#i know the fire brigade probably gets called when you hit the emergency stop in an elevator
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raising cain | 001
din djarin x ofc
pairing: spy!din djarin x spy!ofc
rating: explicit, 18+ mdni
summary: at a private gala in berlin, two agents slip inside, uninvited. unbeknownst to one another, and working for seperate agencies, they prepare to bring the same target to justice. the only problem is - one of them wants him dead, and the other wants him alive. who will succeed? will the strange connection they feel stop them from completing their mission?
warnings/tags: modern au, spy!din can bring them in warm or he can bring them in cold, ofc is named + has short hair + is french, alcohol consumption, brief + unemotional mention of being an orphan, violence [including impersonal violence between din and ofc], descriptions of blood and injury and [briefly] brain matter, murder, very brief mention of sex trafficking, sexual tension like hello, choking [sexual and non sexual], ofc has an interesting relationship with pleasure and pain, fingering [not technically in public, but certainly not in private], kinda dom!din, explicit rough unprotected piv sex... on the floor... carpet burns... okay bye.
word count: 9.7k
series masterlist | main masterlist
to raise cain means to cause a commotion, to create a disturbance, to make trouble.
a/n: my only defence is that i've been watching too many james bond movies lately. also, for the record, i love berlin. also also, the smut in this made me blush. okay hope you guys like this one x
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this is part one of raising cain.
BERLIN, FEBRUARY
It is bitterly cold, and she hates Berlin.
Not because of the weather, although it never helps to visit a city one loathes while the windows are covered in a thick layer of ice and the ground a slippery sheen of sleet.
No, Cain hates Berlin because it has always been a city of business for her. Never pleasure, nor entertainment.
In the car, en route to the gala, a driver escorts her by the Staatsoper Unter den Linden, the Berliner Dom, the Altes Museum, and each one passes her by in a blur of beige architecture and pretty lights. Endeavours for another trip, another year, another life.
She pays her driver in cash and thanks him for taking the scenic route. In broken English he slips his number into her palm and asks if she will use his services the next time she visits Berlin. She smiles and nods and doesn’t tell him that she hopes to never return.
Her dress is a flimsy thing. One of satin and silk that clings to the skin of her arms, her torso. It curls around her ankles, just shy of brushing the ground as she exits the car. The air outside bites against her skin. Her feet ache and cry out for reprieve, strapped into a skimpy pair of shoes that pinch at her toes as she glides across the cobblestone path.
A clean-shaven man stands at the door, adorned in a modest suit and a winding earpiece. He requests her name, notes her face, and grants her entry with a strict nod and an all too brief once over. Handsomely oblivious to the comforting weight of a weapon at the inside of her thigh.
The venue is small, but the crowd is thick, pulsing with life; dense enough for her to mingle, to go unnoticed as she glides through the ground floor, blending into a mix of countless other women dressed in long slinky dresses. She wears black because they all do; her makeup is simple because she did not come to be remembered.
She accepts a flute of champagne from a man with a tray. Offers him a graceful smile and a softly spoken danke schön, and waits until his back is turned before tipping the golden liquid into a plant at the base of the staircase.
Chancellor Karl Weber skirts past her, one of the most powerful men in the German government, and she does not meet his eye.
She is patient; thoughtful as she surveys the room. She knows better than to move too quickly. She counts the exits and entries, the number of security guards and wait staff. Assesses the balcony that overlooks the room, curving around the entirety of the upper level, and slips up a winding staircase when she is sure no one is watching.
With every upward step, the lengthy slit down the side of her dress parts, revealing the soft skin of her legs.
There’s something intimate about the balcony space. Red velvet drapery covers the walls, hanging from the roof and spooling against the floors in soft crimson swirls. She takes in her surroundings, fingers twinkling across the gorgeous fabric as she walks. A slim door around the bend, at the other side of the upper level, reads NUR FÜR MITARBEITER; staff only.
Another, a few paces behind where she settles, leads to a small bathroom. Six private stalls, one with a thin window above the toilet, just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Beyond it; open air, a thick pipe that leads down to the street. Perfect for scaling.
Assuming a position near the bathroom, she tucks herself amongst the drapes. Lets shadows and velvet caress her skin and hide her from prying eyes as she juts out a knee and slips a slender hand between her thighs.
The pistol is dense. Thick and black, it rests heavily in her palm as she slips a titanium cylinder from her purse. Deft fingers lead the butt of the suppressor to the mouth of the pistol. Pin meets groove and she lets it spin, stroking cool metal as she twists and twists until it clicks into place.
Ulrich Meier stands four metres from the stage, eight from the bar, and two from the closest security guard.
Another man—taller, leaner—talks down to him. Speaking in hushed tones, the two of them glance over their shoulders every few moments. Careful, cunning as they talk.
And as she watches them, her face remains neutral. But somewhere inside of her chest, somewhere forbidden and secret and soft, she feels a threatening rage begin to unfurl.
Because the longer she stares, the easier it gets to picture other faces. Men and women with sallow cheeks and fear in their eyes. Countless bodies strewn apart by weaponry they had no business being close to; rigor mortis setting their horror-stricken faces in stone.
Yes, that anger unspools inside of her. Burns through her veins like ice, chilling her blood until she feels nothing but relief as she bends her elbow and lines up her shot.
Cain does not think about collateral. Cain does not think about those standing close to him, ones who will no doubt remember this night for the rest of their lives. She does not think about his wife or his children. These things do not concern her. All that matters is the mission.
Her hands are steady around the weapon, finger poised beside the thick trigger. She takes slow breaths. Deep inhales that fill her lungs, followed by warm exhales. Once, twice, three times until she is steeled. An eye pinches shut. Her finger slips over the trigger. Meier laughs at something.
And then a heavy palm lands on her waist.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The man’s voice is a low, rasping thing.
She stiffens, grip freezing around the pistol. His breath hits the back of her neck, and a hundred little hairs there stand on end. She smells cologne, light and airy. Feels fingertips dig into the flesh around her hipbone. Ulrich Meier turns and walks towards a doorway, disappearing from sight.
“Take your hand off of me.”
“Lower your gun.”
Cain’s elbow whips backward, cracking hard against the centre of his chest. His fingers tighten then fall from her waist and she spins on her heel, the butt of her pistol colliding with his jaw.
He stumbles backwards and she advances on him, returning the gun to the holster on her thigh before striking him across the cheek with an open palm. His head hardly even turns before he’s batting her arm down with a stern shove.
She throws a mean fist forward, but her knuckles barely graze his jaw before the heel of his palm snaps against her chin. The blow sends her staggering to the side, head bouncing off the wall with a low thwack. She tastes blood, the tip of her tongue stings, and when he steps closer she juts her knee into his groin. Feels the harsh rush of the breath leaving his lungs, exhaled roughly across her face, and snarls.
Cain wraps her fingers around the nape of his neck and digs her nails in, pulling him down to meet the knee that she drives into into his stomach. The man grunts against her chest, his hand grasping upward to wrap around her neck. He squeezes tight, dragging her toward him before rocking her skull into the wall again, holding her there. Stars burst in her vision, her nose tingles, and she spits a low curse. Music swells downstairs, a live band starting up on the stage.
Neat curls and dark eyes dance before her. She blinks to stop the world from spinning. Firm jaw… strong nose. Moustache.
“Din Djarin,” she rasps, voice strained from the pressure of his palm on her neck. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
Recognition sparks in those dark eyes.
“Cain,” he grunts, pupils like pinpricks as he assesses her face, and then his free hand is sneaking past the slit in her dress, tapping the gun at her thigh.
“A Walther?” Din’s fingers squeeze ever so slightly tighter at the sides of her throat, callouses rough on her skin. "A little old fashioned, isn't it?"
“A German gun to kill a German cunt,” she whispers. The artery in her neck pulses and pounds, blood roaring in her ears. “It felt fitting.”
“No one dies tonight,” he grits out, and it takes everything she has not to laugh right in his face. He cannot see the way her arm is twisted between them, fingers working to loosen the tiny dagger resting just inside the sleeve of her dress free.
“I should have known,” she smirks faintly, fingers grasping the hilt of the blade now. “The Guild do love to play around in international affairs these days.”
“Quiet,” he hisses, fingers sliding up to grip around her jaw now. His palm is hot against her lips, covering that sly smirk, the way she sucks in warm, grateful breaths. “Keep your mouth shut. Meier doesn’t die tonight. Not here.”
Smooth, careful, she presses the tip of her blade against his abdomen. Only 4 inches in length, but long enough—sharp enough—to penetrate through two layers of clothing and pierce the thick skin of his side. Thumb and forefinger tighten, begging for an excuse to press forward, to eliminate this new complication.
But then two things happen in quick succession.
Cain hears a peal of laughter raise from the staircase and glances past Din to spot blonde hair, a red dress, and slides the dagger back inside her sleeve. Moving fast, his hand falls from her face, body curling protectively around hers in a faux embrace. He tucks his face against her neck and the short hairs in his moustache raise goosebumps on her skin.
“Qu’est-ce-que tu fais?” she hisses. What are you doing?
“Shut up,” he bites back, jostling her against the wall once more.
Laughter dies down into awkward chuckles and murmured words. Cain peers over Din’s shoulder, understanding him then. Her fingers tangle in the loose curls at the nape of his neck and she watches them, ignoring how soft it is against her skin. Two women, eyes assessing them from the top of the stairs. The blonde frowns, wary; concerned.
“They’re looking,” Cain warns, hooking an ankle around the back of his.
Something soft skates down the side of her neck. Such a stark contrast to the rough grip of his hand before; a pair of lips tracing gentle kisses along her pulse point. For a moment, she holds her breath, focusing on the dull ache in the back of her skull, the feeling of his arms around her.
“Make them look away,” he says plainly, the words a hot wash against her skin.
His palm tightens around her hip, and Cain tilts her chin upward, letting the women see her smile as he lays kisses against her throat, lips parting to form a loosely whispered oh. Through heavy lidded eyes she sees the women flush and look away, one of them giggling. But they do not leave.
Meier, where is Meier? The thought jolts through her like an electric shock, and her smile fades a little.
Frustrated, she skates a hand around his body; lets it fall to the hem of his suit jacket, rucking it up until her fingers are digging into the flesh of his ass. Round and thick with muscle, he tenses beneath her grip, letting slip a harsh grunt of surprise into her ear. The women balk at that, turning to begin their descent down the stairs at last.
Biting back a smirk, Cain’s fingers trail up up up inside his jacket, around the front of his body. Down the buttons on the front of his white dress shirt, the solid muscle beneath it, to where it meets his trousers. The tips of her nails flirt across the front of his pants, and she is certain he’s stopped breathing; entire body still beneath her touch, lips frozen against her skin. Searching, searching, she finally hums triumphantly, fingers sliding over the holster on his hip at last. Hidden beneath his jacket, she fondles the butt of his gun. Slim; inconspicuous.
“Hmm,” she purrs, lips brushing the soft skin of his earlobe. “I thought it would be bigger.”
“I thought I told you to shut u—”
Din flinches as her other hand touches the side of his face, a finger pressing swiftly into his ear canal. His head tilts to the side, trying to evade her touch, but she’s already pulling away, using his surprise to slip around his body and move towards the stairs.
She smooths fingers over her hair, neatening the mussed strands and tucking them behind her ears. Straightens the neckline of her dress, ensures her holster is hidden. From where she stands, Meier is nowhere to be seen.
Din calls after her, a low warning. She doesn’t look back, gripping the railing of the staircase as she begins her descent. The gala is in full swing, guests dancing and talking in every direction. A six-piece band performs a playful jazz song from the stage.
“There is no need to shout,” Cain murmurs, smiling when she hears a sharp intake of breath through the earpiece.
She doesn’t know if he follows her down. Keeps her gaze trained forward as she accepts another glass of champagne from another man with another tray. Drinks it this time, thick hurried gulps that wet the skin beside her lips and soften the rough scratch in her throat. She wanders, looking for the man she came here for, and in time she ends up at the bar.
“A vodka martini,” she tells the barman, slipping onto one of the plush highchairs at the counter. “Dirty.”
The blonde man grips a clear glass bottle from his station and asks, “Shaken or stirred?”
She waves a hand, unbothered. “Dealer’s choice.”
He’s short with thick hair and a reddish hue to his beard. Handsome enough. She watches him with a light curiosity as he finishes making someone else’s drink.
It doesn’t take long before Din Djarin slips onto the seat beside her, suit jacket straightened out, not a single curl out of place, and orders a cosmopolitan.
The barman pulls two frosted coup glasses from beneath the bar and Cain arches an eyebrow at her companion.
“You’ve a sweet tooth, Monsieur Djarin?”
“It seems that way,” he murmurs, turning on his stool to face her.
Brown eyes assess her face in this new lighting, pupils flicking across everything he can see. His hand reaches across the bar and peels a small square napkin from a pile. Slides it across the wooden countertop.
“Wipe your nose.”
She swipes the material beneath her nostrils and spies a small blot of blood on the fabric, crumpling it in her fist with a saccharine smile.
“In Germany long?” he asks casually, nodding at the bartender when he places their cocktails on the counter.
“As long as it takes.” She wraps her fingers around the stem of a chilled glass, dragging it closer. “And it shouldn’t take long.”
He takes a lengthy sip, draining half the glass in seconds, and his eyes slip closed as the alcohol hits his tongue. Cain watches his throat move as he swallows and crosses her legs tighter on the stool. Feels her gun holster dig into the soft flesh there and welcomes the distraction.
“Alone?”
He eyes her for a second, gaze momentarily dropping to the low cut of her neckline, the swooping curve of her shoulder. “I was.”
“Well,” she holds out her glass to him. “It’s an honour.”
A beat passes as he contemplates her—her words, her steadfast gaze—and then he knocks the rim of his glass gently against hers.
“I’d apologise for upstairs,” he smiles faintly, posture loosening. “But I’m sure you understand.”
“There is no need,” she agrees easily, taking her first sip. Cool vodka slips down her throat and she allows a pleased purr to fall from her lips. “Tempers are frayed. Patience is short. What’s a little scuffle between friends, hmm?”
He smirks at that, a miniscule upward twitch of his lip. Friends.
“You know, I’ve heard the stories about you,” he tells her.
His suit jacket is well tailored, she notices. Tight around those broad shoulders of his, hemmed perfectly around his wrists to reveal crisp white sleeves and silver cufflinks.
“Is that so?”
He nods. “Cain, the femme fatale.”
