever seen Tom get into Frank’s skin. He’s usually such a broad-gestures actor, but he’s playing with a minute concentration and nuance here, as if Frank’s discomfort and twitchiness have taken over his nerves. Baker suggests that it makes sense from a cop-psychology point of view. She suggests that Frank’s sense of regret and responsibility is making him look for a way to compartmentalize the lost nine years of the Prospect Park Six, and salvage some meaning out of the assassinations. Frank agrees that she’s probably right, but Baker and Gormley, who have cop guts of their own, share a glance.

CUT TO: Morning. Danny and Baez are at the apartment of the first victim, Ida, where they are talking to her son. He insists she was a “classic little old lady – wouldn’t hurt a fly.” The son, however, is a Corrections Captain at Yorkville Prison, and gets threats on the regular. He’d like to catch the scumbag himself who killed his mother. “Any particular scumbag you had in mind?” Danny asks. “There was one skell – Randall Meems,” the Captain replies. “A vicious little twerp who got his charges dropped and walked the week before last.” The Captain allows that Meems needed “a lot” of corrections while lingering on the cellblock awaiting trial for a year, and held a grudge.

CUT TO: The Five-Four, interrogation room number something. A tough blonde parolee, Brandy, is refusing to give up Meems’ location to Danny and Baez. Danny applies legal pressure, saying he knows she’s been violating her parole. Baez applies emotional pressure, asking if Brandy loves Meems, to which Brandy sneers, “What’s love but a second-hand emotion?” (Well, not quite, but close enough that my ‘80’s brain jumps there.) Baez rolls her eyes and goes in search of coffee. Danny gets Brandy talking. Brandy blames an unnamed NYPD detective for landing Meems in Yorkville for a year before he even came to trial, and was released because the case fell apart. But she’s still not telling them where he is. In a weird way, I’m starting to like Brandy. She’s tough and not too nice and seriously bitter, but she’s honest and she speaks her truth clearly as she sees it.

Enter Baez, with the unusually blasé opening that she’s just learned Meems died of an overdose nine days ago, so Brandy is free to go. I surely hope that wasn’t Brandy’s first notification. She doesn’t seem all that surprised, or, well, anything but glumly pissed off.

CUT TO: Jamie and Eddie, enumerating how the Escobars have been spending their award money. A mil for the apartment, a hundred and fifty grand for the Turbo (Eddie jumps in with a more accurate: “Turbo S-Cabriolet with custom order green trim, more like two-thirty” because she is, after all, the sports car aficionado.) I LOVE IT when Eddie rattles off information she has in her head. Jamie, being Jamie, merely accepts this as probably likely, without even a hint of a thought of a “Well, actually…” He simply adds it up, saying, “Okay, one point two mil out of five.” Another million for savings and another for charities. They start talking new clothes, trying to add up to five million. (Eddie needles Jamie about his old, battered leather jacket starting to smell. I think she means it, too. Aww. Quasi-spousal caretaking and a moment of sweet connection.) He gets his own back, saying, “Okay, even with five hundred for the jacket, you’re still way short.” Hee. She knows exactly how short she is.

Mama Escobar, her coiffure still impeccable, is neither impressed or fazed by their arrival on her door. She doesn’t fall for Jamie’s nice-cop patter about being in the neighbourhood and making sure Luis was ready for his court appearance. Eddie tries to make a connection by thumbing at Jamie and saying, “It was his idea,” (hee!) but Mama snaps, “I don’t want to hear from you, either, Blondie.” Oh, hey now. Eddie merely shrugs and says, “Family Court, nine thirty, be there, be square.” She turns to leave, but Luis appears behind his mother, all dressed up. Mama hisses again, “What are you really doing here?” Jamie aims for politeness but clearly knows it’s not going to help. Mama tells them to stay away from her door unless they have a warrant. She closes said door in their faces.

CUT TO: Office of E. Erin is at her desk. Tony is pacing and eating. They’re combing Monica’s files for anyone who might have wanted to kill her. It’s more a matter of finding anyone who didn’t, due to the nature of her job. Tony suggests starting with the security logs from the DA’s building itself, the courthouse, and look for evidence of someone trying out a dry run. Not a bad thought at all. Erin sets to work.

CUT TO: Office of F. The Two G’s approach Abby, laying bets on whether Frank is gone or not. Abby regards them with a sigh. We get a view of her desk for once: gorgeous mahogany with simple, classy, top-quality fixtures, much like Abby herself. And a very cute photo of her touching noses with her baby. “Still?” asks Garrett. “Yeah,” nods Abby. Frank is inside poring over case files in his shirtsleeves, with coffee cups and sandwich wrappers skirting the piles. The three walk in uninvited, which Frank grumbles about briefly, but clearly he’s glad to see them. I can just smell the odour of a twelve-hour grinding file search, stale sweat and old coffee and deli pickles in an enclosed space. Abby pointedly suggests that Frank might share his thinking with the two of them who have, in fact, held the rank of Detective. “And Garrett can take notes,” rumbles Gormley. Frank holds them off, saying there’s nothing for him to share yet. He goes off on a hilarious tangent about saving their concern until he really starts turning into Captain Queeg, that does absolutely nothing to allay said concerns, and asks them to leave him be. They do. It’s a delightful look at the three amigos dealing with Frank disappearing into his head. We know where Jamie gets that from. As they leave, Frank reminds them that far from looking for a crime to pin on them, the last thing he wants is to put the six men through another wringer. Ahh. There it is.

CUT TO: Reagan house. Frank is finally home. It’s a regular family conclave of the adult Reagans! (We haven’t had one of those, I think, since the hilarious “Who hasn’t smoked up?” episode.) Frank gives them the information that one of the six, Dewan Wilson, lost his mother to cancer while he was in prison. The warden wouldn’t let him to go her funeral. After his mother’s death, Dewan became increasingly erratic and threatened payback to everyone who had a hand in putting him away. Frank suggests that rather than seeking direct revenge, what if Dewan spent the next eight years planning to assassinate the nearest and dearest of his enemies. “To suffer a fate worse than death,” Danny says. “Like that, yeah,” Frank says. I’m struck hard by how these two bereft husbands just get each other instantly and don’t even have to explain how dark some of their days have been since the loss of their wives. But Frank also admits that there’s nothing to link the murders together or tie them to Dewan, except the mindgames of “a rusty old detective with a guilty conscience.”

The family takes this seriously. I suddenly realize that this entire scene has had no soundtrack, and barely any sounds except for quiet breathing and resting of hands on the table. Not even drinking their whiskey. It creates a close intimacy we don’t often see even at Sunday dinner. Especially when Henry and Erin follow Frank’s thought to its natural conclusion: that if Frank is right, any one of them might be on the list. Erin wonders if Monica’s bullet was meant for her, but Jamie points out that they’re easy to tell apart.

Everyone’s phones go off – at least all of the active cops’ phones. Another murder. This time an off-duty officer, while walking her dog. (I can hear the entire audience’s heart rate leap for a moment as Jamie confirms this, and we remember Eddie doesn’t have a dog.) They all trade very serious glances.

Halfway point! I’m getting a cup of tea.

CUT TO: Danny and Baez at the house of Captain What’s-his-face, Ida’s son. Morning. Captain finally admits to bragging that he had one of the Prospect Point Six in his cells. Danny presses him to remember if he ever “got medieval” on the guy, if he might have nursed a grudge enough to kill Ida. The Captain admits that he had Dewan Wilson on his cell. Apparently the two did not get on. “You think he’d remember you?” Danny asks, with quiet intensity, “and how awful you treated him?” The Captain looks helpless. Danny shakes his head. As an ex jail-guard myself, who has heard too many stories of brutality, I shake my head too.

CUT TO: Office of E. Erin looks more put together than before and is armed with coffee and a serious-business hairstyle. Monica’s ex-husband Sampson walks in, and Erin and Tony jump to their feet. Condolences are exchanged for kind memories. Sampson is devastated, especially as he and Monica were getting back together. Erin eases up to asking Sampson if he had any involvement in the prosecution of the Prospect Point Six. Sampson says he led the entire prosecution. Oh, dear. Sampson’s name didn’t appear in the court records because he was undergoing a triple bypass during the trial. His second seat erased Sampson’s name to claim the credit. Sampson explained that he worked to get five of the six to flip on Dewan, because Dewan was a typical large, aggressive alpha-male type that cops look at and see guilt. But the five didn’t flip, Sampson says. The six were all innocent. Now we get soundtrack: a sonorous gong knelling in an echoing cavern. Eep. Meanwhile, I’m really impressed with the actor who played Sampson. For being dropped into an intense scene with two actors who have been scene partners for years, he nailed it. I got a sense of Samson-the-person, a hard-nosed prosecutor who’s Seen Some Shit but is nevertheless committed to doing the work to rebuild his relationship with his wife. Or was.

CUT TO: The Escobar apartment again. Jamie and Eddie (I really, really want to know how their painfully awkward dinner went last week, given how comfortable they are now, after the past month) knock on the door and announce themselves. Mama Escobar yanks the door open, with a “What this time?” The boys are packing boxes behind her. Jamie says he just wants to check up on the Family Court outcome. (WHAT? says I. That’s a terrible excuse. As the arresting officers, they’d be privy to that information directly from court. And if Luis had conditions, it would be his Probation Officer, not the cops, who’d come checking on him.) Mama, looking somewhat shattered, and quieter than usual, tells them the Judge agreed to adjust his case as long as Luis stays out of trouble. “We thought you might wanna thank us,” Eddie chirps, still relishing her Bitchy Bad Cop role in this scenario. “Oh, we’re a long way from even,” Mama informs her, but sadly, not sharply. She tells them they’re moving out. Manuel’s bought them a big house in Yonkers. Eddie wishes her luck, seemingly sincere. Jamie shoots her a quick look sideways, but goes in for the kill with a soft, “Hey, Manuel, say hi to Dewan if you see him.” While Mama sputters that Manuel doesn’t speak to Dewan, Jamie tells Manuel he used to coach him in a police league basketball program. They agree he could really play. While Mama tries to run verbal and physical interference between Manuel and Jamie, Jamie manages to pass his card to Manuel, with a look of utterly serious do-not-bullshit-me-Ma’am that gives me a little thrill, if I’m honest. Jamie and Manuel share a nod. Mama shuts the door in a hurry.