“Mm,” she smirks, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass. He watches the sharp point of her red nail ping against the coup. Glances down to her toenails peeking past the tip of her heels; the same colour. She wiggles them for him, and he looks up.
“Then it appears there are equally silly tales about the both of us, non?”
“Do tell.”
Her grin broadens, something like excitement splicing through her veins. “Well, I had wondered if it were true. That you have your own little… catchphrase.”
A low scoff rumbles from his chest, and his stare cuts to where the bartender stands, mixing a drink only a few feet away. Across the room, one of the musicians onstage starts up a winding piano solo. Sparse and melodic to start, he sprinkles his fingers against highest keys on the piano, and Cain focuses on keeping her gaze on Din. She never did care for jazz.
“Do you say it every time?” she teases in a whisper, eyes lit up with mocking glee. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in co—”
“Stop.”
Din’s voice is harsh, a little too loud for the quiet space by the bar. The word cuts through the soft music and has a few guests glancing in their direction. Cain laughs, unperturbed by the sudden attention, and plucks an olive out of her drink. A saxophonist joins in with the pianist, and he relaxes once more. Leans into this little game of hers.
“Don’t be a fool,” he softens, reaching over to tuck a short strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb brushes the curve of her jaw as he pulls away and she fights the shiver that trips its way down her spine. “Not every time.”
She laughs again, quietly eyeing the length of his fingers as his picks up his glass. His knuckles are thick. Warm blue veins spiderweb across the back of his hand, disappearing beneath his shirt. If she tries hard enough, she can still remember how it felt to have that hand pressed against her throat, squeezing.
“And what else do they tell you about me?” she licks her lips, elbow on the bar, leaning forward to rest her chin in the palm of her hand. Eager – hungry.
“I know you’re an orphan.” He is stoic as he says it; as if unphased, uninterested. But Cain’s eyebrows lift, delighted.
“Then it must be true of you too,” she posits slyly, left eyelid dropping in a wink. “No one is more eager to accuse another of being an orphan… unless they themselves are one also.”
He ignores that, though she can see the way his weight shifts in the seat and the muscle in his jaw twitches.
“A Valkyrie.”
“Common knowledge in our line of work.”
“You’re from Paris.”
“An easy guess,” she leans back, bored.
“Your first name is Nikita,” Din says then, a teasing lilt to his voice. She considers that he may enjoy this game just as much as she does.
And that makes her pause. She lifts her glass and laughs against the rim, a soft tinkling sound that rings in his ears and has every man in earshot turning to look at her.
“You watch too many films,” she swallows with a smirk. “Think French, Monsieur Djarin.”
He ponders it for a moment, lips pursed softly, gaze darting somewhere over her shoulder and then back to her face. Takes a sip of his laughably pink cocktail and licks the residue from his lips, savouring every drop.
“Camille.”
“Oh,” she rolls her eyes, fighting back a genuine smile now. “I know you can do better than that.”
It’s his turn to wink now, and for one fleeting moment she feels oddly at peace with the idea of spending the rest of her evening at the bar with Din Djarin. A stranger, yes, but a little less so than the others that crowd the room.
In a career so harsh, characterised by its solitude, its violence, Cain is unaccustomed to the feeling of being seen like this. She knows unfamiliarity and discomfort and pain like the back of her hand. Is no stranger to a man’s grip around her throat, her life in his hands. But not this… this twinkle of implicit understanding that she can see in his eyes. Those endless brown eyes that say we are not so different, you and I.
Despite the bloodied napkin in her lap and the ache in her jaw, it’s enough to loosen her shoulders; to set her at ease.
But then he turns to stare pointedly over her shoulder, and she snaps out of it. Twisting around on the stool, Cain follows his gaze until she spots Meier across the room. He stands with a few others, shoulders back, eyes bright. Perfectly oblivious.
The barman slips to the other end of the counter, serving a tall gentleman, and Cain lowers her voice.
“What does the Guild want with Ulrich Meier?”
Din takes a sip of his drink. Keeps his eyes to the right, glossing casually over guests, the band, and then back to the asset.
“Information,” he says finally—carefully. “He’s of no use to us dead.”
She hums quietly, plucking an olive from her drink. Eats it slowly, allowing the briny taste to wash over her tongue as she watches him. When he doesn’t speak again, she squints, unimpressed.
“Are you not going to ask me the same question?”
An amused sound escapes his mouth, and he meets her eye again.
“You want Meier dead,” he muses simply. “But why so abruptly? When there is so much to be gained from taking him in.”
“That is not an option for us.”
“Why?” His voice takes on a harsher quality now, eyes narrowing. Mistrust.
“Did you know that name Ulrich,” Cain murmurs, leaning forward to avoid any listening ears. “Comes from the Old High German name Uodalrich? Uodal meaning heritage. Rich meaning king; ruler.”
Din Djarin says nothing.
“Did you do your research before coming to Berlin?”
“Yes.”
“Then you understand that Monsieur Meier is not simply an arms dealer.”
A beat of silence. His fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. “Yes.”
“He took his name personally, you see.” Her eyes float back to Meier. “Held it in his slimy little hands as a baby and said Oui Maman, I will rule. I will rule the desires of weaker men, and bring nightmares unto any woman that I can get these two hands on.”
“This is about revenge.”
“This is about justice,” Cain snaps, that calm façade slipping for a second. No more games. Din’s spine straightens. “Have you ever spoken to a human trafficking victim?”
He takes another sip of his drink and does not respond. She does her best not to remember the photos from her briefing. Not to remember the countless interviews, witness statements, and obituaries she’d had to paw through before her flight.
“Your silence is very telling,” she smiles, that easy composure returning. “But I trust that you understand my position now. Ulrich Meier will be of no help to your organisation after this evening.”
“Cain—”
“Because,” she continues easily. “When I leave this building, he will no longer be able to speak. And if you wish to get in my way… then I am afraid the same fate will befall you, Monsieur Djarin.”
A soft announcement sounds through the speakers, and they turn their heads to listen. The Chancellor will be giving his speech in a few moments. That’s her cue.
“And Weber?” he asks, the words coming out stilted, rushed. “What do you think of him? He’s known for turning a blind eye to Meier’s dealings.”
She tilts her glass, swallowing the last of the icy liquid.
“I do my best,” she places it down on the counter with a soft clink. “Not to think of men at all. Unless it is imperative to my mission.”
“And yet you’ve thought of me,” Din asserts, gaze heavy. His eyes slip down, just long enough for her to notice the way he stares at her mouth, before his eyes return to hers. “You know me. Enough to recognise my face in a second.”
“As I said,” Cain smiles, stepping down from her chair. “Imperative to my mission.”
He is still as she leans in and presses a soft kiss to his left cheek, and then to his right.
“Take care, Monsieur Djarin. I would like to see you live another day,” she says, slender hand coming up to the side of his face. Her finger taps the piece in his ear once, and she is not smiling anymore. “I’ll be in here if you need me.”
Cain coasts around the edge of the room, keeping her eyes to ground whenever an unfamiliar sets of eyes strays in her direction. Swipes a finger beneath her nose once or twice, checking to see if any blood has returned. And as Chancellor Weber makes his way towards the stage, she makes her way back upstairs, quietly hoping that Din does not follow her again.
Halfway up, a single word crackles through her ear piece.
“Amélie?”
Surprised, she grips the banister and almost turns around. But she can hear a woman speaking into a microphone in German, performing a plain and winding introduction for the Chancellor, and continues her ascent.
“Wrong.”
Reassuming her position on the balcony, shrouded in waves of those soft red velvet drapes, she watches Weber take his place on the stage. A hush falls over the crowd and her eyes move fast, landing easily on the thinning grey hair atop her target’s head. Every eye in the room is facing the stage. The Walther is thick and heavy in her palm as she ensures the silencer is correctly in place. Old fashioned indeed.
Cain’s breathing is calm, heart rate slow and measured as she raises the weapon and aims it at his head. And then, like a little ant crawling across her skin, she feels something shift. The air gets thicker, and a suddenly familiar shiver tickles its way down her spine.
Her eyes tick up and she pauses at the sight of Din on the opposite balcony railing. Almost hidden entirely by the shadows, pistol raised. And it is not pointed at Ulrich Meier, no… no it is pointed at her. And he is so handsome, even when he’s bluffing.
Grinning now, she lets the tip of her finger lightly caress the trigger. So gently, with no intention of doing any damage just yet. Some feeling akin to glee sparks up in her chest. Such excitement. The Chancellor’s voice fills the room, swelling from the speakers as he welcomes his guests.
Din’s face is placid, unimpressed, and then that honeyed voice drifts through her ear once more.
“Celine?”
Cain allows herself a brief laugh, eyes drifting back down to rest on the man she came here for. The target drapes an arm around his wife’s waist. She inhales deep, filling her lungs before letting the air spill from her nose. Calm, collected. All of it so easy for her.
“Wrong again.”
The Walther jerks in her hand, bullet flying silently through the air, and for a moment there is silence. Nobody moves.
And then Ulrich Meier’s wife releases a blood curdling scream, dropping to her knees and cradling what’s left of her husband’s head in her lap. Popping the silencer off her gun, Cain catches a glimpse of thick, dark matter across the woman’s chest, spilling down the bare skin of her arms, and then she is slipping away into the bathroom in search of that thin little window.
Back on the cobblestone street, sirens wail through the air, police cars and ambulances roaring past as she traipses away from the scene. A little flushed, a little exhilarated, she blends into a crowd of pedestrians, hidden in the shadows. She cuts across the road, avoiding traffic, and heads toward Unter den Linden, knowing it is safer to walk. Don’t be seen by a taxi driver, don’t be recognised, don’t—
“That was a clean shot.”
The words ring in her ear, clear as day.
Cain’s feet drag to a halt against the ground, shoulders stiffening. She turns, eyes assessing the busy pathway behind her, a parked car idling by the side of the road a few metres back. But she can’t see him anywhere. Countless unfamiliar faces wander by, jostling her shoulders as they pass, but he isn’t amongst them. He’s hiding somewhere, watching her from afar – playing his own little game now. Shivering against the cold, she turns and continues walking.
And then: “I thought I might follow you home.”
The words are so confident, so self-assured, and they send a rush of jagged heat blossoming between her thighs. Her heels clip against the ground, knees feeling a little weaker all of a sudden.
“Would you like that?” he asks, and she wishes she could see his face. Wants to see the desire burning in his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw as those words drift from his pink lips.
“Only if you can keep up.” A little breathless, the words form a soft cloud in the air in front of her face.
Din laughs, low and dark in her ear, but he doesn’t speak again.
She walks for a long time, ambling her way down dark streets, icy wind whipping at her hair for all of half an hour before she finally reaches the street of her hotel. And all the while, she spares quick little glances over her shoulders, trying to spot him in the shadows. Her clothes begin to feel too tight, too warm, despite the low temperature, and with every step her panties cling closer to her warm, wet skin.
The hotel doorman smiles tiredly at Cain as she approaches, holding the door open wide to welcome her inside. As her feet hit the entryway steps, his eyes flit over her shoulder.
“Ein freund von dir?” A friend of yours?
When she turns, she is quietly amazed to find Din there. Gait unhurried, only a few steps behind her. There’s an easy smile spread across his face. Hands tucked deep in his pockets; the top button of his shirt undone.
“Ja,” Cain murmurs, slipping inside.
Din nods to the doorman, following her in. “Guten Abend.” Good evening.
They do not speak as she leads him toward the elevator. Her numb fingers slide against the button with an upward pointing arrow, and together they wait. Heat radiates from his body, warming the skin of her back where he stands behind her, so close yet not touching her yet. Together they slip inside when the doors open.
She presses a button, the number twelve lighting up on the switchboard, and the doors glide closed.
Soft, tinny music plays in the elevator, and they stare at each other from either side of the small space. Din’s chest rises and falls with steady, measured breaths. He watches her and she watches the buttons on the wall, lighting up in turn as the two of them travel up, up, up.
Two floors below Cain’s, he speaks for the first time.
“Vivienne,” he says. “Final guess.”
Her eyes flash to him and she smiles, the skin beside her eyes pinching.
“It’s Remy,” she reveals at last, voice so soft, so forgiving now that her mission is complete.
“Remy,” he repeats. Rolls the r like she does, hums around the y. Sees how it tastes in his mouth and steps forward, saying it again, again. Remy, Remy, Remy, Remy Cain.
“Don’t wear it ou—”
His lips crush against hers, chest warm as he pushes her back back back into the wall. His hand flies up, cradling the back of her skull to protect it from the wall. Not a third time. Despite the softness of his hand, the way his fingers card gently through the short locks of her hair, his kiss is biting. A wet mess of clashing teeth and tongues as he works her jaw open, coaxing his way inside of her mouth. A rough exhale streams from his nostrils, warming the skin of her face. His breath tastes like Cointreau and lime, and she moans.
His hand slips up her thigh, trailing past that slit in her dress for the second time this evening, until his fingers are brushing against the front of her panties. Feeling the thick damp strip in the lace, the way the thin material clings to her centre.
“Fuck,” he exhales, and when he meets her eyes again his pupils are blown fat and black with desire. Moving fast, he tugs the gun from her holster. She pauses, eyes narrowing, but then he tucks it into the waistband at the back of his trousers, simply allowing space for his forearm to rest between her thighs.
The elevator thrums around them, stomachs dropping as the metal box takes them higher and higher through the building. A finger curls around the edge of her panties, dragging them to the side, and when he finally slides through her wet cunt she sighs into his mouth, every muscle in her body pulling taut and warm.
His touch is lax, almost taunting as he sucks her tongue into his mouth and traces a digit over the drooling mouth of her entrance, smearing it up to make a mess of her clit. When she moans he presses down; careful little circles there, messy figure eights, a sharp back and forth back and forth back and forth, trying to see what she likes best. And the second her eyes pinch shut, a low curse falling from her lips, the elevator dings.
His hand whips out, slamming against the red emergency stop button. The elevator jerks to an abrupt halt and then he’s on her again. Teeth at her collarbone, her neck, her jaw, fingers moving in a slick blur against her pussy. Her thighs splay apart, and she leans heavy against the wall, knees shaky, trusting him to keep her from falling to the ground.
“So fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, the words brimming with pride, and she trembles beneath his touch, needing more and needing it now.
“Inside,” she pants, lips parted and searching for his again. “Want your fingers inside me.”