In the hallway, Jamie admits that he made up the stuff about coaching Dewan. Eddie gets that something is up. He tells her he’ll fill her in on the ride. Eep. Eddie should have been told every little detail before entering any kind of public space with Jamie. Not that she’d have let him enter public space without proper precautions…clearly all of the Reagan kids and grandkids are fair game.

CUT TO: Office of F, daytime. Frank is munching another sandwich. Gormley is explaining that they’ve isolated images of a dark sedan at the murder sites, with plates coming back to cars stolen from Newark Airport in Jersey. (Having been through that airport myself a couple of times, I can tell you, that’s all too plausible: the long term parking lots are the size of a small city, and cannot possibly be patrolled all the time.)

Abby strides in looking suddenly fabulous in stark black, and crossed her stockinged legs as she takes a sip of her shake. The pinup model hasn’t gone anywhere – she’s still got it. She tells them that Officer Nuñez, the cop who was killed last night, has a father who was also involved in the Prospect Park Six prosecution. And the sixteen year old’s stepmother was one of the arresting officers. The two G’s echo Henry and Erin’s thought that a Reagan is next on the list, despite Frank’s blustering about coincidence. Gormley wants to scoop up Dewan, but Frank points out just how bad it would look, if they arrested him with no evidence or probable cause. The media would have them for lunch. The four shake their heads, knowing what their guts are telling them, but not seeing the path forward.

CUT TO: The One-Two. Holy moly, Eddie and Jamie look amazing. Vanessa’s pulling a mini-Michelle Pfeiffer, and Jamie’s in his beloved cozy (smelly) jacket. Whatever hangups Jamie was feeling about spending time with Eddie off duty seem to have vanished. Hmmm… A fellow cop, Jack, tells him that Manuel is out back, but doesn’t want to come in. Eddie, who has apparently been filled in on the details, looks worriedly at Jamie, who tries to deflect Jack casually while still looking like he’s been hit in the chest. Jamie and Eddie share a very pointed look – ohh, she is not happy about any of this – but she walks with him outside to the back of the precinct, where Manuel is waiting against a fence. He tells them he had to ditch Jamie’s card to placate his mother, but he’s still in touch with Dewan by text. He came down to tell them because he’s terrified of cops – he doesn’t want to get dragged into anything, ever again. Eddie says she’s not surprised. Manuel seems to accept this. He gives Jamie the number Dewan texts from.

CUT TO: OMG OMG OMG It’s Red-Headed TARU Tech McKenna! Hey, girl, hey! Danny and Jamie are loitering in her office as she sifts through data connected with Dewan’s number. She says the phone hasn’t left Miami since March 9th. She does say it’s active for most of the day, confined to a small area. Danny suggests the number might be a decoy, with someone else texting from Florida while Dewan is actually in NYC. McKenna snarks back a little, but Danny takes it, and even calls her “Detective”, leaning in. Ooh, Danny Boy. You don’t think Linda would love you to get with a smart, tough woman who can keep you in line and can give as good as she gets? Enter Baez, confirming that Dewan has been living in South Beach since March. The Brothers Reagan exit the office.

CUT TO: Reagan House. Another Reagan Adults conclave. Damn, I could go for some Chinese food myself. Henry thinks they must be missing something. Frank concludes his hunch was wrong, and that Dewan’s not their guy – he’s just blowing his money in a swanky Florida hotel. Jamie activates his Lawyer!Brain and says there’s too many good puzzle pieces floating around, even if they can’t see yet how they line up. For once Danny agrees with him instantly. They bounce Dewan’s probable daily routines back and forth, and realize that Dewan doesn’t have to leave Florida at all: he’s operating on the level of hiring people to do everything he’d normally do for himself. He could have hired any one of the other five to do his bidding (or anyone else for contract, really.) And even though they haven’t got the proof, everyone at the table knows what the truth feels like when you hear it – which is why the distant sounds of the truth had kept them searching all this time for the connection.

Three-quarter mark. Sheesh. I’m averaging about one fifteen-minute increment per hour, typing at speed! I need more tea.

CUT TO: Office of F. Gormley tells Frank that Dante was on the same cellblock as Dewan, and was released a month after him. Dante has a record as a gang heavy, even executioner, going back to his teens. (shudder). Frank, flanked by the picture of Roosevelt, quietly asks, “Do we have him?” Gormley assures him the APB has gone nationwide, and they will have him soon. “You still got it, Boss,” Gormley says. Awww. Frank looks out over a louring sky and skyscrapers shrouded in mist and advises cautious optimism. (The watchword of the past week.) They have a nice interaction about always knowing that the next bad thing is out there. Sid tries to keep things light by saying it keeps them on their toes. Frank says his toes hurt. (I am reminded of Babylon 5’s Londo Molari sighing, “My shoes are too tight, and I have forgotten how to dance…”)

The scene pulls back again, slowly, and I can feel the tension rising. For an episode plugged as the shocker of the season, they’re feeding out the line in excruciatingly small inches. The sense of something really bad is certainly present, but it’s around a corner still… with ten minutes to go. Ay yi yi. Cliffhanger incipient? But wait. They only got re-upped for the next season after filming ended for this one, so…can we hope to see things tied up in one episode?

CUT TO: Jamie and Eddie, outside the One-Two, back to their old banter (Oh, thank God!), this time about how they’d spend a fantasy five million. Jamie opts for a six-month bike tour of Europe on a vintage Triumph bike. (Oooh, yes please.) Eddie doesn’t like bikes, and asks if it can’t be a cool old car? Sure, in her fantasy, Jamie says, but not his. “So selfish! Wow, I think I liked you better before you had money,” she shoots back, which is both starkly funny, and very telling, considering Eddie’s history. Behind them, a black BMW with Jersey plates eases out of its spot and begins to follow them. Oh, here we go.

CUT TO: A Florida penthouse, windows nicely tinted blue against the mid-day sun outside. I am side-eyeing @ontherockswithsalt pretty damn hard right now, but it’s Dewan, not Noble, getting a massage. He gets a call. It’s Danny, who cheerfully informs him that he is Danny Reagan of the NYPD, and it was Dante who gave up Dewan’s number. Dewan leaps off the massage table, as tall and built as advertised. WHEN SUDDENLY – the two pretty masseuses pull guns on Dewan and announce themselves as cops, just as Danny strolls through the door. (Okay, that was cheesy. But fun.) He rattles of a list of charges he’s planning to make stick to Dewan. He jangles the cuffs as Dewan glares and starts to get dressed.

CUT TO: Eddie and Jamie are driving down the Harlem River Speedway near Park Avenue and 133rd. Jamie is completing his fantasy spending spree with a Reagan Family Foundation of some sort to take care of the families of fallen officers. Eddie casts about for a snark, but comes up empty. “I can’t fault that one,” she admits. “That’s a first,” says Jamie. Hee. I note that he’s awfully chipper for someone who keeps getting his fantasies shot down. I think someone’s missed his buddy.

“I’m still saving beagles with mine, though,” Eddie says, going back to her anti-animal testing plans. “To each his own,” Jamie shrugs. “Her own,” Eddie purrs, looking at him like he’s an ice-cream cone, and Jamie just grins like he’s got it so bad, and okay, seriously? I’m going to have to ask these two what happened on their non-dinner-date last week.

Middle aged white dude is driving the black BMW, and inching closer. Eddie spots a specialty coffee roaster and asks for a stop. Random white dude also pulls in a short distance back. Eddie asks Jamie what he wants, her treat. “Three pound lobster, Dom Perignon,” he requests. Eddie giggles, “You’re such a jerk.” “All right, I’ll have a tea.” She beams at him and climbs out. As she gets into line, Dispatch crackles out an expanded APD on Dante Sorrento – the white dude in the BMW – who, hearing his own description and warnings, gets even more juiced up, and pulls out a silenced semiautomatic.

Jamie, waiting for Eddie, rolls down his window a few inches in the warm sunshine. Eddie, watching her PERSEC like a good officer, keeps a 360 lookout around her, and her eyeline seems to just miss the BMW outside. Dante sets his jaw and starts to move the car into gear, gripping the wheel. Eddie’s neurons ping and she spins around and practically levitates out of the café, hollering Jamie’s name and yelling at people to get down. Having flashbacks, perhaps, to the other time she was just too damn far away and couldn’t run fast enough and Jamie was getting shot at?

Dante eases up beside the cruiser, and he politely calls, “Excuse me, Officer?”

Jamie looks up, catches either a glimpse of Eddie or the sound of her voice, and throws himself down across the seat as Dante fires twice, shattering the window. Eddie, despite being farther away than really useful, returns fire. Dante guns the BMW and takes off. Eddie, still gasping Jamie’s name like a mantra, fires directly through the rear windshield of the BMW, which rear-ends another black sedan into a bridge support.

HOW DARE ANYONE THREATEN MY JAMIE??

Jamie dashes up beside Eddie, assuring her he’s okay, and they both hotfoot towards the BMW. (I wince, because Eddie still has her trigger finger engaged as she runs, and oh, no, you don’t.) Dante is DOA, whether from the crash or Eddie’s hit. Given the fact that he still has a face, I’m going with the crash, though she may have disoriented or winged him.

Jamie, realizing Eddie hasn’t said anything, looks around slowly. Eddie is standing with her gun dangling limply and every emotion spread out across her face.

“That was some shot,” Jamie says, trying to get through to her. “You saved my life.”

REALIZATION HITS. SOMETHING EX MACHINA BUT COOL COOL OK.

But that’s not it. Eddie’s had something of a revelatory experience, and she stutters through trying to explain that she heard a voice telling her Jamie was in trouble before he really was. It’s a nice bit of parallel closure with Frank’s “loud and clear voice” from earlier. Overwhelmed, she crumbles and launches herself into his open arms. Jamie grabs her tight and closes his eyes for a moment before telling her, “I’d spend the five million on you.” She wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his shoulder.

More cruisers pull up beside them and they stay locked together under the bridge, not giving a damn.