Din swallows those words down, pressing two fingers inside of her with a groan. Remy gasps, bearing down on the weight of his fingers and shivering as he curls them inside of her. Stretching her out and grinding his knuckles against her entrance with every deep thrust.
“Yeah?” he goads, watchful eyes drinking in the way she moans for him, turning her face into her shoulder as if to hide how good it feels. “You like that, hm?”
Warm wetness pools out of her, dripping past his knuckles and onto the inside of her thighs. Obscene sounds fill the tiny space as he pumps in and out of her, and she catches herself glancing upward, searching for a security camera. She spots it in the corner just as he fits a third finger inside and grinds the heel of his palm against her clit, her mouth falling open with a rough groan. Her shoulders tilt forward, forehead knocking against his shoulder, and Din grunts, fucking her harder. His fingers never leave her wet clutch now, the tips of them persistently working against that soft spot at the top of her walls.
“Such a tight little cunt,” he’s saying, nipping at her earlobe, but the words blur and warble around the rushing in her ears. “Squeezing my fingers so good, you’re so good.”
She grips the back of his neck, squeezing desperately. Her jaw aches with the strain of hanging slack.
“Tell me,” he says roughly, growing impatient. Everything feels hot, too hot; the skin of her face against his shoulder, her chest, the sizzling tension coiling in her core.
“Close,” she chokes out. Din snakes his free arm around the back of her waist, steadying her loose-limbed frame between his body and the wall. “Just a little longe—ohhh, merde.”
He shifts then, the thick heft of his cock crushing against her thigh through their clothes. He presses a finger against her clit now. And that low rub, his calloused thumb paired with three thick fingers massaging into her, is enough to send her spilling over the edge.
A hoarse cry pries its way out of her throat, body shaking against his and he works her through it, still pressing down against the aching bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. She pulses around his fingers, everything pulling tight and wet around them as she comes. Teeth sink into the lapel of his jacket in an attempt to muffle her cries but his arm is dropping from her waist, hand coming up to grip her jaw and push her back.
“Let me hear it,” he purrs, voice like silk as it washes over the skin of her neck.
“Ohh,” she moans, uncaring now about the camera, about who will hear. Focusing wholly on his fingers on her face, her cunt, the way her entire world seems to shake within his grasp.
He holds her there, lets her shake and shiver beneath his touch until the ebbs of pleasure finally fade and she’s strong enough to stand on her own. Remy watches as he takes a small step backward, pressing one hand over the front of his trousers and three slick fingers past his lips to taste her come. Din’s eyes slip shut at the taste, lips pursing as he sucks the remnants of her from his skin. Flushed and awed by the intimacy of it, the depravity of it, she looks away.
Her fingers tremble against the button as she presses it, and the elevator shudders back to life around them. Another sharp ding rings out again, the doors sliding open within seconds.
A few paces down the hall, the key card slips easily against her door, and she presses it open, flushed as she steps inside and kicks off her heels. She discards them somewhere to the side, turning to watch him follow her in, toes sinking gratefully into the rough carpet beneath her feet.
The door slams shut behind him and he tears his jacket off, letting it drop to the floor as he makes his way further inside. And he looks so much more intimidating like this, she thinks. Domineering as he advances on her, the thick length of his cock evident against the front of his pants. Despite him aiming a gun at her less than an hour ago, despite the way he slunk through the shadows to follow her back here, this is the first time all evening that she’s felt eager to bend to his will, his desire. Her heart races, thudding heavily against her ribcage, and he grins wickedly at her, as if he can fucking hear it.
They collide in the middle of the room, slick swollen lips sliding against each other in a mess of harsh exhales and lewd smacking sounds. Her hands roam across the vast expanse of his chest, trailing down to cup him through his pants. He groans at the feeling, hips jerking forward, seeking more more more. He rips the gun from his holster and tosses it onto the bed, her Walther following shortly from the back of his waistband, and then his hands are on her too. Fat palms pawing at her body, gripping the meat of her ass and squeezing, trapping her against his chest so he can rut his cock against her stomach. Din grips the back of her head then, thumbs rough against the apples of her cheeks as his mouth devours hers.
Thick fingers drift from the ends of her hair down the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine, until they slip beneath the back of her dress. Distracting her with his kiss, greedy and lustful and dominating – she doesn’t notice his curious fingers until they’re curling around the fabric and ripping. Remy staggers backwards with the force of it, gripping his neck. He snarls into her mouth, following her to the ground as she falls. The breath rushes from her lungs and her tailbone aches from how she lands but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even care when Din straddles her waist, chest heaving, and continues to tear satin and silk from her body. The black material practically shreds in his hands. So thin and delicate, the threads fall apart with every twist, every yank, until he’s prying the ruined dress away and throwing it towards the bed.
Remy’s fingers work hastily to undo the buttons on his shirt, but just as she reaches the fourth one, he’s gripping her hands, pinning them above her head. Din’s free hand works open his belt, the button and zip on his trousers, and then he’s dragging them down his legs, freeing the thick weight of his cock. She gasps, eyeing the angry red tip hungrily. He’s thick and long and leaking against the white material of his shirt. Her hands push against his and she grunts when he simply tightens his grasp on her, the friction of the coarse carpet harsh against her skin.
“I let you have your way back there,” Din says, eyes blazing. “Are you gonna let me have mine now?”
Her body stills, wholly captivated beneath the heat of his gaze, the weight of his thighs over her hips.
“Yes,” she exhales, mind a blur, limbs still loose and heavy from her orgasm. “Yes, Din, just fuck me.”
“The Guild are gonna have my fucking head for this,” he mutters, fingers falling from her hands to rest heavily at the waistband of her panties.
Remy isn’t sure if he’s talking about Meier or her, but she doesn’t fucking care. What happens to Din after tonight is not her problem.
He toys with her for a moment, tickling the skin around her navel, above the band of her panties, before his fingers hook around it and—snap. She flinches as the material is torn away, her skin pinching beneath the lace.
She stares up at him, clad in nothing but the pale material of her bra now. He watches the way her chest heaves beneath it, nipples painfully stiff against the thin lace.
“It was the right thing to do.”
“I know,” he snaps angrily. He shifts back, moving down her body until he can pry her legs from between his, spreading them open on the carpet to display her glistening cunt to him. The sight seems to stem his anger a little, jaw going loose as he gazes down at the shiny swollen mess of her.
A thick thumb swipes through her folds, pinching one of them back to hold her open for him to ogle at.
“Such a pretty little cunt,” he tuts under his breath, thumbing at the flesh between her clit and her hole.
Her face heats, heart stuttering in her chest a little at this feeling of exposure. Can feel the intensity of his stare practically inside of her the longer he looks, waiting for something.
“So take it,” she says finally, patience thinning.
She fists his shirt in her hands and tugs him forward, breath hitching when he grips his cock and jerks it slowly, smearing her wetness down the length of it before notching his tip at her entrance.
He pushes inside of her in one fell swoop, hardly giving her a moment to adjust to the fat girth of his tip before he’s pressing deeper. Lips on lips, sucking the breath from her lungs, their kiss vibrates with the strength of his groan. It tastes like relief, like understanding. And for a moment it’s just that. The thick weight of him seated inside of her, his chest against hers as they kiss lazily, sloppily, smearing spit across each other faces, tasting beneath tongues, behind teeth.
“So fucking tight,” Din bites out, forehead heavy against hers.
“Mm,” she whines, face screwed up.
A dull burn ricochets through her abdomen, the stretch more than she’s taken in a while. Remy wills herself to relax, but desire has her core tightening around him, sucking him in further and further until the coarse hairs at his base are flush against her clit and there’s nothing more to take. She loops a leg around his waist and ruts up against him, and anything soft about him vanishes.
Din’s thrusts are punishing. Hard and fast, the weight of his hips rocking her into the ground over and over, until she can feel carpet burns forming at the base of her spine, the soft skin of her ass. Every slick pass of the heft of his cock punches the air from her lungs and has her eyelids fluttering.
It’s greedy, the way he fucks her. Like he’s had it before, perhaps in a past life, and been deprived of her touch for years. He fucks her like he misses her. Like he loves her or hates her or something dark and grotesque in between the two emotions. Like if this were the last thing he ever got to do in this lifetime, then he was going to do it right.
So she says, “Harder,” and he grits his teeth, fucking her into the carpet until she’s sure there’ll be littles scrapes and bruises on her back in the morning.
The tip of his cock brushes near to the end of her, and every little nudge there has her gasping in an intoxicating medley of pain and pleasure.
“There?”
“Yes,” she begs. “Fucking—yes.”
Din works her open like it’s his fucking job. Settles on his knees and drags her ass up onto his thighs, splitting her open with every brutal thrust, hands fitted over her waist in a vice.
Up close like this she can see past the collar of his shirt. Can see thick raised lines on his skin, pink and purple scars beneath his collarbones. She reaches up and lays a hand there, feels his heart jack hammering against the marred skin, and moans his name. Din, Din, Din.
And he likes that. Releases an almost pained moan at the sound of his name on her lips, leaning down to attach his mouth to her neck. He bites and sucks and kisses, leaving a trail of deep dark marks from the hollow of her throat to the hinge of her jaw.
“That’s it,” he snarls into her skin, hand lowering to press down above her mound, and that mixed with the sound of his voice makes a fresh load of slick gush out of her. Pushes her deeper into this depraved, endless pit of pleasure he’s raining down upon her.
He tells her again, say it again, and she cries out Din, head lolling back against the floor.
Something fierce begins to brew inside of her. A bright white twisting feeling that frays and sparks like a live wire, stoked by the speed of his movement, the firm press of his hand against her lower stomach. And just as she thinks she’s there, almost there, so close, a shrill ringing comes from the sofa to their left.
Din’s hips stutter against hers, head snapping to the side to pinpoint where the interruption emanates from. A little pink phone rings and rings, the sound piercing through her ears and setting her teeth on edge. She taps his chest quickly, urging him back. He frowns, opens his mouth to tell her no, tell her ignore it, but she pushes him harder, again and again until he slips out of her with a haggard moan.
He grips her waist and turns their bodies, landing on his back with a thud. Eyes trained on his face, the dark red blush on his cheeks, his swollen mouth, she reaches out blindly, snatching the phone from the receiver and putting it to her ear.
“Allo?” Remy breathes, eyebrows pinching together as she sinks down onto his cock, free hand splayed on his stomach. “Bonjour.”
He props himself up in a seated position, resting back on one hand while the other comes up to grope at her chest. Cocky asshole. But her eyes glaze over as she takes in the tanned skin that peeks out of his shirt again, the soft smattering of hair between his pecks. Legs spread out wide on the carpet, he watches her bounce slowly on his cock, nodding in encouragement but careful not to speak, lest he be heard down the line by her handler.
At this angle his tip presses into her g-spot with every movement. It only takes a moment for that low burn to start up again in the base of her stomach. Her mouth is open wide, ragged breaths spilling from her lips as she listens to the words being spoken down the line.
She says, “Ouais, c’est fait.” Yeah, it’s done.
Din’s fingers flex around the cup of her bra, tugging down the fabric to let one of her tits spill out. He sighs heavily, leaning forward to latch his mouth onto the skin there. Lathing hot, messy kisses against her sternum, her nipple, and then grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud. She trembles against him, hand coming up to grip the back of his head and hold his face there. He sucks it into his mouth, pulls it taut between his lips before letting it slip out with a wet pop.
“À bientôt.” See you soon.
She hangs up the phone with a rough clang, and then her mouth is seeking his out again. Teeth clash and she moans at the sharp pain, uncaring. Din’s grip on her waist tightens and he plants his feet on the carpet, fucking up into her at a break-neck pace. She cries into his mouth, a harsh animalistic sound, and her stomach is pulling tight, cramping up. Her cunt locks down around him, and when she comes it’s a low throb of a feeling. A deep swooping ache that spills from her core and spreads out through her thighs, her stomach, until her body is jerking and twitching above him.
“Fuck yes,” he grits out, white teeth flashing in her hazy vision. He doesn’t give out, spitting a mess of that’s it, fucking give it to me as her pussy flutters and drools around his cock. Her hips roll and stutter over his, the muscles in her stomach twitching beneath the skin, and Din swears under his breath. Her vision whites out, throat hoarse and head pounding as she succumbs to the pleasure. And he feeds off it.
“God, look at you,” he grunts, prolonging that low burn in her gut the longer he fucks into that softest warmest little spot. “Made to take this cock.”
“Say it,” he rasps urgently, eyes rolling back when her hand grips his throat for purchase, nails digging sharply into the skin over his thrumming carotid. “Say you fucking want it.”
“I want it,” she moans, back arching, knees on fire where they slide against the carpet at his sides. “Want your come, Din, fuck—fuck, give it to me, give it to me.”
His body practically vibrates as he comes. A thousand tiny little twitches and spasms rocking through this frame, the muscles in his thick thighs turning to tense stone beneath her. A gravelly shout falls from his lips, cock kicking hot and hard against her walls until she feels his spend begin to seep out of her around his length and pool around his base.
It’s almost frantic, the way his hands clutch at her body, clinging to any part of her that he can. And when she thinks he might pull her closer, press himself deeper to keep painting the inside of her walls, he pushes her away, dragging himself from her clutch just to grip his length in a tight fist.
He strokes himself in tight wet movements, a few final weak spurts of his come shooting up to land over her mound and the swollen lips of her pussy. And only when he’s done, spent cock beginning to soften in his palm, does he pull her down a little. Resting wet hands over the base of her spine to feel the way she shivers, body shuddering its way through the aftershocks of her orgasm.
Remy’s chest expands with stilted, ragged gasps for air, trying desperately to fill her lungs as she folds against his hot thick frame, exhausted.
And after a few moments the foggy, erotic blur that held her mind in a vice for the past few hours slowly begins to lift. Din’s hand is on the back of her thigh, fingers splayed, tickling the skin there, and the weight of it suddenly itches. Reality drifts back in and it feels heavy on her shoulders. The clock beside the hotel bed reads 9:12 – her flight out of Berlin leaves in two hours.
His hand drifts up her back, nudging her down to rest her head against his chest. Her body aches suddenly; dull pains popping up in her neck, her jaw, her hips. She remembers the way it felt to have his palm strike her chin and almost smiles.