PHEW.

CUT TO: Reagan house, this time in sunlight. The family is once again sitting waiting for Jamie, none to patiently. “He’s kind of making a habit of this,” Erin gripes, clearly thinking she’s going to have to take her little brother to task on all this helping-his-partner-study business. Danny suggests changing the statute of limitations on how long they have to wait for him before eating.

Enter Jamie, calling apologies. The family grumbles a greeting as he casually asks Jack to get another place setting. Danny’s eyebrow shoots up. Various people demand to know what’s going on and who’s the company.

The scene devolves into total fanfic at this point. Enter Eddie, reaching for Jamie’s hand. “Oh!” says Erin, as if she’s surprised. “Hey, everyone,” Eddie waves, adorably awkward. There’s a chorus of “Hello!” “Hey” and “Hi” in much the same tones as, “So, are you going to introduce us to your little friend?” Okay, I’m exaggerating, but not by much.

PIANO INTRO: “IF YOOOOU WERE THE ONLY GIRRRL IN THE WORLD...”

“Officer Janko,” Frank greets her. Jamie demurs. “Just Eddie, today, Dad.”

Eddie, always with the timing, says, “Actually, not – just Eddie, today.” They share quite a look. “Well, since this morning – the future Mrs. Jamison Reagan,” Jamie announces as casually as he possibly can, with so many Reagan eyes on them and everything happening so fast. (Well, five years fast, at any rate.)

Understandably, this is the only moment that drops me out of the scene and makes me wince, but mostly because I know how hard it’s going to be to sell this. It definitely takes some willing suspension of disbelief, but…hey, they didn’t know then if they’d be picked up for another season. We knew they were leading up to a massive detonation of emotional release. And life, as the Reagans continually underline, is very short.

There’s a fresh chorus of “Get out!” and “You’re kidding!” for reasons that passeth understanding, unless they’re just gobsmacked the two of them have apparently consolidated years of pair-bonding and leaped over any kind of dating interval to land squarely on “GO”. (WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED YESTERDAY AFTER THE INCIDENT??) Finally the “About times” emerge, and Erin looks absolutely daggers at Danny, who shrugs that he had no clue. Jack (and my readers know I have always had a soft spot for Jack and Jamie’s relationship) share a brotherly handclasp.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Frank eventually says. “Congratulations.”

“Just this morning?” Danny demands “Uh, yeah,” Jamie replies (Will almost sells it, but yeah, for an engagement in a staunchly Catholic family, this is zero to one hundred real fast). Erin and Eddie bond over a shared moment of “Okay, this is very weird but very cool.”

Frank offers them a wedding gift of a transfer, for one of them, to any precinct they want. Erin rolls her eyes. “Gee, Dad, every bride’s dream.”

Jamie points out that nowhere is it written that married cops can’t continue to work together. Which is technically true, but it’s been a Rule since women first came on the Force, for a plethora of good reasons. But instead of a typical Reagan family row, Jamie and Eddie ask the family to consider their vows. (Vanessa just about pulls off the phrase: “Vows…that we wrote to each other.”) Bridget makes it a little more believable with her incredulous, big-sisterly choke on the word. They dewy-eyed duo spar like kids for a moment over which of them has been working on their dream-vows the longest. Which I can actually buy, given the amount of time these two have been fine-tuning their relationship. I could believe that they’d put these ideas into words, even just in their heads, after particularly intense moments in their working partnership.

And of course, being Will and Vanessa, they regroup and somehow deliver the goods entirely in character, even if this is a side of their characters we’ve never seen. It’s matter of fact and rock-solid and their timing is perfect as Eddie leads off with “I will always have your back.”

“If you fall behind, I’ll wait up.”

“I will earn your respect, and pay respect, every day we have.”

“I’ll be your Scout,” (OH JAMIE) “your night-watchman, your cavalry.”

“Your medic, your Chaplain, in our army of two.” (I’M NOT MISTING OVER THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY GLASSES)

“No retreat, no surrender,” Jamie says. This seems to be a new addition, and one Eddie likes, as she chants it back to him.

“You can count on me.”

“And you can count on me.”

An ultra-silence falls over the Reagan table, probably for the first time in ever. Looks are passed from person to person and Eddie shrugs shyly as Erin stares her father down for his response.

“Welcome to our family, Eddie,” he says, smiling into his moustache.

“Thank you,” Eddie says seriously, and then – “Dad.” Because I mean…

They say Grace, Jamie leaning in to teach Eddie the words.

And Erin passes Eddie the potatoes.

HOLY FREAKING HECK.

This was quite a mini-movie episode, in the storyline and in the filming, with tight-in closeups accentuating the increasing claustrophobia of the events, and very still camera work and a minimal soundtrack. Frank’s breathing was the only extra sound in the scenes in his office. I would have loved a 90 minute or even double episode, for a season closer – really get into the backstories and draw out more high-tension action scenes, and, of course, learn what exactly happened between grabbing each other under the bridge and getting engaged?

As to what happens next – I can only hope this means some expanded, multi-episode story arcs for these two, since this isn’t a plot point that can be rolled back or forgotten like so many. (For instance, did Frank forget that Eddie was studying for the Sergeant’s exam, and would likely not be riding with Jamie after she’s promoted, anyway? Would it be too much to hope she takes over from jerkass Maldonaldo as Desk Sergeant, so we have one Reagan working out of the precinct and another shooting for his gold shield?) I know that Will and Vanessa will do brilliantly with whatever they’re given, but can we hope for some good wrangling of personal and professional relationship needs and expectations and boundaries? With Nicky preparing for an NYPD career and Jack off to college soon, will the grandkids get more storylines? AND WHAT ABOUT DANNY AND McKENNA AND FRANK AND KELLY?

Addenda:

Another Jack? That makes Jackie, Jack Boyle, Jack Reagan and now Jack the Cop.

“Future Mrs. Jamison Reagan”...hm. Yes, they’re a traditional and very Catholic bunch, and it was played for dramatic effect, but I’d find it more natural for Jamie to say “my future wife,” and not occlude Eddie’s own name. I could see Eddie keeping her own name professionally just as likely as adopting “Reagan”.

#jamko #blue bloods #Season 8 finale #HOLY HECK

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vizhi0n · 6 years

Text

Sawney - Part 11

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Ahhh I’m so excited for this chapter. It’s probably my absolute fav and I had fun writing it. I hope a lot of y’all are satisfied with it XD anywho, thank you guys so much for sticking with this story! *sends u a million hearts*

Anywho, if you want to be tagged or untagged, lemme know!

Warnings: Negan’s potty mouth and, finally, smut.

@castielwinchester22 @i-am-negan-trash @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash@genevievedarcygranger @kijilinn @ladylorelitanyfanfiction @lucifers-trash-stash @superprincesspea @doyouhaveavacancy @hannibalssweaters @heartfulloffandoms @strangersangel9 @kellyn1604 @crzcorgi @mypapawinchester @my-achilles--heel @moonypetyr @darkangel66a @backseat-negan @vinylmadwoman @embracetheapocalypsewithme @lovingzombiechaos @jasoncrouse @mcnegan @melodicdolls @itstotalyblue @imjustmakingsuffupagain @jeffreydeanneganstrash @gremlinfuck @originalwinchestervamp @negans-network

The moment Negan dismissed the crowd, and Dwight was toted off to see Carson, he went down to the cells.

A million thoughts ran through his mind. He considered punishing Mother by making it a spectacle, a public event. The only downside was that Mother was an enigma. Such an act would only benefit Negan. The others, the rest of the Saviors, they didn’t know.

He was still simmering. He hadn’t spoken a word to Sherry. Gavin had been the one to catch her and Dwight going at it, and from the lack of excuses Sherry gave, he assumed it to be true. Sherry wasn’t the one to be silent. Ever.

Rules are rules.

Negan prayed none of his men had caught the tremble in his hand. He’d done it nonchalantly, almost stoically before. But the internal wounds caused by Mother and Father had yet to close. He was still weak.

You’re not them. You’re not.

He entered the cell. Mother looked up, flashing her crooked teeth. The smile made Negan sick to his stomach, and he knelt, placing Lucille on the ground behind him.

“I heard screams. Did you punish someone?”

“Yes,” Negan answered.

“How?”

“A hot iron to the fucking face. You might be next if you don’t stop asking questions,” Negan growled. “I fucking came here to take one last good look at you.”

“Finally run out of patience?” Mother crowed. She shifted, restraints rattling. Negan’s heart began to beat faster, and he absently reached for Lucille before catching himself, stopping.

No. Not like this.

“Yeah, I fucking have. People like you don’t deserve a fucking trial or a punishment. Your fucking legacy is dead,” Negan leaned forward. “And soon, you will be, too. My Saviors are going to live on, fucking prosper — you had a chance to prosper with us, but you didn’t. Desa is the only one who made the right decision. I thought I’d let you know that she’s alive before you fucking die.”

That revelation caused Mother’s face to contort in rage. She bared her teeth, lunging, cursing, hair billowing like a halo. Negan met her halfway, planting a knee against her chest, both hands around her throat.

She hissed and scratched like an animal, nails drawing blood. Negan, consumed with bloodlust, did not feel the abrasions against his skin. He squeezed and Mother gasped, trying to draw in air as Negan slowly crushed her windpipe.

She thrashed, her kicking legs falling limp, her grip on Negan slackening. He continued to squeeze until his knuckles turned white and he could feel cartilage crunch beneath his fingers, long after Mother’s heart had ceased to beat.

He quickly drew his knife and thrust it into Mother’s head. She lay, a corpse, deader than the people she’d lobotomized.

Negan wiped his hands, standing. When he exited the cell, Fat Joey was waiting for him, a very, very concerned look on his flushed face.

“What the fuck do you want, Joey?”

“It’s her. The girl. The one from the Estate or whatever,” Joey stammered, tripping over his words. But Negan heard him clearly, crisply, and they sent dread coursing throughout his entire body. “She’s gone. She ran.”

You’ve made a gross miscalculation.