A metre away, her suitcase lies spread open on the floor. Clothes and lingerie and a gun peek out of the red trunk. She can see two passports beside it, stacked neatly atop one another. And she knows that his hotel room can’t look that dissimilar from his own, but it feels too much now. As their breathing starts to even out, vision swinging back into focus, this level of intimacy – having another person, even a colleague of sorts – seeing behind the scenes of what after looks like for her… it feels like a splinter in the tip of her finger. A sharp sting that won’t go away. Wrong.
Remy rests her chin against his collarbone and glances up at him. Din’s eyes are closed, lips parted as soft breaths puff out from between them. He looks tired – almost as tired as she feels.
“I’m going to shower,” she tells him, fingers brushing curls back off his forehead. His eyes are soft, warm as they open to watches her stand. Too much, that look in his eyes. Too close. “Be gone when I come out, okay?”
Remy turns, back to him as she grips the handle of the ensuite door, and for a moment she pauses. Feels the weight of the silence between them, the heady scent of sweat and come in the air, on her skin, and glances over her shoulder. Looks between him spread out on the floor and her things dotted across the room. An empty martini glass lying on its side. The blush-coloured rotary phone on the hotel sofa. Passports with different names, birth dates, home countries, addresses, and her face. She knows that has to be firm now.
“Don’t give me a reason to kill you, mon chére.” My darling.
Din’s lips curl up into a smile and his eyes drift up to stare at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She slips inside the bathroom and pulls the door almost closed behind her. Twists a nozzle until water is beating down against the floor of the shower and steam begins to fill the room. Silently, she pries open a cabinet and slips her hand beneath the sink, feeling around until her fingers grasp the pistol strapped there.
Bare skin of her back flush to the wall, thighs still wet with come and sweat, she peers out through the crack in the door. Still ajar, she can see him past the wooden frame. Sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, looping his belt through the waist of his trousers. With her eyes trained on the soft skin of his neck, on messy curls, on shoulder blades and biceps that bulge out against the thin material of his dress shirt – she leads a silencer into place over the mouth of her gun. A rhythmic repetition, the exact same as earlier. She doesn’t even need to look down. Pin meet groove, twist, twist, twist.
Din slips his arms inside the suit jacket, elbows bending as he smooths his palms along the front of it. She holds her breath as he turns, as he takes three steps toward the hotel room door, and then—pauses. Hand on the doorhandle, he does not move.
Remy’s finger rests featherlight on the trigger.
She is calm. What happens next is his choice.
And he must know this because he does not turn around. Does not try to catch one last look at her. His fingers curl around the handle and he slips out the door, closing it was a soft click behind him. The air in the room rushes to fill his sudden absence.
Only when there is silence does she exhale, dropping the pistol onto the marble countertop beside the sink. And she smiles as she slinks beneath the hot spray of the shower head, letting it rush over the crown of her skull and drench her hair.
Her scalp stings and pink water swirls in the drain, blood slipping from a little cut on the back of her head. She pays it little mind, tilting her chin up so the scalding water hits her face too, stripping away a thick layer of sweat and blood and secrets from her skin. The silence stretches, and her smile grows. He does not come back.
Smart choice, Din Djarin.
thank you so much for reading! x
#i know the fire brigade probably gets called when you hit the emergency stop in an elevator#but this is a fantasy land where i get to make the rules#my writing#fic: raising cain#din djarin fanfiction#din djarin au fanfic#din djarin x ofc#din djarin smut#din djarin fic
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A SERIE WITH HANK VOIGHT. CHAPTER I.
❚❙ WORDS: about 1k.
❚❙ A/N: this writing hasn’t been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I’m sorry about that. If you find a description about body or a word out of place or something that makes you feel uncomfortable / unrepresented, let me know by a private message and I will change it delighted. — Reader is referred to as (Y/L/N), even if she's Wallace Boden's daughter. This will be explained in the next chapter.
❚❙ GIF credits: to my wonderful @sonsofeorl.
❚❙ Tag list: @melblacc @rebelwrites @skyofficialxx @sesamepancakes @scarletsoldierrr @mondefantastique @that-chick212 @enbyamaro @inlovewith3 @ocetevasgirl @sophie-writes @destynelseclipsa @jadakiss13 @mcgreads. If you want to be added to my tag list, send me a message.
In your opinion, the worst fires are the ones provoked by a war between gangs. Normally, your squad attends the emergency call and it's only a house or a flat burning. But when it comes to a dogfight, you know you will find collateral damage. The last time, you saw a six years old kid dying for a fistful of dollars. Tonight, it has been in an industrial zone. A whole building, luckily, abandoned; but even so, you have had to walk in to tour the first floors to make sure there weren't any tramps. The heat was unbearable and the smell of gasoline pierced your mask, filling up your lungs turned your stomach feeling a strong desire of throwing up.
Once outside, with bystanders crowding because of the curiosity and morbidity behind the police perimeter, you take off part of your equipment sitting on the ground as Severide helps you with your jacket. Brett offers you a bottle of water to refresh your skin, splashing it all over your head and face, drinking the last sip. You can't help but hear some laughs at your right. The Gang Unit is there, apparently, enjoying your show. Automatically, your eyes travel to the man leading them. You haven't seen him before, but he has that kind of look that you would like to erase with a punch.
The cockiness in his smile makes you frown, laying his dark orbs over yours, not paying attention to what his men are saying about you. Until one of them utters a “the princess is tired, bring her the carriage”. Not saying a word, you stand up on your boots, pulling down the red stripes of your uniform as you walk towards them, watching how the grin of their boss grows on his lips.
“I'd not be tired if you'd do your work putting those sons of a bitch out of the streets. But you're too busy snorting their dope, aren't you?”
Crossing your arms over your chest, you can't help but raise your chin with a proud gesture, earning some laughs from the crowd. The cop is about to reply when the inspector places a hand on his chest. He doesn't pretend, looking at you from top to bottom, keeping his hands in the pocket of his leather jacket with an eyebrow arched. Of course, he's having so much fun in this situation.
"(Y/L/N)” The rough voice of Boden causes you to take two steps back.
“Go, princess, you have another hose to play with”. The cop says this time, not caring about the silent command of his boss to not continue.
“(Y/L/N)!”. Your chief is starting to lose his calm, hearing his strong feet coming closer.
“Yeah, I have no time to try to find yours”. Spitting these words with all the arrogance possible, you turn around to face the hardened gesture of Boden.
“What did you say, bitch?”
Ignoring completely what your boss has to opine, seeing sideways the man taking furious and dangerous strides towards your position, you don't give him any chance to touch you. Everything happens faster than you can assimilate, turning around again and crashing your fist on his nose. The hit causes him to trip over his own feet, falling to the ground. The fire brigade breaks into laughs in unison with the people around you, as the cop stirs with both hands covering his bleeding face uttering howls of pain.
“You should show him how to respect a woman”. You hiss shaking your hand trying to alleviate the brief sorrow, placing your eyes on the inspector who seems very satisfied and not worried for his man.
“Show's over”. The grunt behind you provokes you shivers, feeling a hand grabbing your shirt to make you step back. “Casey! Get her out of my sight!”
“Chi—Chief, I am so—”.
“Don't say a single word, (Y/L/N). We will talk later. Come back to the firehouse and wait for me there”.
You've been locked inside Boden's office since you arrived, walking the short distance between a wall and the other once and again like a lion in a circus waiting for his moment. You have screwed up your career, you know it. Nothing can't save you. Tomorrow morning you will confront the senior officials and, probably, the Commissioner too. Luckily, they will not disqualify you. Maybe we had some mercy because of your merit and honors on duty and only expulses you for a week or two.
When the door opens, you stop dead on your track noticing the fuming gesture on Boden's face. He hasn't even changed his uniform, slamming the door before sitting on his chair. You haven't seen him this furious before, feeling your legs trembling as you have a seat in front of him, bowing your head down, and placing your sweaty hands over your lap.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“Dad, I am sor—”.
“I'm not your father under this rooftop, kid. I'm your chief and you're another firefighter”. The interruption causes you to slightly jump over your chair, gulping and nodding in silence. “Again. What the hell were you thinking? Hit a cop? Really, (Y/L/N)?”
“He was sa—”.
“I don't care what he said! They think they run Chicago. Firefighters don't get involved and you should know it!” Boden snorts, rubbing his face with both hands, resting his arm then on the desk to lean forward. “Talk with Mouch, write up a report of what happened and give it to him. We have to deliver it first, so your version will prevail over his. And prepare yourself, you just dug up the war ax”.
#lemme know what you think in a comment! ⚡#chicago pd#chicago pd imagine#chicago pd x reader#one chicago#hank voight#hank voight imagine#hank voight x reader
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Whumptober 2020
No 9. FOR THE GREATER GOOD
“Take Me Instead” | “Run!” | Ritual Sacrifice
Fandom: Teen Wolf
***
“Boyd and I are heading to the supermarket.”
“No, wait. Take me instead.” Stiles plants his hands on the kitchen table, pushing his chair back to balance on two legs.
“You’re supposed to be studying,” Derek tells him. He collects his keys and wallet from the bowl they keep on the counter. “You made me promise not to distract you.”
“That was like two hours ago,” Stiles whines. “People change. I’ve changed! Please distract me.”
“It’s a twenty-minute trip to the supermarket.”
“It’s outside. Do you know how long it’s been since I saw the outside?”
“We went for a walk this morning,” Derek reminds him. “Fine.” He hip-checks the chair, grinning when Stiles almost overbalances. “But you’re not allowed to complain later that I’m an enabler.”
“You are an enabler,” Stiles smirks, bouncing up from the table. “I love it.” He smacks Derek on the ass and disappears into their bedroom to find his shoes.
When he returns, Derek’s waiting for him in the living room with Erica and Boyd.
“How long have you two been here?” Stiles asks, sitting on the arm beside Boyd. “What’s wrong with your house that you gotta come watch my TV while I have to study?”
“Technically,” Derek points out. “It’s my TV.”
“It’s the principle Derek.”
“It’s pack night,” Erica says. “And I want icecream.”
“You don’t deserve icecream.”
“Boyd Junior wants icecream.” Erica pouts, smoothing her hand across her swelling belly.
“Fine,” Stiles tells her. “Boyd Junior can have icecream.”
He hops off the couch and follows Derek down to the driveway.
“Can we take the Jeep?” Stiles pats the hood as he circles around to the driver’s side. “I haven’t driven her in ages, have I girl.”
“Your car has no legroom,” Derek says, pausing beside the Camaro. “I have to sit there with my knees up around my ears just to fit. I can think of better things to do with my knees up around my ears than sit in a car.”
“Well…” Stiles says slyly. “You can do that in a car too.”
“Yoga?”
“You suck.”
Derek pulls a face.
“Don’t you dare say it.”
“I didn’t say anything. We should take my car. It’s better.”
“Agree to disagree.” Stiles waits with his hand on the door handle for Derek to give in with a long drawn out sigh and walk across to the Jeep.
“You did the right thing Der,” Stiles says, patting Derek’s thigh and backing out of the car park.
*
Stiles had the green light.
He knows he had the green light. He’d been stopped on the red, it had gone green, and-
He doesn’t remember seeing the silver car fly through the intersection, but he remembers the noise. The crunch of metal and glass, the squeal of rubber and car horns blaring.
Then there is silence.
The sedan hits the Jeep on the weekend, sparing the squishy human the worst of the collision. Had it had hit the driver’s side; Stiles would likely be dead. It sends the Jeep skidding across the asphalt and onto the grass, finally coming to rest pinning the Jeep up against a telephone pole.
“’les-“
Pain.
“’iles-“
But distant, like it’s happening to someone else.
“Jesus Stiles, open your eyes.”
Okay, maybe not so distant.
“Please Stiles.”
Pain.
Stiles makes a noise, low in his throat, and scrunches his face against the waves of agony crashing down on him.
“Stiles?”
He blinks sluggishly, willing the world around him to stop spinning and focus. There’s an itch down the side of Stiles’s face and a rhythmic pounding behind his eyes that’s matching pace with his racing heart.
The blurred lump beside him leans closer and a face materialises.
“Hey.”
“’rek?”
Stiles squints at him. Derek’s half twisted in his seat, leaning against the door which has buckled inwards from the force of the collision. There’s blood running down his face, matting up his hair. There’s more blood on his jeans, too much blood.
Stiles swallows down the panic, and his chest burns. It steals his breath and he pants, desperate for air but terrified of breathing too deep and jostling his ribs.
“-iles, I’m okay. I promise.” Derek reaches across to grab Stiles’s hand. “I’ll heal. It’s okay.”
It’s not, but Stiles forces himself to nod, to winded to respond verbally. He turns his gaze to what was once the windshield. The glass is gone, scattered throughout the totalled car.
Outside, a hysterical bystander is talking into a phone.
“No,” Stiles groans, struggling with his seatbelt.
“What?” Derek tries to sit up, grimacing as the movement pulls against healing injuries.
“I can’t afford ambulance.”
“Stiles stop. Stop.” Derek covers Stiles’s hands with his own. “Stop moving. I can pay for the ambulance.”
He holds on until emergency services arrive.
*
The police turn up first.
There are more of them than necessary, but every law enforcement officer in Beacon Hills knows the distinctive blue Jeep and they had all responded when the call came through dispatch.
The fire brigade arrives minutes later.
The fire fighters assess the incident while a deputy comes around to Stiles’s window.
“Hey Stiles, Derek,” she says. “We’ll get you guys out real soon okay?”
“That would be great, Clark,” Stiles says, his voice strained.
“Roberston’s calling your dad, too,” Clark tells them as the paramedic’s swoop in. She steps out of the way to let them get to work.
One of the paramedics test Stiles’s door, but the pole prevents it from opening.
“Guess we’ll have to do this the hard way,” she jokes, keeping the mood light and reaching in through the window. “My name’s Sarah, this is Mike. Can you tell me your names?
Mike goes through the trunk and over the back seat to get to Derek, who tries to brush him off. He heals quickly, Stiles doesn’t. Eventually, he resigns himself to the paramedic’s ministrations. Despite the healing factor, he hurts. The door pressing into his back is cutting off the feeling in his legs and working with the emergency services will get them out of the car faster than arguing with them.
Sarah and Mike work like a well-oiled machine, calling out instructions and passing things to each other while the firemen outside work to get Stiles and Derek free.
But the adrenaline of the accident is beginning to wear off and Derek notices Stiles is fading.
“I told you we should have taken my car,” Derek says, trying to catch his attention.
“How woul’ this be diff’rent?” Stiles asks. His eyes are closed, his breath fogging up the oxygen mask that he’s now sporting.
“My car has crumple zones.”