Desa followed the main road for miles, the path towards the Estate clear in her mind. She’d set a goal for herself, and she was determined to complete it. It gave her something to focus on. Something to keep her mind off the sound of Dwight’s flesh simmering away beneath a hot iron —

Don’t think about. Don’t.

While she’d been confident at first, she was beginning to realize how rashly she’d acted. She had a knife, no gun, no bag of supplies. The trip to the estate would take her at least two days by foot, and she wasn’t entirely sure if there were any outposts on the way.

She kept walking, anyway. Even as the sun began to set, she continued her trek until she was, finally, forced to stop as a car rolled up behind her, headlights flickering on.

You tried.

“You have some goddamn nerve coming out here. What the fuck could you possibly have been thinking?”

Desa didn’t look at Negan.

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“Obviously. Goddamit, Desa. Come here.” Desa still wasn’t looking at Negan. She felt his hand against the back of her neck as he rounded on her, dipping his head to meet her unfaltering gaze. After a long pause, Negan sighed and said, “What’s the fucking matter?”

“Dwight. You burned him.”

“Yeah, I did. He didn’t follow the fucking rules. I couldn’t let that shit go unpunished,” Negan explained softly. “That’s how we do things here, Desa. I don’t like doing that shit, but it has to be done.”

“Why?”

“He snuck behind my fucking back to get with Sherry—”

“I know that. I don’t care about that. Why did you have to burn his face?”

Negan pinched the bridge of his nose, glancing over Desa’s shoulder. Leaves rustled, followed by the soft groan of a biter as it shuffled onto the road. Negan murmured, “Go get in the fucking car.”

“I’m not going back. Not yet. You’re going to take me somewhere, first.”

Negan spun Lucille, downing the biter in one heavy swing. Pearls of blood dripped from the barbed wire, but Negan didn’t seem to care. Letting out a breath, he turned and said, “You’re in no position to be making demands.”

“If you won’t take me, I’ll walk.”

“The fuck you won’t.”

“Then let’s go. Right now. To the Estate, so I can bury Jack,” Desa could tell that she’d struck a nerve as she pleaded, “Please. After what I did, he deserves…something.”

“Tell me why the fuck you’re out here, first.”

“I was scared. The iron…Dwight…all that scared me. I wasn’t thinking clearly, so I ran. I thought I’d put all that behind me. I thought the Sanctuary was different—”

“It is,” Negan stressed, walking quickly towards Desa. He stopped when he saw her flinch away. “I only punish those who fuck up. Not for some sick, twisted fucking pleasure. I can’t just…ignore the rules that I set up to fucking keep people alive.”

“I don’t know how putting a hot iron against Dwight’s face is keeping him alive.”

“I’m not asking you to fucking understand, Desa. I’m asking you to fucking trust me, know that I’d never hurt you. Not like that. You’ve fucking been through enough shit already for me to be worried about serving a proper punishment,” Negan glanced away. “That’s all I ask, okay? Fucking trust. I’ll take you to Jack, and then we can go the fuck home.”

Desa nodded, silently crawling into Negan’s truck. He revved the engine, rolling down the road with a stoic, fatigued expression on his face. Lucille lay in his lap and Desa absently reached out to run her fingers across the smooth handle.

“Like her? She’s saved my fucking life more times than I can fucking count,” Negan murmured. “The only woman that’s ever been there for me in this shithole of a world.”

“The only woman? No one else?”

Negan took a second to reply. “Yeah. Pretty fucking much.”

Desa gave a hum of acknowledgment, resisting the urge to doze off. The drive blurred into a few instances, a few conversations here and there, until finally, Negan was pulling up to the Estate.

The place was still fenced off, having been swept somewhat clean by Negan’s men. Bodies had been yanked from within, struck in the head and tossed into a pile in the courtyard. As Negan closed and secured the fence, Desa immediately rushed over.

No Jack. But she did see Todd. And Allison. Corpses, peppered with gunshots to the head and body.

Shit. They didn’t get the cellar.

She turned to Negan, shaking her head. The older man heaved a sigh, hefting Lucille over his shoulder.

“He’s still down there. I’ll go get him.”

“Not alone.”

“Yes, alone. I wanted to do this. I won’t risk you possibly getting hurt because of my idea—”

“Don’t fucking worry about me. You’re not fucking going alone. Sorry, not fucking sorry.”

Desa rolled her eyes, but tried not to smile. She drew her knife, getting into position and slowly pushing open the front door. No gnashing teeth greeted her — just the blood-streaked tiled floors. and a wall decorated with bullet holes.

She mentally prepared herself, taking a few breaths. She stopped atop the cellar stairs, staring through the open door. Again, there were no biters. Just an eerie silence from below. She knew Arat and the others had gotten the weapons and most likely shot the place up again, but she still didn’t like the feeling. She never imagined herself going into the cellar again.

Yet, here she was, under some delusion that giving Jack a proper burial would cleanse her of her sins.

Behind her, Negan said, “Stay here.”

“Negan—”

“I know everyone down there is fucking dead for good. You don’t need to see it a second time. You said Jack is the only kid?”

“Yeah. He’s got dark hair. Bright shirt. Hard to miss. Negan, you don’t have to—”

He was already gone, stepping briskly down the stairs and into the dimly lit cellar. For five minutes Desa waited, arms at her side.

She nearly wept when he came walking up the stairs, Jack’s body in his arms. He had a solemn look on his face, and Desa rushed to grab the shovel from the utility closet.

They dug a small grave, barely speaking. And when it was time, Desa helped lower Jack’s body into the pit. They covered him, until only a patch in the dirt was left. The physical exertion left Desa sweating, and it wasn’t until Negan let the shovel gently fall against the grass did she begin to weep. The tears came from a place of exhaustion, pain, and sorrow.

Negan let her cry, observing as she fell to her knees. It was only until after the last upheaval that he touched Desa’s shoulder, helping her stand.

“We’ll stay the fucking night, okay? I have a walkie — I’ll radio Simon, let him know.”

They shut and locked the mansions doors. It was now just the two of them, and Desa’s mind became flooded with memories. There had always been noise throughout the building. Residents. Now it was…dead. Dead, except the power. For some reason, the lack of sound made things almost…worse.

“C’mon,” Desa trudged up the stairs, Negan hot on her heels. She was dodging horrific memories, pushing forward until she reached the set of swinging double doors that led to Mother and Father’s room.

It was grand, with a massive bed and bath, intricate paintings and a desk and chair.

“This wasn’t my room, before you ask.”

“I could fucking tell. This art style…doesn’t fucking seem like you.”

“Mother liked art. Father thought all the painting were tacky,” Desa snorted.

“They’d argue about it. Almost like a normal fucking couple.”

“If you exclude the fact that they’re siblings.”

“None of us knew. Some of us suspected,” Desa snorted. “They…they look similar. I just thought they were one of those really well matched couples. Physically, at least. There were other things to worry about, much so that I don’t think many people cared.”

“Why did you want to come up here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to see it because, for the first time, I’m not afraid. Of them. You notice things when you aren’t afraid.”

“What have you noticed?” Negan asked. He was on the other side of the room, hunched a bit. He’d put Lucille against the desk and removed his glove before turning on the lamp, basking the room in a warm orange light.

“I’ve noticed you.”

Negan lifted his head. Desa’s fingers traced patterns against the bedsheets as he approached, more curious than surprised, almost like he hadn’t heard her correctly. He stopped, his breath warm against her cheek.

“At that moment, Desa’s brain reminded her of how sweaty and clammy her skin was. She made a noise in the back of her throat, shifting away from Negan and saying, “I need to shower before I sleep.”

“So do I. And I’m fucking hungry.”

“Mother and Father hid the foods they liked under the bed,” Desa said. “I’m not exactly sure how much variety there is, but it’s food. We can take the rest back with us.”

There was no door to the bathroom. The shower was glass, wide and beautifully tiled.

The bathtub still had her blood in it, dried to the white surface. She quickly looked away, mustering up the courage and forcing herself not to be bothered as she stripped, aware that Negan was staring out of the corner of his eye.

She showered, and then Negan. After, clad in clothes that had once belonged to Mother and Father, they sat on the bed and devoured cans of food. It wasn’t a gourmet meal, but with the moody, dramatic lighting it felt like the closest thing to a date Desa had ever been on in this biter-infested world.

“This was a good idea. Staying overnight.”

“These sheets are softer than mine, goddamn,” Negan felt the fabric beneath his fingers, smirking. After a few chuckles, his face went from mirthful to serious. He shifted positions, a telltale sign of nervousness. Then he said, “Desa, before I went after you…I visited Mother. I fucking killed her. I had to end it right there.”

“You sound like you expected me to be upset. I’m not. I could care less how she dies,” Desa grumbled. She hoped the look on her face didn’t betray her words — she wasn’t lying. Mother’s death was a good thing. A very, very good thing. The fact that they were in her former bedroom, eating food she and Father had once shared, made it even better.

“Now we have one fucking left.”

“If he’s still around. Father is smart. He knows he’s outnumbered. He’ll fall back and strike when its time.”

“Even more of a reason to fucking hunt him down.”

“Hey,” Desa reached out, gently cupping Negan’s cheek, running her thumb across his stubbled jaw. “I’m here for you. I am. But don’t let this get to your head.”

Negan turned his head, kissing Desa’s palm as he murmured, “I won’t. I fucking won’t.”

“Do you see yourself in him, Negan? In Father?” Negan didn’t reply. Desa took his silence as admission, saying, “Because to me, you’re not him. You never will be. I told you I was going to try and understand, and I am.”

Negan nuzzled Desa’s palm, letting out a sigh of contentment. For the first time, Desa initiated the kiss, getting on her knees and dipping her head down to press her lips against his. She was hasty — maybe a bit too hasty, skimming her fingers beneath Negan’s shirt in a subtle hint that she wanted the material off his body. He stopped her, gripping her by the wrists.

“I need to make sure that you fucking want this.”

“I do. Do you?”

Negan nodded. Desa glanced down, toying with the the zipper to his pants. She could feel him, hot and hard beneath the palm of her hand. His breathing was ragged, fingers trembling as he tried to control himself. He leaned forward and gave her an open mouthed kiss, teeth nipping at her lower lip while his hands crept up her shirt.

Desa pulled away, saying quickly, “I don’t know how to do this — I’ve never — I’ve never, done it like…slowly. I’ve never done it like this.”

She kept the explanation simple. She didn’t want to think about her first time with Mother and Father. Negan’s inviting, warm gaze was a comfort.

“We won’t rush. We don’t have to rush,” Negan murmured, continuing to speak as Desa removed his shirt. She traced her fingers across the fading ink on his skin, flattening her palm against the skull on his chest. He added, “Although, I might have to take some fucking time to deal with little Negan.”

“Little Negan?”

“My dick.”

Desa cackled at his bluntness, resting her mouth against his shoulder to stifle her laughter. She wiped tears from her eyes, choking, “You are weird.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have a name for my vagina,” Desa retorted. Negan lightly swatted her ass, before he slipped a finger beneath the hem of her underwear. Desa had opted out of wearing pants — an oversized shirt she’d found in the closet fit just fine. Her attire allowed easy access to her most sensitive parts, and she deftly removed it without a second thought.

“God. You’re fucking soaked,” Negan purred. “Is that all for me?”

Desa squirmed in Negan’s lap, trying to remain stoic as he hooked two fingers, sweeping them across her clit. They felt impossibly large, easing their way inside her. Negan smirked when she gave an audible moan.

“I’ve gotta get you ready for me,” Negan grunted. Desa angled her hips, trying her best not to rock against his fingers. He gave a low whistle, growling, “Fuck. Look at you, riding my fucking fingers.”

He pulled away, leaving Desa half-sated. She reached for him, but he raised his slick fingers, popping them both into his mouth. He gave a satisfied groan.

It was the first time a man had made an effort to pleasure her. Her nights with Father hadn’t been anything but unshared enjoyment, all the pleasure on Father’s side. Desa would just…lay there and take it.

Don’t think about that. Don’t think —

“Negan—”

“What is it, baby?” Negan purred against her skin. He’d pushed his pants and boxers down past his knees before kicking them away. He fisted his erect cock, and Desa fell back against the mattress while he hovered over her, chest heaving. His free hand ripped the thin fabric of Desa’s panties, and in a hoarse voice he said, “Fuck. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you.”

“Good. Fucking good girl,” Negan panted, easing the tip past Desa’s moist folds. She squirmed, whining at the intrusion. It felt foreign, odd — he was bigger than Father. She wasn’t used to being pampered, taken care off. She squeezed the bedsheets, closing her eyes and letting out a soft breath as Negan said, “Shit. Shit, you’re fucking…shit. Does that hurt?”

“A little.”

Negan braced one arm next to her head, thrusting forward abruptly. He leaned down, swallowing Desa’s moans in a kiss. Desa lifted her hips to meet his hard thrusts, mouth open in bliss as he breathily swirled his hips, falling into a steady rhythm stirred on by Desa’s begging.

She clamped around him the moment he snaked a hand around her throat, applying light pressure to her jugular. Beads of sweat dotted her breasts as she came, falling limp as Negan continued pounding into her, pulling out just in time to paint Desa’s lower stomach with pearls of white.

Negan rolled onto his back, raising one knee as he steadied his breathing. The dead silence that followed was enough to nearly put Desa to sleep - her limbs were exhausted, pinpricks of pleasure still jolting through her body.

“That was…good. Great,” Desa turned her head, face flushed. Negan chuckled and she corrected herself, adding, “An understatement, I know. It’s hard to form words right now.”

“I have that effect on people. Or, better yet, my dick has that effect on people,” Negan turned his head, flashing crisp, white teeth.

“I don’t have a reply to that.”

“A laugh would be nice.”

“Those have to come organically,” Desa grinned back, rolling onto her side and facing Negan. “I can give you a compliment, though. You’re handsome. And I really like you, uh, ‘fucking’ me.”

“I like it, too.”

“Can we…do it again?”

“You’re really asking me that?” Negan draped hand across his forehead. “Fuck, baby. You’re gonna wear me the fuck out.”

“Good. You’re just going to have to keep up.”

#vizhi0nw #negans thirst squad

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courage-and-honor · 5 years

Text

Hold The Bridge

[[ Resist and Bite- Sabaton ]]

They did not have the numbers.

Rak’gar knew this, Lothar knew this. Yet still, they fought, unwavering bastions of fury and righteousness against a swelling tide of abominations, aberrations, and daemons that threatened to overtake the strike force with a wall of gnashing teeth and rending claws. If they took even a single step back, it was a loss that they could not afford, not within Antorus.

As his mace swung down upon one of the fel abomination’s head, the rending of bone and sinew cracked through the air like thunder- yet another took its place as quickly as the last was felled. Rak’gar, no matter how many collapsed in a heap at the orc’s feet, was still struggling against the wave. They were not in the snowy fields and hillscapes of Northrend, with their youth intact and their confidence unceasing. They were old men in a battle of frantic desperation, and it was beginning to take its toll.

“Rak’gar!” He shouted amongst the roar of war and the infernal shrieking of the Hellscape. Even his thundering voice felt washed away amidst it all, yet as he searched the field for his comrade in his moment of respite, he could only see wings and limbs and blood. His mace swung again- three fell this time, shattered upon the ground with a grunt of exertion that spoke well of his dwindling fortitude. He finally spotted him, feet from him and his blade dug deep in an Ur’zul’s gaping maw. “Rak’gar! We need to find a better position, lest we lose too much ground!”

“We do not have the luxury,” the greying orc snarled, kicking the dying beast from his blade and biting into an Eredar that had attempted to exploit the opening. She died as it cleaved through her neck and chest, sending her body collapsing to the ground with a shudder. “If we lose this bridge the main forces do not have the means to drive deeper into the hold. We stay. We fight. We die if we must, but we will not lose this bridge.” Lothar opened his mouth to protest, yet Rak’gar’s blade lashed out towards him. The dying shriek of a felbat tore through the air, and Lothar’s mace swung to deliver the blow to silence it in its throes.

In his mind, he knew the orc was right. The loss of the bridge would be a detrimental blow to the Azerothian forces and the Army of Light, something that could not be allowed. Yet without support, their numbers would be overwhelmed if they could not push the demons back. Lothar gritted his teeth, pushing the thought from his mind. Rak’gar always scolded him over thinking too far ahead when there was an issue to be remedied right in front of them.

Hold the bridge.

His mace swung out, cutting down two more. A third. A forth. A step forward.

Hold the bridge.

His right hand glowed bright, calling upon the burning fury that he was blessed with and sending it sweeping from him in an arc. He could hear the wails of the damned and the crackling of their skin as the holy fire razed the lines in front of him. Rak’gar had pushed forward in the opening to cleave open the ranks further. In the opening that the orc had made, the battered forces of Azeroth now rushed to form a bulwark in the gained ground, shields, swords, axes, scythes, they all now bit at the tide of daemons as relentlessly as their mortal bodies allowed.

He heard the dull thrum of siege machines, and as the Army of Light launched their blazing catapults into the rear daemonic forces, Lothar heard a roar.

Lothar’s gaze raked to his left, and in an instant, he watched a pair of wings rip up into the air. His heart wavered upon seeing the Doomguard lift himself from the ranks, although it stopped upon seeing just who was underneath him. Rak’gar was unmoving, his face turned away from the paladin. Before Lothar could even realize he was moving, he was already charging the beast. His mace swung upon one of those half-spread wings at the joint as he flanked it, sending the sinewy flesh crumpling downwards, yet as the Doomguard turned to face him, its ax swung out. Howling in pain as it arced from his hip to the base of his skull, he expected to feel the ground and the call of death shortly after, yet whether it be by adrenaline or otherwise, he was still standing.

His realization came in time, and as the beast swung down towards him once more, he mustered all that he could. His hand glowed bright, and with a wild snarl, he sent the wave of holy energy rippling into the demon.

The demon’s entire left side erupted in holy fire and concussive force, sending it reeling backward and screaming in both rage and agony. Lothar’s eyes glowed brightly as the ground beneath him cracked and filled with the Light’s vengeance itself. The creature staggered slipping in the blood of daemon and Azerothian alike, yet its struggle was culled as a mace swung down, once... twice... Its head was caved with the force of the blow.

There was no exhaustion anymore.

There was no pain anymore.

Consumed by blinding light and inexorable fury, he directed the energy into the weapon he held, a boot clodding against the ruined skull of the Doomguard. Like a beacon, it flashed and roared amongst the blood and smoke as he stood upon the defeated demon.

He opened his mouth, and his voice thundered.

“We hold this bridge!”

Lothar woke with a start, ripped from the world that his dreams had once again taken him to. Before him, the concerned expression of a priestess eyed him, and behind her, the sympathetic stares of two others.

“Sir Knight, you shouted in your sleep, are you alright?” She asked gently, a hand placed on Lothar’s forearm. Yet as he took in his surroundings, he found that he had fallen asleep within the Cathedral. Groaning idly and lifting a hand to rub his face, he nodded.

“I am.” He mumbled softly. “I was waiting for medical supplies, I must have fallen asleep. Could you see if they are ready for me so that I may deliver them?” The priestess smiled, offering him a nod before she retracted her hand and stood straight.

“Of course, Sir Knight, it’ll be a moment.”

Offering her simple thanks and watching her depart, he lifted his hand, thumb and forefinger rubbing at his eyesockets. He blamed himself for not being at Rak’gar’s side, yet with his son laying in his hunting lodge, he felt himself reliving the personal failure more vividly.

His hand reached for the vial that hung at his hip next to his codex, fashioned from the fang of a direwolf, and he let out a low, exhausted sigh.

Rak’gar was right.

He did not have the luxury to falter.

#LotharVikarsson #OfCourageandHonor

0 notes

veronicatheslayer · 7 years

Text

Goin’ To The Chapel And We’re Going To Get Murdered || Ricky and Veronica

Ricky, Veronica and some members of the clergy go on a supply run.