“Y’re a crum’e zone,” Stiles murmurs.
Beside him, Sarah’s brows knit together infinitesimally. Derek only notices because he hears her heartrate speed up a notch.
“What’s wrong?” Derek asks.
“His oxygen saturation- how much oxygen is in his blood- is lower than I’d like,” Sarah explains. “But we should have you both out of here soon.”
Derek is the first to be plucked from the wrecked vehicle. Once he’s out of the way they can reach Stiles.
The numbness in Derek’s legs is easing now that nothing is pressing on his spine and his healing has kicked in, but it’ll probably be a few hours before he can get up and walk. There are a few staff at the hospital in the know, so he’s not too concerned about freaking anyone out with his healing abilities.
He’s not ready to go to the hospital though, not while Stiles is still trapped.
He watches as Stiles is pulled from the wreckage on a backboard and placed on the ground. Someone kneels by his head, squeezing a bag that’s replaced the oxygen mask.
Then the ambulance doors close.
“No, wait.”
*
Melissa is waiting for him when the ambulance pulls up to the hospital. She holds Derek’s hand while he’s wheeled through to triage, murmuring reassurances the whole way.
Derek barely notices her. He can’t erase that last image of Stiles lying lifeless on the grass.
The triage nurse is a friend of Deaton’s. She and Melissa check Derek over before confirming that his healing seems to be kicking in. There are pin and needles running up and down his legs - it’s an improvement.
Melissa finds Derek a quiet spot to wait for Stiles, away from the hustle and bustle of the emergency room. They wait together until the commotion down the hall heralds Stiles arrival.
With a promise to keep him updated, Melissa ducks out of the room to find out what’s going on, leaving Derek alone with his thoughts.
His mind immediately turns back to that image.
Not Stiles. Please, not Stiles, he thinks to himself. Take me instead, but don’t take Stiles.
Almost thirty minutes after she left, Melissa returns with a wheelchair.
“They’re about to take him to surgery,” she explains quickly, helping Derek transfer to the chair. “His dad is with him now, if we’re quick you can see him before he goes upstairs.”
She pushes the chair back into the bustling emergency room, expertly dodging around medical staff. There’s a cubicle about halfway along the room with a drawn curtain. A nurse exits, holding aside the curtain for Melissa and Derek to head in.
Inside, on the bed, is Stiles.
The first thing Derek notices is his chest.
There’s a thin blanket across Stiles’s hips and legs. He’s bare from the waist up, the left side of his chest painted in pinks and purples and reds. There’s a tube protruding from between his ribs on the left side, the skin around it stained orange.
Melissa pushes Derek right up to the bed. John stands on the opposite side, his hand resting in his son’s hair.
Their eyes meet, and Derek looks down.
A tube snakes out from between Stiles’s slack lips and his chest rises and falls with a mechanical wheeze. Derek stares at it, unable to process anything else.
The loud rattling as the curtain is suddenly, pulls him abruptly from his reverie.
“Time’s up I’m afraid,” Melissa tells them. She pulls Derek away from the bed so he’s not in the way as Stiles is whisked away.
*
“-going to wake up properly this time?”
Stiles feels his lips pull down in a frown.
“He will if you don’t shut up.”
“Mama McCall said he should be waking up. I’m doing him a favour really, keeping him on track.”
Someone is holding his hand, running a thumb across his knuckles. He squeezes their fingers.
“Stiles?”
*
His lips are so dry.
He tries to wet them with his tongue.
His mouth is so dry.
“Wake up sleepy head.”
He shifts, trying to get comfortable, and something pulls.
“D’rek?”
“I’m here.”
The hand Stiles is squeezing, squeezes back.
Stiles blinks, opening his eyes.
The pack is perched in various places around the room, watching Stiles expectantly.
He closes his eyes.
*
“Wha’ happened?”
Stiles can hear the rustle of Derek shifting in the chair beside the bed.
“We were in a car accident,” Derek tells him. “Do you remember?”
Nodding vaguely, Stiles looks around the room.
“Was my dad ‘ere?”
“Mel took him home for some dinner and to get some rest.”
“Mm, what time’s’t?”
“About seven pm.” Derek stretches his legs out with a slight wince. “You’ve been here for a bit over twenty-four hours. You’ve been drifting in an out for a while. Melissa said you probably wouldn’t remember.”
“When can I go home?”
Derek smiles. “A few days maybe, once the chest tube stops draining blood.”
“Huh?” Stiles is wearing a gown, but it’s not tied up. Derek helps him tug it down to reveal the tube and bandage and patchwork of bruises which have darkened over the day. “Are you okay?”
“Werewolf, remember.” He’d been walking again, albeit slowly, by the time Stiles was out of surgery. “I’m fine.”
“Good.”
Exhaustion clings to Stiles like mud, dragging him back down into the depths of sleep.
*
One week later, Stiles is released from hospital. He’s sent home his painkillers and antibiotics and instructions not to do any strenuous activity.
Derek and Stiles have very different ideas what constitutes strenuous activity.
“Oh!” Stiles lurches upright, trying not to jostle his broken ribs. “I totally missed my exams. I need to email my professors.”
He goes to stand, but Derek is already there with Stiles’ laptop.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says, scowling.
“I am resting,” Stiles protests, taking the computer. “The doctor also said I should be walking around a bit.”
“You did.”
“From bed to the couch? That hardly counts.” Stiles rolls his eyes fondly and pats the cushion beside him.
Derek sits down, guiding Stiles to lie back and snaking a hand under his shirt. He splays his fingers across the healing bruises and starts drawing out the pain that lies under Stiles’s skin.
“How about tomorrow,” he says once Stiles has melted into a puddle human goo. “You can walk from the bed to the kitchen.
“You drive a hard bargain, Derek Hale.” The last two words are almost lost around a yawn.
“What do you want to watch?” Moving to the opposite end of the couch, Derek settles in with Stiles’s feet in his lap.
“Hmm, The Mummy.”
Derek keeps one hand on Stiles’s ankle while he flips through the Netflix catalogue.
Stiles is asleep before the movie starts.
#whumptober2020#no.9#take me instead#teen wolf#fanfic#car accidents#sterek#stiles stilinski#derek hale#loose interpretation of the prompt me thinks#teenwolffanfic
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Strangest 2: Fractionally Gay
As Steve was laughing at Billy’s horror over the bat, his lungs starting to clench at the impossibility of explaining, the phone rang. He batted Mike aside and swung his leg over the back of the couch--any effort was worthwhile to forestall certain conversations.
“Steve,” the small voice came through raspy, and it took him a second to place it.
“Max?”
Billy’s head popped up like a meerkat’s.
“Billy ran out screaming. Lucas said I should warn you.” She gulped, difficult to understand through the rapid breathing. “You--you better call Hopper, Steve, he might--”
“He’s just sitting here drinking hot chocolate, Max,” he hurried to reassure her, wincing as Billy stumbled back over the arm of the couch towards the wall, smacking his hand down for the bat as he moved. Will kicked it out of his reach, and Billy winced as his shoulderblades thudded against the wall.
Max was breathing slowly--consciously, Steve thought, maybe he wasn’t the only one whose body had forgotten how. “He’s what,” she asked, voice flat.
“He show...he shows up here, sometimes,” he closed his eyes, feeling the Judgemental Adolescent Brigade’s attention shift from Billy to him with laser focus, “--it’s fine. I mean, he’s still an asshole, but he hasn’t done anything. He--” Steve stopped himself before telling a middle-school girl her delinquent brother’s semi-alcoholic cigarette funk was more grounding than a lightning rod. “...are you okay?”
“Me and Lucas are fine.” She swallowed hard again, and Steve waited patiently. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He might’ve...broken something. His, um. His dad said he fell down the stairs, but he’d just got in the shower. He wouldn’t be trying to get laundry or anything. He totally wanders around in his underwear if he forgets pants, Steve, he wasn’t hurrying to get anywhere,” she scoffed, and Steve frowned over to where Billy was still leaning against the wall, now casual, the bruised side of his face turned away from the room. “I think he, uh. I--I think he slammed him into a few other things. The tub makes a noise.”
“You gonna call ‘Hopper’ on me?” Billy bared his teeth, staring at the bat, and Mike crouched, reaching for it.
“Whoa, whoa, hang on, Max,” Steve pressed the phone to his chest. “Dustin. Put the bat, uh, with the skis, y’know--” He waved vaguely, hoping to convey the bat’s location to everyone but Billy. “Billy, if you’re gonna hit anything, uh. Go upstairs and punch a pillow or something. My room’s plaid.”
“So plaid,” Dustin confirmed, proud of his insider information.
“I think we should go,” Will whispered, and Mike slid an arm around him, baring his teeth right back at Billy.
“And leave him here with Steve? We should call Hopper.”
Billy snorted, but gave them a wide berth on his way to the kitchen, where he pointedly loitered for a while, reminding Steve of nothing so much as a cat who doesn’t want to admit anyone else has a good idea. The stairs creaked under his rapid footsteps as Dustin returned, then spun in place. “Where the hell is he?! Did you kill him?!”
“He went upstairs,” Will whispered back, frowning up at the sound of a creaking hallway.
“Max,” Steve tried to ignore the whispered conference behind him, “--he seems fine, but I’ll check later. Glad you have a date night, or every little shithead I know would be here. Why don’t you guys ever just show up to sell cookies?” He frowned accusingly at Mike, who frowned back.
“I just don’t want the stupid shit dying in your house,” Max grumbled, and Steve found himself grinning again into the handset.
“It’s okay, we’ve got a shovel.” He rubbed his face.
She snorted. “Are you sure I shouldn’t call Hopper? I mean he might...set you on fire, or...fuck your mom.”
“...what a resume,” Steve sighed, trying not to just sit on the floor and laugh, or possibly cry. His lungs were ready to heave, but undecided. “He’s not doing anything, yet. If he sets my mom on fire, I’ll definitely let you know.”
“Does Steve have a mom?” Steve heard Mike asking Dustin.
In his ear, Max took a shaky breath. “...okay. Okay. Are...are you sure we shouldn’t come over? I can steal my mom’s car.”
“No!” Steve barked. “No! It’s fine! You definitely don’t have to get arrested to come protect me, holy shit. Go...watch My Little Pony or something. Or hey, watch something for you, screw what Lucas wants.” That brought grins to Dustin, Mike, and Will’s faces, and he heard Max relaying it to a shouting Lucas over the phone. “Okay. I’m gonna hang up. It’s fine. If anything happens, I promise I’ll call Hopper.”
“Yeah, you better.” The connection clicked over to dial tone.
“...if we keep watching, it’ll show us how to kill the Nazgul Steve’s got in his bedroom,” Dustin sing-songed, grinning, and Steve sighed.
“Yeah. Sure. I need more--” the kettle shrieked again--Billy must have switched it on again, after Steve had chosen to busy his invaders with the microwave instead of allowing conversation. He frowned as he flicked it off, but no stairs creaked, so he figured it was to be obnoxious, rather than a need for more hot chocolate. “...I need more hot chocolate.” So did they all. Steve surveyed the Hot Chocolate Cupboard--the only cupboard he used, the only one that wasn’t a bit dusty--and couldn’t really think of much else he could buy. I could fill up the garage, he thought, thinking of the ease of routine in the grocery store, filling an entire cart with marshmallows, and the reassurance of a shelf of them every time he parked his car. I’ll have to stockpile candy canes, he thought with a snort, his intestines doing a crampy clench at the idea of running out in mid-February, and having some kind of breathing emergency that required them. They’ll find me blue in the kitchen, he muffled his snickers against the sleeve of his forearm, after I collapse because my hot chocolate isn’t right, and my lungs turn into inflexible plastic soda bottles, and Billy isn’t around to bitch about singing mice.
“...Steve?” Dustin’s voice trailed in from the front room over the sound of goblins, and Steve wiped his eyes, sniffling.
“Be right there.”
Another hour in, and Steve had jerked awake nearly every ten minutes to the sound of Dustin’s voice, so he stood, stretching. Dustin crawled forward to pause the VCR when Steve walked into the kitchen.
“Go ahead,” he leaned back into the front room, “I’m beat. I’m going to go sleep upstairs.” On his way, he refilled his hot chocolate, and grabbed another, crouching to make sure they didn’t foam up over the sides, that there were equal piles of marshmallows, and that his was actually mostly coffee.
He didn’t see the exchange of wide-eyed glances.
The lights were off in his room. The hallway light shone across Billy’s defined abs where he was sprawled across Steve’s bed. Steve kicked his way through a pile of shoes on his way to the desk lamp.
“What the hell,” Billy groaned, covering his face with his arms.
“I brought more hot chocolate, I guess,” Steve shrugged, rattling around in his desk drawers. “I told Max I’d make sure you weren’t broken anywhere, or anything.” He thumped the first aid kit on his desk. It still had smears of blood on it.
Billy snorted. “The hell did she tell you.”
Steve opened his mouth to ask about the hand-shaped bruises he’d compared to Sylvester Stallone’s, closed it again, and shrugged. “Sounds like your dad’s an asshole.” Billy flinched, then tried to cover it with a luxurious stretch.
“Breaking news.”
“Come on, sit up, dickhead, let me check out your face.”
“You just wanna check me out,” Billy bared his teeth in a wide smile, leaning in like Steve was somebody he was about to ask to Makeout Point.
“Um--” Steve leaned away so fast his head hit the wall, and Billy cackled, curling on to his side on the bed in a fit of the giggles.
“Y’don’t want a blow job, Harrington? Are you sure? You’re being awfully,” his mouth quirked into a crooked grin, “--fucking. Sweet to me. You had me wait in your bed.”
Steve sighed, rubbing his face. There was probably some scientific name for something just difficult enough to keep your mind off worse things. Nancy would know. Maybe he could switch to a different awful thing to keep the nightmares away. Alcohol would probably work, but the idea of being drunk and not noticing the motion detector lights coming on all around the house--he grabbed at the hot chocolate, slopping it on his math homework, but feeling the heat ease into his palms. The marshmallows were sweet foam, almost entirely melted, and he sipped slowly, licking the sugar off his lips. After Max’ phone call, he couldn’t just kick Billy out--That’s almost worse than the trunk, he thought, sending him back to somebody who slams his head into the side of the tub. He could put the kids in his parent’s room, he thought, then imagined them wandering off to poke Billy in the night, ending with Billy a snarling silhouette at the treeline, dragging a bleeding child away, red spray against the snow and trees, and dripping blood from his mouthful of soft belly. He sighed, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, Billy had gone very still.