Veronica had been stuck in the church for three days now. It had been three days since the blizzard had really picked up and right now it didn't seem to be showing any signs of stopping. People had sheltered within the church walls, which were surprisingly warm. They had a generator so when a power cut struck they were able to keep the lights on and for a while their stores of food had held out. But it had run out faster than they had expected and that was why Veronica was looking down at a rather deep snow drift several feet below her. "I'll go first," she said, looking at Ricky, Father Duffy and Sister Gretchin. They had been the ones who had volunteered to come with Ricky and her to grab supplies, and as slayers Veronica thought that they should be fine. It wasn't going to be hard, just a bit of a journey to a store, grab some food and the other essentials and then come home. "See you on the other side," she said jokingly, before dropping down into a hanging position from the balcony and crunching into the snow.

If Ricky had known he'd be sleeping in a church with a bunch of nuns he definitely wouldn't have worn a t-shirt that said "save water shower together." He'd given his sweatshirt to a kid two days ago, and as their food stores had started to dwindle, had gone the last 24 hours without eating. The church hadn't stocked much by way of meat anyway. A more pressing concern to Ricky was the madness slowly sleeping into his mind. He hadn't transformed in four days and it was catching up to him. He could see the Jeep's teal outline from the balcony and made sure his keys were in his pocket. Turning back to Father Duffy and Sister Gretchen he looked down to where Veronica had jumped. "Sister I'll jump first and catch you when you jump. You can start the car with Ms. Babineaux and then I'll stick around to make sure Father gets down okay." This was an adventure to be sure

To be quiet honest, there hadn't been much to do other than wait the snow storm out. At least that was what they had thought at first, but as it got worse and worse, Veronica begun to wonder when it would stop. Driving winds and biting cold dug into her and she couldn't help but worry that they'd run out of supplies. That was why she had volunteered for this. Though she was glad that Ricky had come with her. She was also worried about his seal business, she didn't want him to go insane. Maybe they could make a slight detour while the priests and nuns that they were bringing along with them grabbed food. "Come on down Ricky!" she shouted as she looked at around at the mounds where snowmen and snowwomen had been sculpted a few days ago.

As Ricky jumped down into snow that reached nearly to his waist he turned, holding his arms out for the Slayer Nun to leap down. As he caught her he thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye but dismissed it as he rummaged through his pockets "here's the keys. Heat kicks on pretty quickly so that's a blessing." As she turned to trudge towards Veronica he saw, at least he could swear he did, one of the snowmen start to turn "V! It's been four days so I can't be sure but hostiles in the snow!" She'd know what he meant as he turned back to the balcony "Come on Father! Let's put a hustle on. I'm too pretty for the cold." He didn't like not being able to trust his eyes. He needed to know what he saw was real

Veronica waded through the snow as fast as she possibly could. She didn’t want to be out here anymore than she had to. Her skiing holidays had taught her that the cold could be a ruthless and a brutal killer. Yet as sister Gretchin reached her, she realised that the mounds that had once been covered in snow were now beginning to move. The snowmen that the children had put together a few days ago were now moving, sharp teeth formed in their mouths as they snapped hungrily. “Ricky, grab the Father and get to the Jeep! Sister, get the Jeep running, we need to get out of here.” The Church would be safe but they needed the supplies. Surging through the snow, Veronica did the only thing that she knew how to do, she kicked the head right off of the first snowman who tried to bite her.

Veronica's kick to the head of a sentient snowman was all Ricky needed to know that his eyes hadn't been deceiving him "up on my back, Father. You're too short for snow running." As soon as the priest was holding firmly to his broad shoulders Ricky charged through the snow as fast as he could, keeping an eye out for any moving mounds of snow. As soon as he'd deposited Duffy in the backseat he dove into the driver's seat and slammed into reverse, backing over a snowman trying to gnash on his fender "what the everloving....." be cut himself off before he moved himself even closer to Hell in the eyes of the church as they churned down the snowing roads "alright. That's weird right? Everyone else is on board with the vote that that's weird? Yeah? Good. Where are we going first?"

Honestly, as she knocked the snowman's head off and it kept coming at her, Veronica was now certain that she had seen it all. A few more well placed blows knocked the rest of the snowman to bits, though she couldn't help but notice the way that the snow seemed to surge together once more. That was certainly worrying to say the least. As Ricky's Jeep roared to life and he backed it into the road, Veronica decided that it wasn't time to debate this. Leaping over the back of the Jeep, she sighed as relief flooded her system. "That was very weird," Veronica confirmed as the Jeep cut through snow and sped through the deserted streets of Ashkent Creek. "Go to the general store," she said, "that will have everything we need." Though she wasn't sure that it would have exactly what they wanted, she wasn't about to take the chance and go somewhere riskier. Like near the Common, which was certain to be full of snowmen.

Ricky kept one hand on the gear shift and one hand white-knuckled on the wheel as he drove as fast as he was safely able "Swear on the sea it's you, Veronica. This stuff doesn't happen to me when I'm with other people. Most of the time. Like 80% of my supernatural involvement is with you around." He plowed through a red light, they were the only ones on the road anyway, and pulled to a screeching halt outside the General Store, looking with dismay at the once-adorable family of snowmen that had now turned fanged and bloodthirsty and were approaching the car. "Ice cold hearts, fangs, hungry for flesh." He murmured softly so only Veronica could hear "Its like looking in a damn mirror." He raised his voice "Father! There's a tire iron under your seat. I'm gonna back up and run these things over and we're all gonna make a run for it. But we saw how fast hey reformed so we're gonna have to book it. We ready?" He backed up and revved his engine charging forward again to plow through the living snow "get some!"

Raising an eyebrow as she climbed over Sister Gretchin and Father Duffy, Veronica slid into the front seat besides Ricky already cursing herself for her lack of weaponry. She had thought that the Church of Saint Iron would be the safest place for them to go. Obviously not. That was the last time she didn't bring her daggers with her. "I'd like to say that you were wrong," she replied with a shrug, "but I would be lying, I seem to attract these sorts of situations and believe me I enjoy them about as much as you do." She laughed gently, for the first time since they left the church in good humour, "you're much better looking than the snowmen," she said as he plowed through them. Leaping out of the front seat she moved to the front door of the store, rattling it. "Don't you dare kick that down Veronica," Father Duffy snapped, his voice commanding despite his small stature, "we'll go around the back, come on." Leading the way round the back of the store Veronica couldn't help but bless their luck. So far the snowmen hadn't reformed and there was an open window. "Father, I don't know what the Bible says about open windows and I don't particularly care, get in there and open the door for us, Gretchin, Ricky and I will deal with the snowmen."

Ricky almost burst out laughing at his favorite Slayer getting chastised by a tiny priest. It added to the strange and bizarre nature of the day. As they walked around the back he twirled the tire iron between his hands, breathing as evenly as he could to try to keep himself steadied and in the moment. He planted his back to the wall of the building as he waited for Duffy to get the door open, seeing the first couple of reformed snowmen rolling around the corner of the building "sooner is better than later, Father." He called out as he strode forward to meet the threat, cold steel smashing through the light snow as he attempted to break his assailant down to the smallest possible bits. Anything to give it as much trouble as possible when reforming. "There's a strange sort of sadistic delight in this I gotta admit." He called back to Veronica as he kept slashing and stomping at the snowman. "but I could probably use some help."

Veronica had to admit that she was starting to worry about Ricky. He was beginning to act odd and more odd than usual. She worried that he was neglecting his need to be a selkie and she didn't want him turning mad on her anytime soon. But it wasn't exactly a topic that they could openly discuss now. "You might as well tell him to take his time for all the good it is going to do," she said with a laugh as she saw the first snowman come around the corner, its jaw already snapping. Lunging forward for one of the snowmen, she grabbed it by the sides of its head and wrenched it off the body. Hurling it into the next snowman and knocking it over she turned and began to stomp on it as hard as possible. The snowmen were slow, really they were easy prey, but considering that they didn't stay down for very long and the fact they outnumbered them, Veronica wasn't hopeful of their chances in a prolonged battle. Watching Sister Gretchin, Veronica saw her knock snowman after snowman down. For an older lady she was surprisingly strong, though that was probably the slayer in the nun. "It is certainly a work out," she said as they were backed towards the door, a snowman lunged and Veronica knocked it away as the door swung open and Father Duffy gestured for them to join him inside. "Come on!"

The moment Father Duffy swung the door open, Ricky took one final stomp on the snowman he'd been keeping down and ran for the door, making sure Veronica and Sister Gretchin were inside before he slammed the door shut and locked it back up again. "Okay. So. We're here. Let's grab some carts and get enough food for the people back at the church. We have no idea how long we're going to be stuck there." He watched as the two clergy struck out on their mission before pulling Veronica back towards the door "you might have to leave me behind. It's getting hard to focus. Hard to do anything. I can make it back to my apartment from here but after we load the jeep up I might have to give you the keys and just go home. I've never gone this long before."

Sprinting in the store, Veronica heard a loud thump and a slight crack as a wall of snow that had once been snowmen crashed into the door. Yet despite the slightly worrying crack, everything seemed to be holding. Moving further into the store, Veronica grabbed a cart and was making her way round when Ricky pulled her over. "Is it because of your skin?" she asked, concern immediately flooding her system. "I can't just leave you to get back on your own Ricky," she said immediately discounting the idea, "and don't bother arguing because if I have to tie you up and carry you around I will." She stopped mid aisle, a bag of rice in her hand simply hovering over the cart. "How long can you last? Because once we've gotten the food back to the church I'll drive you to your apartment and then to a swimming pool or the ocean or something."

Ricky groaned in frustration as Veronica proved just as obstinate as he had feared that she would be. He listened to the thumping of snowmen against the thick door and ran fingers through cold and damp hair "yeah. It's been too long and I'm starting to see what my mom always warned me about. You absolutely can and you should. It's just a couple blocks back to my apartment and you have a church full of children to feed." He pulled down several cans of vegetables and corned beef hash as they kept making their way down the aisle "I probably can't make it another 24 hours. I know I can't. I'm starting to lose control of my senses. It's the opposite of fun by the way."