“...you gonna get your bat, King Steve?” he whispered.
“I’m not going to hit anybody with a nailbat,” Steve opened the first aid box, counting off breaths in his head. One one thousand, he breathed. Two one thousand. He breathed again. “Not unless you make me.”
Billy’s grin widened. “How do I make you? I could fuck Nancy. I could punch what’s his name. The kid with no teeth.”
Steve stared at him. “That’s...that’s the shit you’re gonna do?”
“Not if you tell me the rules.” Billy sat up and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms with a smirk.
“What.” Steve squinted, suddenly trying to calculate the amount of sleep he’d had recently. It wasn’t enough. He knocked back more of his ‘coffee’. “What are you talking about?”
“When,” Billy leaned in again, “--you gonna--” his breath tickled Steve’s lips, “--fuck me up, Harrington.”
“Jesus,” Steve jerked back again.
“Some blood on that bat.” Billy stretched, leaning to look out the window. “You gonna bury me out in the woods? Oh, no, I know, the sheriff’s your friend, you make it look like I drove drunk.”
“What--” Steve clenched the edge of the desk, hoping this ride slowed soon so he could get off. “...I’m not…”
“Oh, I get it now,” Billy laughed, going still again. “You killed that girl. Barb. That’s why little Nancy-Nance broke up with you.”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Steve watched Billy’s legs kicking in the air as he lolled around like a happy cat, rubbing his eyes.
“That’s how you know ‘Hopper’. He helped you cover it up. Was she pregnant?” Billy cracked up, covering his face. “I thought you’d make a great dad, King Perfect, Steve Harrington, but that’s really shitty of you.” He grinned over lazily. “You’re starting earlier than mine did, did you make the bat for that, or did you already--”
Steve slammed his fist on the desk, making the light bounce and flicker. “I didn’t kill anyone. It was some--animal. It ate Dustin’s cat. Got in Will’s house. The--the little shitheads are just impressed because I babysat them while Hopper and Ms Byers set the nest on fire.”
“What, you hit some little...coyote?” Billy sat up to glare at him, all the musculature on display vibrating with tension as he leaned to breathe all over Steve’s face again, and Steve rolled backwards in the chair, sighing.
“Yeah. Yeah, it was a coyote. I’m not gonna hit you with a nailbat, jesus.”
“So when I showed up at the Byers, you were all afraid of a coyote.”
“It was scary as hell,” Steve shrugged.
“So scary you had syringes of sedative big enough to put me down. Lookee, your majesty, I’m so much bigger than a coyote.” He spread his arms, smiling. It looked uncomfortable, Steve thought, the stiff denim over all that sweaty bare shivering skin. Max’ call earlier had given Billy the added funk of adrenaline sweat over his usual eau de teenage alcoholic smoker whose shower got interrupted, and Steve tried to lean back in subtly, feeling his brain clear of blue tint.
“Look, we don’t know what it was. It ate people--”
“Who, Barb?”
“Barb! Yes! It ate Barb, that’s why no one found her!”
“Why the hell didn’t you just shoot it?”
“I don’t have a gun.” Steve rolled his eyes, inhaling the relaxing smell of stupid asshole, and feeling it work on his lungs. “‘Hey, Sheriff Hopper, I need a gun!’ I’m sure that would have worked.”
“The hell? Where was he? They just left you with the kids and went off--what was it, a bear?!”
“Sure, yeah, I guess.” Steve shrugged, rubbing his face as the adrenaline keeping him awake ebbed.
“Sure. And then you used your syringe on me.”
“Max was afraid I’d die! At least we didn’t leave you on the floor to get eaten.”
Billy stared at him. “You locked me in a trunk...to be a Good fucking Samaritan. What the hell were you supposed to do with a syringe against--a whatever, like, jump on its back?”
“Well, you knocked me out,” Steve rubbed his face, his brain going a little fuzzy as the image of Billy punching him superimposed itself over Billy sitting on the edge of his bed. “That was Max and them. You’d just tried to kill her friends, she maybe just wanted you locked up somewhere. I didn’t wake up until they were driving,” he grimaced, forcing another deep breath.
“Yeah, but, I mean--they just left you with a bat and a syringe? What the hell kind of--where are your parents? ‘Hopper’ and the Byers just leave you to defend against--things--”
He sounded as pissed off as usual, and Steve shook his head, grinning. “Pretty safe until you showed up.”
“I wasn’t gonna...fucking kill them,” Billy snorted.
“You sure? You were sure acting like it.”
“He told me to get the little bitch home, okay--”
“Leave the little assholes alone, I am not fucking around about this--” Steve’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s when the bat comes out,” Billy took a shuddering breath, rubbing his face, “--just them, huh? ‘Cause you’ve still got some greeny face there from when I clocked you in the--”
“Fuck you, and me,” Steve amended. “Me too. Goddamn. Just don’t--fucking attack people. We used the syringe, and not the bat. Look, do you want a shirt to put on.”
“Make me,” Billy grinned, but his voice was starting to sound hoarse, and his hands trembled. “Why don’t you make me, Harrington.”
“Damn iiiiit.” Steve let his head clonk against the first aid kit. “Look, you’re shaking. Are you actually hurt. Are you cold. Do you have any wounds.”
“I’m great,” Billy beamed back, eyes over-shiny in the low light, “--wanna check my teeth? They’re a little loose on the left. They’d probably come out easy. Bloody teeth all over your room.”
“Max was afraid your head hit the tub.” Steve leaned in to frown at the bruise, and Billy caught his breath.
“My--my knee. And--it’s fine. Why the hell was she listening.” His eyes were fixed on Steve’s mouth, like Steve was the biting risk.
Steve sighed with relief, spun in his desk chair, and stalked over to his dresser to throw a sweatsuit over--at first he aimed for Billy’s head, but logic happened, and he just tossed it on the bed within reach. “Do you want a shower? I mean, she said you--”
“Max should get that diarrhea of the face checked,” Billy growled.
“Or not, but they’re clean and dry.” Steve shrugged, wishing Billy and all his problems would just vanish into a nice sleep-inducing haze until morning.
After an odd moment where Billy apparently felt the need to hold up the elastic and test it, he glared over. “You gonna watch? My hot chocolate’s cold. Fix it, Mom.”
Steve blinked, then sighed, wandering back to the desk to grab both mugs. “We shower together after games, asshole. I’ve seen it all before.”
“Oh, you were looking?” Billy snarled, and Steve backed out of the room. “You eyeing me up? Wanna put your hands on me, King Harrington?”
“Just trying to pretend you were Cindy Crawford,” Steve backed through the door, sighing. “Bathroom’s through there, if you want it. I’m gonna go let the Scooby Gang know I’m alive.”
Naturally, there was a general scramble on the stairs as he turned down them. “We heard a thump...” Will watched his face nervously.
Upstairs, the shower turned on, and Steve sighed, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table. “Yeah, he’s so annoying I slammed my hand on the desk. Okay, I’m not saying I like him, or want him around--”
“Psh yeah,” Dustin agreed stoutly, glaring at Mike.
Huh, Steve thought, too tired to ask. “...I need to talk to Hopper.” He leaned his face in his arms.
“I’ll call El,” Mike’s eyes narrowed, his voice ringing with judgement. After a minute or so of whispering, the plastic of the handset banged Steve in the head, and he flapped his hand for it.
“Sheriff Hopper?”
“Steve.”
“Uh, you called me before when Billy was driving around. Did his dad call you again?”
“We’ve got a report of him leaving the house drunk, disorderly, and intending mayhem,” Hopper sounded disbelieving, “--which sounds about right, for him, what you got, kid?”
“Um.” Steve felt his shoulders hunch. “He was...here, that time. He wasn’t even drunk! He was just--” he waved a hand, “--sitting on the couch. We watched Star Wars.”
“Okay,” Hopper waited, sounding even judgier than Mike.
“He just...showed up here again tonight, soaking wet and half in his jeans--”
“Ew, gross,” Dustin made a revolted face at Mike, whose nose wrinkled. Will shot a glance upstairs, wide-eyed.
“And, uh, Max called? And said Billy’s dad grabbed him out of the shower, kicked his ass. Threw him down the stairs...I guess?” he trailed off, shrugging apologetically at the phone, as Mike mouthed ‘Good,’ to nods from the other two. “He’s pretty banged up?”
“Billy Hargrove has been hiding out at your house,” Hopper said slowly, and Steve rubbed his face, groaning, and feeling like he was shrinking inches every minute this conversation continued. He’d have to see if Billy minded carting him around, once he was the size of Stuart Little. “Did he finally do something? Why own up now?”
“Well, I mean, he’s not actually doing anything? Instead of having to drive around all night looking out for him, you can just call up and ask me whether there’s an asshole here bitching about Secrets of NIMH?” Steve bit his lips, uncertain about this strange ritual of communicating with adults.
Hopper took a long whistly breath through his teeth. “Not too comfortable with him around the kids.”
“Uh, yeah, I had him go upstairs, they’re like...segregated,” Steve made an apologetic face at Will, who blinked, then shyly nodded.
After a brief pause, Hopper asked “You tell that boy what to do and he does it?”
“...mostly? I mean, he knows I know you, I think he thinks you’d help me cover up his murder?”
“Hopper would.” Dustin nodded confidently.
“...only if it were Billy Hargrove,” Mike shook his head, “--he wouldn’t let Steve murder just anybody--”
“I trust you not to murder anyone unless it’s self-defense,” Hopper sounded exhausted, but also like he might be laughing. “Call if you need anything, you know that.”
“...yeah,” Steve’s throat felt too tight to swallow.
“Night, kid.”
“Yeah. Yeah, night.” He sat listening to the dial tone, wondering what to do.
“Why do you have to harbor that fugitive,” Dustin shuddered, holding his hands up like a silent movie heroine in denial. “Couldn’t you have, like, a hot British double agent? With eleven guns, that does flips.”
“Usually it’s fine, because nobody’s here.” Steve waved his arms, sighing.
Mike and Will both frowned from his face to Dustin’s, but Dustin made a very obvious “Cut it off” motion at his neck, and they didn’t ask. Steve couldn’t help it, the idea of Dustin keeping track of his friends’ slumber party etiquette had him snickering again. “Holy god. I’m going back to bed.”
“But...Billy’s up there,” Will pointed out, and received an elbow from Mike.
“Yeah, he is. You guys can sleep down here or in the big bedroom, Dustin knows where.” Dustin nodded, obviously resisting a salute. “He’s...look, it’s fine, he...sleeps, like everybody else--”
“Is he why you haven’t been sleeping?” Will asked solemnly.
Steve snorted. “Ha. Nuh-unh. Okay, you guys have had nightmares--” Mike and Will nodded, while Dustin scoffed. “Imagine you’re--” Steve glanced at Will, trying to phrase it without pressing anywhere sore, “--somewhere in a nightmare, but something really weird walks by, something so out of place it’s funny--”
“...Clifford?” Will suggested hesitantly.
“Eugh!” Mike groaned. “I’m gonna burn that ABC book--”
“It’s really hard to focus on our game around stupid Clifford--” Dustin rolled his eyes, “--you walk into a dungeon and suddenly Mike’s mom’s voice, ‘That’s an ostrich! O! O is for Ostrich!”
“I know--” Mike groaned. “Try living there--”
“Clifford!” Steve grinned. “Exactly! That’s right. So you’re in a nightmare, and Clifford walks by. And you don’t really want Clifford around--”
“He’s annoying as hell--” Mike slumped into the other kitchen chair.
“Yeah,” Steve nodded, at Will’s thoughtful expression. “He’s huge and he smells like a dog--”
“He takes huge shits,” Dustin grinned proudly.
“--but,” Steve eyeballed Will in particular, “--you can’t really be scared, either, with the Big Friendly Dog stinking up the place--’
“Billy is Clifford,” Will’s eyes widened, “--you like having him here. Even though he smells awful.”
“Yeah, well. He’s showering.” They all grimaced at the ceiling.
“I listen to music with Jonathan,” Will said softly.
Mike nodded. “I call El, or put the TV on.”
“I’m not scared,” Dustin snorted, “--but if I was, I’d call somebody, Steve, come on, pick up the phone, you don’t need a huge shitty dog.”
“Bedtime.” Steve stretched, groaning. “It’s...whatever. I don’t care.” He staggered upright, already focused on the hours of sleep he might get with Billy breathing in the same room. “I’m going to bed, to sleep, and if anyone wakes me up, there better be--” he glanced at Will again, and cleared his throat, and his head of monsters, “--a costumed supervillain, like, circling the house.”
“Nah, he’s already upstairs,” Dustin muttered, and Steve flipped him off, already running up the stairs.
As Steve frowned at the bed--it’d seemed bigger when he had a girl in it, but then, he supposed, he wasn’t wary of Nancy breaking his face if he brushed his elbow against hers in the night--Billy wandered in, sweatshirt half pulled over his head.
“Holy crap, there.” Steve stared at the purple bruising under Billy’s right shoulderblade and across his ribs, the familiar greeny-yellow handprint on his shoulder, fingermarks on his forearm, and what honestly looked like a heel-stomp on his lower back.
Billy scrambled to get the sweatshirt pulled down. “Fuck you. Go fuck yourself. King fucking Steve Harrington.”
Steve ordinarily had no trouble restraining the urge to laugh at Billy, who he mostly thought of as an unexploded bomb, but listening to his angry “fuck”s muffled through thick jersey fabric was hilarious. He forestalled it with a hand over his mouth. “I’m gonna go to sleep.” He pointed at the bed, more for his own comprehension than anyone else’s. “You can do whatever, but there’s still a whole Munchkin music number going on downstairs.”
Billy looked from his pointing finger, to the bed, back to Steve’s face. “This is an invitation to sleep in your bed.”
“I don’t care,” Steve tottered over and pulled back the covers. “Oh, I guess you could sleep in your car. I told them downstairs they could have the other bedroom or the couch, but I won’t be there to stop them bugging you, and if you murder them I’ll have to…” the pillow against his face felt like the smooth feathers of a celestial swan. “This is the best bed,” he mumbled.
“Harrington,” Billy’s voice came from somewhere off to Steve’s right. “Steve.”
“Sleeping,” Steve told him, wondering dazedly whether he’d dream about Clifford. Or Billy. Or Billy riding Clifford.
He didn’t remember what he dreamt about, jerking out of a sound sleep to a shout of his name downstairs (Dustin, probably), and the streaming light of the motion detectors. He had a vague impression of vaulting over the banister and not dying, and finding Mike and Dustin trying to jolly Will out of a panic attack.
“It’s probably just a leaf or something,” Dustin said, both thumbs up, as Steve sighed and got his bat. The VCR clock said it was four, so he’d actually gotten a few hours of sleep. He shoved his feet into his boots by the door, and stepped outside, keeping to the shadows, and shuffling, so he wouldn’t crunch loudly in the snow. The lights were scheduled for three minutes, so they flipped off soon after he began his circuit. He rested the bat against his shoulder, closing in on the sound of snow crunching.
Of course it was just Billy. Steve shuffled silently closer to the lit end of Billy’s cigarette, only to have the motion detector lights snap back on and illuminate Billy’s face from less than a foot away. Billy screamed, flailing backwards and landing on his ass in the snow, and Steve started snickering, leaning on his bat.
“What the fuck, Harrington,” Billy yelled, sounding breathless. His hair was dusted with snow, and the hoodie hood was wedged awkwardly half under the jean jacket, making him look a little less dangerous than usual. “What the hell, what in the--”
Steve considered himself, shirtless in yanked-on, unbuttoned jeans, a bloodied nailbat over his shoulder, and grinned. “I look like Conan or something.”
“You fucking asswipe, you look nuts--I thought I was gonna die--”
“The little bastards saw the motion detector come on and woke me up,” Steve shrugged, leaning on his bat again as he held a hand down for Billy, who’d landed in about two feet of snow and a patch of scrubgrass, and was stabbing his hands in the snow without finding any leverage to shove himself upright. Billy jerked back, and Steve groaned, rubbing his face. “...you’re just gonna sit there in the snow?”
Billy’s glare didn’t waver as he grabbed at the uneven grass, trying to push himself up, and Steve finally bent in close and grabbed his hand.
Billy yanked back. “--fuck go of me--”
“Come on.” Steve set the end of the bat in the snow and pushed off it to haul Billy up so chilled denim thudded against his chest.
Billy went still against him.
“Breathe,” Steve recommended, recognizing the signs of recalcitrant lungs, and brushed a hunk of snow out of Billy’s mullet. The skin under the denim collar was warm, and Steve let his half-frozen fingers linger there, breathing easily in the cloud of cigarette smoke, and the smell of his shampoo on Billy Hargrove’s mullet. It was soft, and Steve let his fingers curl in it, resting his thumb behind Billy’s ear.
“The hell are you putting your hands on me.” Billy’s breath was warm against his ear, but he didn’t pull away.
Steve considered, head clear and and nearly fizzy with the hours of sleep. In the chill of snow against his shoulders, with his hand clenched in the denim of Billy’s jacket, he felt farther away from tunneling nightmares than he had in months. Billy finally lifted his face from Steve’s shoulder enough to take another drag on his cigarette, which forced him to wrap that arm loosely around Steve’s shoulder to reach. Steve giggled, mentally cataloguing the windows probably holding small, horrified faces.
“You tell my dad I’m here and nobody’ll ever find my body,” Billy breathed smoke against his head, before pulling back enough to press his lips to Steve’s.
He has long eyelashes, Steve thought, less confident about his wakefulness than he’d been moments before, but kissing Billy’s warm mouth was weirdly cozy, and he leaned into it, feeling the bat slide from his hand. “Wait--” He clenched his fingers in the curls at the base of Billy’s skull, and Billy groaned against his mouth, eyes sliding shut. “...wow,” Steve paused, distracted by the immediate rush of red across Billy’s cheeks, but Billy ducked his head, jerking away, so Steve pulled him back with his other hand around Billy’s neck. “Wait.” He licked his lips, thinking. “That’s. Huh. We should go back inside. But your dad knows you--you’re gay?”
“I’m not a fag.” Billy jerked backwards, but didn’t try to disentangle Steve’s hands from his hair and neck. “I fuck women, Harrington-- ”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but you just...I mean,” Steve ran his thumbs up Billy’s cheeks, pulling him closer, fascinated at the lack of protest, “--wait, that’s why he--?” He touched the bruise carefully.
“No,” Billy growled. “I mean, I don’t know, I know mom didn’t just have a dizzy spell on the stairs, but I bet she--she wasn’t--fucking women--”
“Jesus.” Steve tugged him back in so their foreheads met, studying Billy’s closed eyes and shivers as their breath fogged. “You think your dad’s a murderer? You think he-- ”
“Shut the fuck up, Harrington.” Billy swallowed. “The hell are you gonna do. You gonna tell ‘Hopper’ I kissed you. You gonna tell my dad. Might as well kill me with that bat, Steve.” He shifted away, stilling at Steve’s hand on the back of his skull.
“No, no, jesus, calm down--” Steve pulled him close again, breathing in Essence of Hargrove in hopes his mind would stop spinning. “Fuck. Your--your dad killed your mom?”
“Dunno what the hell else coulda happened,” Billy said thickly, tense against him.
“...jesus.” Steve whispered against his jaw. “You should--you should tell Hopper. Christ. Uh, we should--we should go back inside.”
“Your three little piglets probably already called him. They’ll think I ate you out here.”
“Oh shit.” Steve grabbed Billy’s hand in one of his, scooping up the bat with the other, and began dragging him back toward the house. “How long have I been out here, they probably did--”
“What the hell, Steve, why--you’re--let go--” Billy tried to shake him off, staggering after him through the snow.
“It’s fine!” Steve shouted, stumbling over all the shoes as they tromped through the door. “This asshole was having a cigarette!” He held up his and Billy’s hands like they’d won a trophy, and Billy tried to jerk away again, snarling under his breath.
“What are you doing,” Dustin said levelly, staring between them.
Mike’s nose was wrinkled. “You can let him go now.”
Will’s red rimmed eyes traveled over Billy and fixed on their clasped hands, but he just cocked his head, raising his eyebrows at Steve, who felt his face heat.
“We’re going back to sleep--” Steve dove towards the stairs, prompting a burst of expletives from Billy, who scrambled after him.
Upstairs, Steve closed and locked his bedroom door, dropped the bat to thud against the wall, and turned to face Billy, who was shuddering at regular intervals. “Un...less you want more hot chocolate.” Steve stood back, surveying the shivers and teary eyes.
“I don’t fucking want hot chocolate, what is it with you.” Billy bared his teeth, hunching in on himself, and Steve reflected with a grin that for once, he didn’t want hot chocolate either.
Steve dropped into the office chair, letting it slowly spin him all the way around. “You kissed me.”
“Prove it in court,” Billy sighed, hugging himself in his snowy jacket.
“Come on.” Steve waved him over.
“Hell no.” Billy backed away, his shoulders hitting the wall again.
Steve opened his mouth, closed it, then snorted a laugh. “Don’t make me grab your hair again.”
“Fuck you.” Billy’s eyes narrowed, but slowly traveled down Steve’s chest, over his abs, and down to his unbuttoned jeans and visible triangle of briefs. “...plaid the new thing at court? Isn’t your room enough? Look,” he rolled his shoulders, probably forgetting his borrowed saggy grey sweats were hiding his usual flexing pectorals, “--you want a blowjob? You can’t tell anyone.”
“What?” Steve blinked.
“Want my mouth on your dick?” Billy sauntered towards him. “Don’t tell my father.” He leaned in to whisper along Steve’s jaw, and Steve resisted the urge to reach down and hoist his dick out of his briefs. “Don’t tell the sheriff.” Billy dropped to his knees, mouthing down Steve’s chest. “Don’t--cave my--head in,” he went still as Steve slid a hand in his hair. “Don’t crush my eyeballs with a nailbat, and I’ll blow you.”
“Wait,” Steve groaned, tugging to detach Billy’s warm, soft mouth from the edge of his jeans. “Damn it. Billy, hold on--”
“The hell is wrong with you, Harrington?” Billy sat back on his feet, eyebrows raised. “Close your eyes if you want, I don’t care--”
“I just--” Steve ran his fingers along Billy’s jaw, losing his train of thought as Billy tipped his head willingly.
“You wanna hit me and have me?” Billy laughed, turning his head to bite gently at Steve’s hand. “I’m hot with bruises. Gimme a bloody nose, kiss off your daily iron allowance, your majesty.”
“No. No.” Steve clenched his fingers in the silky hair at the back of Billy’s head again, feeling him sag. He was careful not to yank individual strands.
“Don’t tell anyone, though. Hit me, don’t kill me--” Billy pulled Steve’s thumb in his mouth with his tongue, sucking suggestively, but his eyes were getting shiny again. “Come on. You don’t really wanna haul me out of another trunk.”
“Jesus, Hargrove,” Steve yanked his hand away from Billy’s mouth, “--I won’t tell anyone you’re--I mean, that we’re--what are we even doing.” For the first time, his lungs started to feel stiff even with Billy Hargrove right in front of him. He forced some small, shallow breaths, watching Billy’s eyes start to brim over. He put the hand not holding Billy’s hair over his mouth to forestall what was probably about to be another flood of abuse, and took another breath. One one thousand, he counted to himself, holding it and letting it out. “You--you’re a fuckhead,” he started again, feeling Billy laugh against his hand. “Look, I’m not gonna--if you get up right now, I won’t tell anyone, and I won’t--hit you, or anything. If you wanna be there, that’s--that’s good too. But. I won’t tell anyone.”
Billy shook his head, trying to get away from Steve’s hand over his mouth--since Steve hadn’t moved when he licked it--and Steve lowered it, narrowing his eyes. Billy cleared his throat. “What’s the point, then?”
Steve flailed his free hand. “It was your idea!”
“I like women,” Billy bared his teeth, “--you’re just gonna shut your eyes anyway.”
“What, you want me to stare at you?” Steve pressed his licked thumb to Billy’s lower lip. He’d tasted like cigarettes and chocolate.
“I don’t fucking want anything.” Billy let his eyes slide closed, pressing his face into the seam of Steve’s jeans. “Neither of us are fucking...queers.”
Steve wondered, in passing, whether he wanted more of a sexual buffet table than he’d suspected. It makes sense, he thought, one hand in Billy’s hair, the other satisfying various curiosities about Billy’s ear piercing, the texture of his stubble, and the heat coming up in his cheeks. Nobody wants the same thing forever, right? He leaned in again, kissing Billy Hargrove, and huffing a laugh of disbelief. Billy flinched back, eyes blinking wide.
“You gotta lay off the little shitheads,” Steve remembered to say, pulling back. Billy’s mouth quirked, and Steve kissed it again, tugging at Billy’s lower lip and its edge of stubble with his teeth. Billy moaned into his mouth, and Steve grabbed the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer--not that there was much closer for him to be.
“I don’t give a shit about them,” Billy panted against his mouth.
“I ended up with them somehow, you need to be...okay with them, if you can be nice to people without...taking your pants off,” Steve pressed lightly on Billy’s unbruised cheek with his thumb, and Billy obediently opened his mouth. He still tasted better than Steve would have expected, his mouth warm and smoky, and his body ever more pliable as Steve held him firmly by the hair.
“Being nice right now,” Billy whispered back, and Steve snorted, pulling him into another kiss. The left side of Billy’s mouth tasted coppery, and his soft groan turned into more of a pained whine, but he slid his arms around Steve’s neck to stop him from pulling away.
“God,” Steve tucked his face against Billy’s other cheek, breathing him in, “--you--you gotta promise, though. If you’re about to lose your shit at a kid, walk away.”
“I wouldn’t really,” Billy laughed, pulling his arms back to fumble at Steve’s pants. Steve grabbed his hands.
“Billy.”
“I won’t,” he shoved away to stomp over against the wall, “--the hell is this, Harrington, some kinda trap. Fuck you.”
“Nooooo,” Steve said slowly, feeling whiplash, “--that was…” He felt his cheeks flush. “That was good. You should come back over here.”
“Why the hell would I.” Billy rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck menacingly, but wandered a few feet closer. “What if one of your spawn calls the sheriff. He’ll show up and shoot me in the head.”
“Oh! I called him,” Steve blinked, “--while you were in the shower--” he cut off at Billy’s soft choking noise.
“He’s not here, what, he’s just waiting for me at home, then--” His voice had gone high and wet.
“What?”
“He’s gonna know, Harrington, he’s gonna--god, fuck you, he’s gonna nail me to a fucking fence--” He scrambled over to reach for the bat, and Steve put all his basketball lessons in interference into preventing him from reaching it, finally hugging Billy’s arms to his body.
“Sshhhh,” he tried, unable to think of anything else. “Shhh, Billy. I called Hopper. I told him your dad was a liar. I told him we watched Star Wars. He’s not coming. He’s not telling your dad.”
“Fuck you--” Billy’s voice shook.
Steve rocked them back and forth, hugging him tighter, and Billy snorted into his shoulder. “Lemme go.”
“Not sure I should,” Steve breathed against his neck.
“This is so gay,” Billy groaned.
“I think we’re both maybe half gay, though.” Steve loosened his grip, sliding his hand up to stroke his thumb against the base of Billy’s skull, and Billy shuddered, snorting a laugh.
“Fags come in fractions?”
“Maybe.”
Billy took a deep breath, tickling Steve’s ear. “...maybe you’re a moron.”
Steve slid his other hand under the denim jacket and old sweatshirt, running the flat of his hand up and down Billy’s back.
“Maybe,” Billy whispered in his ear.
(I think Tumblr ate my first three chapter posts, so I’m redoing them?!) Strangest chapter 1/chapter 2/chapter 3/chapter 4/chapter 5/chapter 6/chapter 7/chapter 8/chapter 9/chapter 10/ But really I’d recommend reading it on Ao3 under peterqpan, scrolling through it on Tumblr sounds crazymaking
#harringrove#platypan#platypan fic#strangest#Billy's a mess#Steve is also a mess#They're messy together#Also dorks
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“Mosura” (1961) or Mothra
Just as the Marvel Studios films contain more than Captain America, the Japanese films of the monster, or kaiju, genre are more than simply Godzilla: there are other characters too!
Typhoons and shipping play massive roles in these films. Japan is an island nation, after all.
Being between Infant Island and the leading edge of a typhoon is the worst position possible: drowning and radiation. The ship is run aground and is abandoned.
Eventually, we see a very rocky and grey beach with four screaming people, who are taken to BatLabel’s side-hustle client: the National Synthesis Nucleus Centre (I honestly wish I had a screen grab of that).