Veronica had already made a decision when Ricky started loading the cart up. "Well we had better hurry up then, because we are working against the clock and I'm not talking figuratively here." She grabbed some more canned goods and made her way to the front door. Pulling her purse out, she dropped a stack of notes on the counter and made sure Sister Gretchin and Father Duffy were ready. Grabbing some bags, she quickly loaded the food into them and grabbed her food. "Here is the plan, we make a break for it, drop you and the food back at the church and then me and Ricky are going to have to head back to his apartment to get him some medicine that he needs." She didn't leave room for questions before kicking the front door open and sprinting out of the store, the snowmen didn't notice her as she leaped into the Jeep, dropped her bags and started the engine. "Come on, get in!"

Whatever else could be said of Veronica, she was a woman of action. Ricky followed her as she charged out the door, turning just in time to see Sister Gretchen catch a mouthful of fangs to the torso. Her scream cut across the empty parking lot and Ricky turned to try to help her, only to be stopped by Father Duffy and herded towards the car "We all knew the risks. We cannot put everyone at the church at risk for one life. She took an oath to do the same if one of us fell." Ricky locked eyes with Gretchin just before she was covered by a herd of snowmen and her screams were cut short. He slammed himself into the passenger seat as Veronica started the car and peeled out, hand automatically seeking the rosary tucked against his chest. "Hail Mary full of grace the lord is with the." The words came out in a tumble as they sped back towards the church "blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary mother of God pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Watch over our sister Gretchin as she ascends to her final rest at thy holy son's side. In the name of the father the son and the Holy Ghost. Amen." His hands shook as they drove along the road; he was getting awful tired of death.

The screams of Sister Gretchen made Veronica want to help. But she knew that there was nothing she could do, the sister was a slayer who had devoted her life to God. She would be happy that she had died helping the people in her church and yet as the red mist of blood began to envelope the snowmen who tore her apart limb from limb, Veronica couldn't help but wish that she had been able to do something. As Ricky prayed out loud, Veronica said her own silent prayer hoping that Gretchen had truly ascended to the heaven that she had told Veronica of before. She looked back at Father Duffy for a moment, tears were pouring down his face and the sight alone set her off. Fiercely wiping her own tears from her face she turned away from the father and shook her head. Slamming her foot on the pedal and driving as quickly as she could back to the church.

The ride back was fraught with emotions nobody wanted to confront or express. As Veronica plowed through the snowmen in the church courtyard Ricky gathered the bags close to him. The moment she stopped he flung himself from the car and ran the food back into the church as fast as he could. Various Sisters took the bags from him and when all the groceries had been run inside he made his way back to the Jeep and the waiting Veronica "You can stay here. It's safer. I can make it home by myself." He knew she wouldn't, or couldn't, but he felt he had to say it anyway. Something had to break the silence.

Veronica shook her head before slamming her foot on the accelerator and heading to Ricky's house.

#touchofchatzy #touchofpotw #para #p: ricky #goin' to the church and we're gonna get murdered #gore tw

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[HR] The Harrowing - A quick busride into Hell - Pt 1

Hal coughed and blinked open his burning eyes, his breath stuttering as a wave of heat and nausea rolled over him. Holding his position bent forward against the steering wheel of the intercity transit bus, he took several deep, ragged breaths, focusing down at a mustard stain on his outsized middle as he attempted to regain his bearings.

Another blast of heat assaulted him, hot enough to cause him to wince beneath the cover of his folded arms, and he shook his head weakly from side to side. Hazy memories began to cohere with his rational mind, and as they did, the distant sound of screeching began to rise in his ears.

Screeching—the screeching of tires… the pain in his arm and chest… the impact

Jerking upright, Hal clutched a hand to his heart, gasping and squeezing at the meat of his chest. He was still in the bus… He had been driving, but then… Blinking furiously, he tried to make sense of his surroundings.

A second wave of screeching wails met his ears and he frowned, turning to squint out through the glass doors. Where was he? He had been driving through the tunnel, but that didn’t look like concrete they were wedged up against… And that sound… That wasn’t tires against pavement. It almost sounded like—

“—A great wailing and gnashing of teeth…”

Hal spun in his seat, searching for the source of the unfamiliar voice. His eyes fell on a man—a priest, clearly, by the collar at his throat. Black of hair with gray at the temples, he stood, staring out the window before him, a distant and highly troubling expression on his face.

Hal grunted a bit as he leaned to unfasten his seatbelt, then turned the rest of the way to take in the state of his passengers.

Staring back, he paused. Where were the rest of them? There had been at least eighteen passengers at his last stop—where were they?

Only three people remained on the bus: the priest, still staring through the window, a young woman, maybe eighteen at most, dressed to the nines in the thickest goth glam Hal had ever seen, and a young man wearing dark-rimmed glasses and sea-green scrubs. Both of the latter two were finding their feet, beginning to stare about at their surroundings, a look of confusion, similar to that which Hal, himself, was feeling etching their features.

“Is everyone alright?” Hal asked hoarsely. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Saved…” The priest’s voice was quiet and distant.

Hal waited, but no further explanation followed. Shaking his head, he turned away. Sounds like EMS must have already started getting folks out. And just as well—Hal really didn’t feel like dealing with a shellshocked priest just now.

Reaching his hand out, he fumbled to open the door, but it was jammed hard against the wall of the tunnel. Heaving himself up and out of the driver’s seat, he started walking down the center aisle.

He stopped short when he made it to the priest. He hadn’t moved as Hal approached, just stood there like a statue, staring out the window. Heat pressed hard against the side of Hal’s face, and he turned to look out the same window.

Flames glowed against the outside of the bus, stuttering and flaring in unsteady bursts, fighting against the interior lighting for dominance against the thin pane of tinted glass.

Shit! we’re on fire! Hal caught a momentary glimpse of his own stunned face in the reflection as the fire wavered and disappeared once again.

Pushing past the priest, he quickly moved to the rear exit, throwing his shoulder hard against the glass-paned door when it wouldn’t immediately open. It budged, but only by a small crack, and through it, Hal was able to glimpse a mangled, soot-covered mass of corrugated steel, the remains of what looked like a shipping container, wedged tightly against the outside. He pushed against the door once more, but quickly gave up, turning back to try the emergency exit instead.

Glass imploded from the opposite side of the bus, and a shriveled, smoking form hurtled in through the broken window.

“Shit! Shit—oh shit!” The man in scrubs was shouting, scrambling over the back of the seat in an effort to distance himself from the burned and twisted body writhing in the aisle, right next to where he had been sitting. A few seats forward, the goth chick began screaming.

A sigh of relief passed over the lips of the burned man, and Hal watched in shock as he relaxed against the filthy floor in what looked like rapture, nuzzling one blackened cheek against the rubber aisle.

What in the hell is going on?

The rush of searing heat from the broken window brought Hal’s attention back up, and the sound of screaming and screeching increased.

Dammit, we’ve got to get out of here. “Alright, everyone—off the bus, now! We’ll send EMS for him.” Crossing to the emergency exit, he jerked the lever up with one thick fist and threw it wide. Glass crunched underfoot as he waved the passengers forward.

Goth chick was the first to jump ship, skirting around the smoking and sizzling man with a squeamish twist of her fishnet-clad legs, leather boots notwithstanding. The man in scrubs, casting one hesitant glance downward on his way past, quickly followed.

“Yo, padre, you coming?”

The priest, unmoved from his distant attentiveness, even through the entrance of the burning man, blinked at Hal as if coming back to himself and then nodded, turning to follow the others through the small exit.

A scorching gust greeted Hal as he stumbled heavily to the ground, and he lifted an arm protectively in front of his face. Squinting through the caustic, sulfuric wind, he found the others just a few feet away, hovering close together far back in the space between the bus and the wall.

Light flared from directly beside the huddled group and they all cried out as the nearest set of tires ignited and burst, dropping the bus sharply in their direction. Goth chick threw herself against the wall of the cave but then immediately jerked away again, as if burned, heavy streaks of black mascara running down her cheeks as she began to hyperventilate.

“Where are we?” she cried, staring around the dark space with wild eyes. “What happened?”

Hal held both hands out toward her, palms out, hoping to stave off any more hysterics. He really didn’t have time for hysterics. “Look, just calm down. Nobody panic. Miss, what’s your name?”

Frantic eyes found his face. “A-Amelia.”

Hal nodded, then turned to the man in scrubs.

“Doctor Benjamin Turner,” he answered at Hal’s raised brows. “I’m a resident at County General.”

We’re in the middle of a freaking emergency and this guy’s going to make sure I know he’s a doctor? Hal shook his head, spitting out a globule of ash-tasting saliva before turning to the priest.

The father furrowed his brows. “Who I was doesn’t really matter now. My judgement has been passed.”

Judgement? The hell’s wrong with this guy? Ignoring his words, Hal asked instead, “You said the others were already rescued. Where’s EMS? The cops?”

The priest just stared at him. Hal stared back, the expression on the father’s face making him think there was something he wasn’t catching on to. Another blast of heat pressed against him, and he scrunched his eyes shut.

He shook his head. “Whatever, Padre. Come on, we’ve got to get out of this tunnel before the whole bus blows.”

“I wouldn’t.” The priest’s voice held a note of warning, and Hal paused in his motion of turning toward the rear of the bus where a small gap remained between it and the wall.

“Excuse me?”

“This cave, this… crevice, of unnotice—this is likely our last reprieve before final judgement throws us eternally into the fiery furnace. Whatever breath of the Kingdom we carried here with us… it will not abide long, not here.”

Fiery furnace? Judgement? Hal blinked hard at the man, shaking his head in frustrated bewilderment. “Dude, what the hell are you—” but then he broke off, slapping a hand to the side of his face as, with a painful flash, he remembered.

His vision shrinking to a small, bright haze; passengers and tires screaming in equal volume as the bus spun sideways; the oncoming semi careening through the freeway tunnel…

Shaking his head, Hal cleared his spinning brain. “Are you telling me…” he began, a sinking drop plummeting from the pit of his stomach all the way to his toes. Then he shook his head again, scoffing at the ridiculous notion. This guy must have hit his head something fierce. “You’re crazy. How could a priest and a doctor end up in Hell?” He cast a momentary glance at Amelia but said nothing, earning a reproachful look in return. He ignored this, though; clearly, she hadn’t been going to church in those platform boots…

Doctor Benjamin Turner, MD looked slightly uncomfortable, but it was the priest who replied. “It’s not simply a matter of our deeds that save our souls.” Then he took a ragged breath, staring out past the rear of the bus at the dim glow of light filtering in. “And it would appear that some sins truly are unforgivable…”

Hal spared him one last incredulous look before turning away. “Whatever you say, Padre. I’m getting out of here.” He motioned to Amelia. “You coming? Doc?”

Doc Turner nodded and moved to follow Hal and Amelia toward the dim light at the end of the tunnel.

The bus had halted crookedly in the narrow space, and there was only a small crack between the rear of the vehicle and the wall in which to pass through. Sucking in his gut, Hal squeezed his body through the narrow gap, wincing as the heat of the stone burned his skin. His thoughts unconsciously slid back to the priest’s ominous statement as he felt it sear across his back.

A rush of scorching air blew past him as he emerged around the bus, and he spun away from it, blinking to find the others following with much less difficulty. Clearing the ashy grit from his eyes, he turned back to the red glow. The sound of screaming was louder, nearly overwhelming, and Hal found himself adamantly denying the priest’s words. Again. And again. And then again.

A horn blast, deep and thunderous, shook the tunnel with its basso call. Slapping his hands over his ears, Hal ducked his head, cowering against the heated wall. Through his squinted vision, he saw the red light at the end of the tunnel begin to flash.

Firetrucks! Thank God! But did they have to blare the horn like that?

He turned to the others. “Looks like EMS is straight ahead,” he shouted over the remaining echo. “Likely thought it was too dangerous to enter the tunnel or something.” That would do it, right? They were worried about the integrity of the tunnel so they didn’t drive the vehicles in? He choked and coughed on another lungful of caustic smoke, surprised at the worry he felt when he realized… it didn’t smell like diesel fumes. A tendril of flame shot up the wall to his right and he shied away.

Amelia peeled her hands away from her ears. “Something’s not right,” she whimpered, staring around at the confining space.

“Look,” Hal maintained, “you can see the flashers—they’re less than fifty yards away.”

Doc Turner moved around her, staring at the mouth of the tunnel as he wiped his forearm across his face. A streak of black remained in its place. “No, she’s right.”

“I’m telling you—” Hal argued, motioning to the light, now a dim, steady red again, and he hesitated. Not flashing?

“Look at this place,” the doctor hissed through a choked cough. “Does it look like a traffic tunnel to you?”

Hal stared at him, squinting against the caustic air, the smell of sulfur and hot iron thick in his nostrils.

“Look!” And as the young resident’s arm shot around in a frustrated attempt at illustration, Hal looked. Really looked. He blinked through the haze of heat, searching the walls, the ceiling, the floors.

Where were the lamps? No lines on the road? Those walls were made of stone, jagged and rocky, not concrete… Where the hell…? But he stopped that thought dead in its tracks.

“Look, it doesn’t matter where we are! We need to get out before that whole bus goes up in flames!” Not waiting for an answer, Hal spun and began marching down the tunnel, skirting sporadic bursts of flame as he moved purposefully on, trying to ignore the rising sense of dread growing in his middle as the sound of cries and wails increased with every step, trying to keep his pace steady as the blistering wind blew with increasing fury against the exposed skin of his face and hands… trying not to think of the priest’s words.

But as he emerged through the mouth of the tunnel, all thoughts of denial or rescue or redemption left him.

Towering walls of rock and flame extended out from either side of him in an endless stretch, curving around until they faded into the distance amid a rippling haze of smoke and heat. Slowly, his gaze followed the concave arc of jagged rock as it plummeted downward to form a fiery, gaping basin.

Hell was a bowl… Hell was one giant, inescapable bowl filled with writhing bodies, all screaming and scrambling over each other in a bid to climb to the higher reaches. Hal followed the rise of the sloping walls, his eyes tracking the burning escarpments up to where they terminated, high above them, their peaks shrouded in a glowing black event horizon of brimming darkness. The darkness sucked at him, pulling at his clothes, his duty vest, whipping the burning heat over his face until he was forced to turn away from the boundless expanse before him.

A scream from right beside him caused him to jump, and he spun to find a body, crusted and blistered, climbing over the edge of the cliff at their feet. One smoking hand was clasped around Amelia’s leather-clad ankle.

She screamed again and kicked out at the body, breaking its grip and causing it to fall backward from where it had emerged. Shocked, Hal quickly stepped to the brink. Leaning cautiously out over the edge, he watched as it tumbled, crashing against rocks and other bodies in its descent, those bodies joining the first to create a grotesque cascade plummeting to the center of the fiery bowl where they disappeared with agonal shrieks into a vast, burning lake.

Hal stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape the precipice. Suddenly, the horn sounded again, and, in a panic, he ducked beneath the shelter of his arms, pressing his forearms hard against his ears when his hands overshot their goal. He felt a rumbling begin in the soles of his feet as the horrid blast reverberated over the increasing volume of cries and screams. And as he looked up, his frantic gaze sweeping the ledge, torrents of writhing bodies burst from the walls in all directions, flowing over each other in macabre rivers of flesh, oozing from cracks and crevices as if the walls themselves were bleeding.

Hal flung himself backward into the passage right as the bodies began tumbling over the mouth of the tunnel in a sickening waterfall of limbs and twisted faces. The heavy, repetitive sound of flesh smacking into stone made Hal’s gorge rise and he backed away, deeper into the darkness to find the others already there—all three of them, including the priest.

The father simply stared out at the gruesome river of fire and flesh, a grim acceptance in his features as he began to edge forward.

“Father!” Hal shouted, gagging as fear-ridden nausea clamped his throat closed and his stomach heaved.

“I am undeserving of that title,” the priest answered sadly, waiting for the cascade of bodies to ebb before moving closer to the lip of the cliff and staring down toward the lake of roiling fire.

Hal coughed and gagged again, shielding his face with a forearm as a blast of heat smelling of brimstone and burning corpses rose up from the depths below. “Father, get back!”

But the priest kept inching forward, eyeing the lake with a terrible intensity. “The fire already grows hotter. If I commend myself now, before the torment truly begins, will I meet oblivion? If I seek my second death, rather than flee it, will it still be eternal fire that awaits me?”

Hal watched in horror as the priest inched a toe over the edge. Perhaps it was simple instinct that caught at the man, for Hal truly believed, in that moment, that the priest was about to commit to that second, irreversible step. But, instead, he stumbled, wheeling an arm out behind him to catch his balance before he could slip fully over the edge.

Amelia, eyes wild, darted forward and grabbed the back of his jacket. “What are you doing?” she cried, clutching at his sleeve, pulling him back toward the mouth of the tunnel where he stumbled and fell against the inside wall. He was breathing heavily, and there were deep furrows in the center of his forehead.

He didn’t seem capable of answering her, though. He just sat there, staring out at the infinite space, listening to the cries and struggles of the multitude, now once again climbing up the fiery walls.

“We need to get back to the bus.”

Hal looked around. It was the doctor who had spoken. “What?”

“The bus—didn’t you hear what the priest said before? He knew where we were the moment we came to. We weren’t getting burned back there—we need to go back!”

Sure enough, Hal could see the skin on Doc Turner’s face beginning to redden and chap from the blistering wind that was a constant plague here, outside the tunnel. Nodding, Hal heaved himself up and staggered after the others, back toward the bus.

He collapsed against the tires when they finally reached their goal. Had it been so hot here before? He was breathing heavily, gasping against the rawness of the heat, tears cutting paths through the soot and smoke on his face as they leaked unbidden from the corners of his stinging eyes. Hal wiped a hand across his face, absently surprised when his fingers didn’t come away dripping with sweat and tears; the heat had cooked the moisture right off the surface of his skin.

Suddenly, he remembered what had befallen the last set of tires, and he quickly pushed himself away, moving instead to the open emergency exit door.

“Jesus Christ!” Hal leaped back, clutching a hand to his heart as he met the raw and blackened gaze of the burned man.

He sat crouched in the opening of the small door, blocking Hal’s way and grinning down at him with a lipless leer. “Not anymore,” he rasped, “but once, yes.”

The priest shuffled near, peering around Hal as he blocked the heat from a nearby burst of flame with a sleeve. “Blasphemy!”

The tormented soul chortled in low, gravelly tones. “Oh, yes. Plenty of that around here, as well.”

“Ignore his words. He is one of the damned.”

“And here, too, you stand, priest—unworthy servant.”

Hal felt another wave of nausea rise up when a globule of flesh ripped away from the body’s half-formed lips as he spat out his words. The doctor suddenly looked as sick as Hal felt, but Amelia was staring at the creature with a look of morbid fascination. …Perhaps a similar fascination as what landed her here in the first place.

“Who are you?” she asked, inching closer, her voice just audible over the rush of flame and wind.

“I am old and again, and your histories know me well,” he hissed. “I have been named Nero, Vlad, Khan, Himmler… I have ruled you, conquered you, taught you and enlightened you. I have been your king, your council—I have even been your pope.”

The priest curled his lip at this last but did not speak.

“Amun, you may call me, as that was how I lived first.”

“Amun,” Amelia echoed.

But then Doc Turner pushed his way forward, causing Amelia to stumble even closer to the burned man. “You’ve been all those people—you’ve gotten out?”

Suddenly, Hal was paying very close attention.

“Mmmm,” the soul crooned, “oh yes, there is a way out…” But then he struck like a snake, darting his hand out and catching Amelia by the throat, jerking her close.

Hal and the others leapt forward, but they were brought up short by Amelia’s terrified squeak when the charred fingers abruptly tightened their hold. Amelia was squirming and whimpering, but Hal’s gaze was drawn, transfixed, to the creature’s hand and arm, where, in the manner of flames coruscating over burning wood, new flesh was beginning to ripple and bloom over the once scorched and peeling extremity.

“There is a way,” Amun continued, inches from Amelia’s shuddering face, tipping his head slightly as he took in her porcelain features. “And if you take me there, I will deliver you from an eternity of torment.” The grinning face moaned, and Hal watched in horror as a slender tongue slipped out and licked Amelia from neck to hair.

__________________________CONTINUE READING + PART 2_____________________________

Continue to part 2

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