The sailors think that they lived because the natives helped them survive by giving them red juice. Infant Island is the nuclear weapon testing place of the Rolisician government. Its ambassador looks… vaguely… American but its flag looks… Turkish? Apparently the fictitious country is an amalgam of “Russia” and “America.” In the English version, the Rolisician villain Jerry Nelson is sporting a heavy ‘Russian accent,’ so at least the Japanese are being more even-handed about it, as ‘Kurâruku Neruson’ basically sounds like an American guy over-pronouncing his Japanese because he’s not all that fluent yet.
[left] Jerî Itô as ‘Kurâruku Neruson’ in Mosura (1961)
— — — —
So we explore the island where beyond the grey rock is… A PAINTING OF A LUSH JUNGLE! Also some caves with the coolest blown glass and crystal formations which are the hit of Star Trek TOS.
The princesses appear as Dr. Shin'ichi Chûjô is attacked by some sort of anemone. They’re about a foot tall.
Initially the twin ‘peanuts’ communicate using music-like sounds (probably created by really early synthesizers? Seems far too early, though). But they understand Japanese. Eventually we learn they communicate best by telepathy.
Anyway, Bad Rolisician Scientists capture the princesses but the natives force the Bad Guys to release the princesses.
Everyone returns to Japan, where they dissolve the expedition, and announce no findings.
But the Bad Guys go back to the island on their own to collect artifacts for the black market. You know, the princesses.
So they become part of a big stage production.
Their singing calls Mothra, and 46 minutes in we finally see the Mighty Mothra!! …in larval form. …emerging from a stripy egg.
Mothra heads to Japan, sinking a luxury liner in the process.
The airforce drops flammable materials on the water and set it alight to stop Mothra. Why they do that I do not understand: when will they learn that if they’re dealing with a massive creature, nothing is going to stop it‽
Please give me the cute brown car with four doors and a cream roof. It may be a Datsun, it could be a Toyota, I don’t know nor care, I would like one please.
The Dam bursts for no discernible reason.
The girls get put in a plastic box to stop their telepathic connection to Mother. If she doesn’t know where the twins are, she will stop her travelling to Tokyo in order to rescue them.
Ah! Mothra is behind the dam! But, we don’t get told how.
A baby in a basket falls from a cart in the path of the flood. The reporter rescues the child just in time as the bridge is torn apart.
The scientist / linguist Dr. Shin'ichi Chûjô has a son who is seen in a red ball cap; is this where we get the kid in Indy Jones and the Temple of Doom?
The red car with massive horizontal fins can go pound sand. I do not like it in the least. It is big and flashy and has no modesty. Take it away.
Mothra is 6 stories in height and probably 100m long.
The scale of this film is incredible! The crowd, the traffic, the vehicles and models… the Patriot missiles, the matte work, the model of the Tokyo Broadcast Tower… the vehicles with mock-ups of weapons… the spray web, the burning of models, the models of fire engines and tanks…
Then there’s the weapon supplied by the Rosician Atomic Heat Ray Brigade. It is, unsurprisingly, an Atomic Heat Ray, which is used to set Mothra’s cocoon on fire.
Mothra emerges as a moth right after that; simultaneously, the bad guys arrive at Mr Nelson’s / Neruson-san’s ranch somewhere in Roliscia (where you can even hear the lowing of cattle from the comfort of the living room). Mothra flies away, heading due east across the Pacific Ocean.
Apparently Mothra has been sighted in New Kirk City, which look incredibly like Gotham, except with a beach and palm trees. And it’s on the East Coast, so… and the New Kirk City cops wear tan outfits with red silk ties… and there are very few cattle farms near Gotham City… one should stop worrying about these matter, really.
I would make a mint as an actor in Japan doing films. It seems they have a shortage of Caucasian actors with decent skills.
This is a delightful film. It’s really well done and deserves more recognition than it seemingly has. Some of the visual effects — especially the matte work — are more obvious than they ought to be, but it’s far better than some efforts from the same time. The twins are delightful, and you end up rooting for both the kaiju character and the return of the twins.
★★★★☆
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The Fall of Ala Mhigo
It was chaos.
Smoke and dust swirled in the wind, carrying with it the mingling scents of blood and burning flesh. The sound of metal against metal that had been ringing throughout the city has dropped away leaving an unnatural silence for a moment. A moment that seemed to last eternity.
“Ala Mhigo is FREE!” A singular voice broke the silence, but it was soon echoed by others. Dozens. Then hundreds.
Craft Ramsay fell to his knees in the streets of Ala Mhigo, a sudden weariness causing him to finally feel every ache he felt. Every wound he had taken in the hours of fighting against the last of the Mad King’s loyal followers – The Corpse Brigade. He was young, just on the cusp of manhood, but the fighting had been intense, it had raged from outside the walls of the city and through the streets. For Craft itself it had started years earlier in the small village he had grown up in, isolated in the heights of Abalathia’s Spine.
“Yah hear that, Ramsay? Theordoric is dead!”
The hand of Caius Athol slapped against Craft’s thick shoulder and he looked up at his wiry and energetic friend. Caius had grown up in that same village and they had been friends since childhood.
“Finally.” Craft had to agree, sucking dusty air into his burning lungs, grinning a wolfish grin.
“Finally.” Caius said with a nod, turning away from his friend, sheathing his two blades at his side. They were stained a dark rust, blood that had already started to dry. Craft wanted to tell him he should wipe the blades clean, that those blades might need to be used again. He resisted though, knowing that they had won the day. It didn’t prevent him from wiping the blade of his claymore clean as he stood.
“Fucking hells… I hurt all over.”
Caius looked over his shoulder at his friend, “You took a beating, Ramsay. I’m not sure how many of those bastards you were dealing with at a time, but you drew them to you like moths to a flame.”
Craft had always been skilled at combat; his father had taught him young. He was using a sword almost as soon as he could walk. That wasn’t exactly unusual for those that lived in the untamed cliffs of the spine, as there were all sorts of dangers that could befall one should they wander too far from the wooden ramparts that provided a base amount of protection to the village.
“Your father would be proud.” Caius added, more solemnly. Though he was known for his sense of humour, he knew he should make that statement, he knew what had brought the both of them to the city.
Craft’s father had been a member of the Fist of Rhalgr, a monk belonging to the order that the Mad King Theordoric had sought to eliminate. After destroying the monk’s temple and decimating the order there, he had sent elite units of the Corpse Guard to eliminate any other members of the Fist that had spread out through Gyr Abania. One unit had arrived in the small village and destroyed it, all to ensure the death of Craft’s father. He had been forced to run from the blaze, watching the execution from a distance before being pulled away. As soon as he could join up with the Revolution he had, and Caius had accompanied his friend. Since then it had been non-stop fighting for the two of them.
“Fuck.” Craft swore and pulled a small water skin from the bag he had slung over his shoulder. He took a quick draught from it and spat the water, rinsing away the taste of smoke before drinking deeply, then offering it to his friend. The calm silence of the city was the closest to peace and quiet either of them had felt in a long time.
Caius took a drink, then arched an eyebrow. “Do ya hear that?”
Craft didn’t and shook his head to indicate so. But he also didn’t say anything, focusing on the noises, dull and mute compared to the fury of the battle that had just ended. Caius always had keen hearing and he didn’t doubt that there was something he should hear.
Then it came, like the distant percussion of a drum. Could it be the victors starting a celebration? Craft managed a grin at the thought of what the celebration of the fall of the Mad King would be: Drunken debauchery in the streets of Ala Mhigo.
That grin vanished quickly, as he heard screams tear through the calm, followed by the sounds of explosions and the undeniable thrum of Magitek equipment.
“Fucking hell!” Craft cursed as he pulled his blade free from the sheath and turned to see lines of Imperial Soldiers start marching down the street. “How’re they here so quickly?”
Caius’ blades were in his hands as other members of the recently victorious force of Ala Mhigans formed up to fight another battle. “Probably waiting like the scavengers they are.”
A roar erupted from the Ala Mhigans. They had just freed their city after a long-fought war of resistance against the Mad King. They were battled hardened and would not let this day be lost. The first of them charged at the line of soldiers, led by an elder monk who had somehow avoided the purge. He dropped a few soldiers with a flurry of attacks. Others clanged blades and hammers against Garlean armour. Craft was soon charging forward as part of this mob, sword catching some of the lesser armoured infantry and hewing limbs. Crimson arced through the air as the earlier aches and pains vanished – all that remained was the fury of battle.
At first it seemed that they were winning. The first fodder of the Empire fell swiftly, though they took their toll. That elder monk had been surrounded and slain by a handful of troops, blades skewering him. A large highlander had managed to bisect a pair of soldiers before a lucky strike had cleaved his calf and dropped him. The Imperials swarmed them like Antlions. Too late, Craft realized, that this line of attackers was thrown against them to wear the already bloodied Ala Mhigans down. That similar attacks would be occurring throughout the city, against every pocket of resistance there could be.
The next line of Imperial attackers now approached. These soldiers were better armoured, and many carried Garlean gunblades, which volleyed off fire in a loud cacophony of blasts, and Craft saw spurts of blood from many of his friends and allies. They dropped to the ground, dead or dying, as the Imperials readied another volley.
“For Ala Mhigo!” Caius yelled and darted forward, blades flashing as he charged the line. Craft roared and followed his friend, realizing that staying at a distance would not be a benefit. Some others followed, but more fled, down the streets and away from the battle.
Craft fought on, his heavy blade catching a soldier across the soldier and crumpling armour enough to send the man down. A downward thrust to the man’s exposed neck ended him. Another whirled-on Craft and he could barely bring a blade up fast enough to catch the edge of a gunblade. He twisted his sword and managed to pry the weapon from his opponents’ hands, then smashed the hilt of his claymore into the soldier’s exposed face, sending teeth and blood through the air. Next to him Caius was darting between lunges of the Garlean weapons, his own blades connecting with flesh through the exposed parts of the armour. He wasn’t landing devastating hits, but his opponents staggered with a lose of blood. Craft took the opportunity to swing his great sword in an arc, smashing through the staggered soldiers, destroying them. This is how they best worked together, Caius landing quick attacks and Craft devastating the opposition when able. They fell into this co-operation easily, having fought together on a near daily basis since the destruction of their childhood home.
“We’re doing it!” a voice bellowed from somewhere near, but Craft couldn’t pinpoint the location, “We’re defeating the fucking EMPIRE!”
And, for a moment, it felt like they were.
It did not last.
The thrum of Magitek grew, and rockets launched from armored soldiers engulfed the streets in explosions and fire. Imperials and Ala Mhigans both died to this assault, but only the Imperials had reserves that could afford such losses. Craft was blown backwards, tumbling back down the street, his weapon wrenched from his hand. Caius, somehow, managed to avoid the brunt of the explosion and stood standing in the smoking ruin, a solitary figure amongst flames and death. He whirled around, looking for an enemy, an opponent to strike at and seeing nothing.
“Craft?” he called, looking at the corpses that lay strewn and smoking.
“I’m here…” Craft called, struggling to get to his feet, his head throbbed, and his vision was foggy. He bent over and nearly fell again but wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the weapon nearest to him: A Garlean Gunblade.
“Still standing, Cai.” Which was true, but his face was crimson, blood cascading from a wound hidden somewhere under his dark hair, flowing like a gory waterfall.
“Good…” Caius stated, his back to his friend as he watched something emerge from the smoke, “Because I’m going to need your help.”
It took a moment for Craft to focus on the monstrosity that stood Infront of Caius, a giant Magitek Colossus. He had never seen one but had heard others speak of them and the damage they could do. Seeing the first swing of its blade towards Caius, he darted aside. The impact of the blade against the street had cracked the stone sending sharp splinters flying in every direction.
Blinking away astonishment, Craft fumbled with the gunblade and quickly figured out how to fire that damned thing, sending a volley of blasts that seemed to ring off the armour of the Colossus. Seeing how ineffective his attack was, Craft started to close the gap, hoping to allow Caius to flank the giant and hopefully find a weak spot. It worked as the Colossus focused on Craft and made a few surprisingly quick strikes against him, which were barely deflected. Each impact of blade against blade sent Craft staggering backwards, as the machine’s strength far out matched the Highlander’s own.
“Work quickly Caius…” Craft panted, raising his blade into a guard position and catching the downward strike of the Colossus. His whole body trembled at the impact, his muscles strained to hold the blade off, “Can’t take too much of this…”
If Caius replied, Craft never heard it, he instead spun away from another arcing slash of the Colossus, then rolled away from a blow that would have completely torn through him. He paused for a moment to wipe the blood from his eyes, but even that second allowed the Colossus to close the distance and lunge with a strike. Craft was barley able to twist away, and the massive sword sliced through his makeshift armour and tore flesh. He roared in pain and grasped his side, feeling the pulse of blood.
“Craft!”
Caius called out from behind the Colossus and drove both his blades between joints in the machine’s plates, he twisted and turned hoping to find something internally that would break and drop the monster. Instead he soon found himself knocked backwards, his swords so firmly caught in the machine that he was wrenched away and left unarmed. He looked up to see the Colossus standing over him.
“Fuck you. And fuck your fucking Empire.” Caius spat defiantly at the impassive Magitek creation. The Colossus only response was to lower a robotic hand to Caius, which engulfed his head… then lifted and tossed Caius through the smoke and over one of the city walls.
“CAIUS!” Craft bellowed, rising to his feet. He had lost so much in the recent years. Those he considered friends and family all destroyed. Ala Mhigo regained but for a moment before this Imperial attack. He looked upwards and roared, calling up at Rhalgr himself to intervene for this land that had worshiped him so.
No response came, and Craft Ramsay cursed Rhalgr too.
He could hear the internal gears of the Colossus whirl and turn as it stepped towards him; massive blade lifted high to smite this one last opponent.
He should have fled. He should have tried to escape, to meet up with any other survivors and prepare to fight another day.
Instead he charged, gunblade pointed at the Colossus as his fingers squeezed the trigger. Explosives went off with each strike of his weapon against Magitek armour, and he swung and squeezed again. And again. And again. Until there was naught by a smoldering wreckage on the ground before him. He was soaked crimson with his own blood, weak and barely able to stand, but the Colossus had fallen. A victory.
He panted and fell to his knees when he heard the soft sound of clapping behind him.
“Impressive. I think we may have a use for this one.”
Craft didn’t have the opportunity to turn to see who the voice belonged to. He felt something clamp across his neck and he fell into darkness.
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