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thisoneisbatter · 2 years ago

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Holy: Chapter Eight

This is a new fic that is completed but I think I’ll be rolling it out chapter by chapter because it is a long one. It’s brat tamer, jaded widower Sheriff Hassan in full effect. This fic does contain some very rough sex and consensual sexual violence in some chapters so please do not read if that is a trigger for you. Otherwise, please enjoy and leave feedback!

Holy

Chapter Eight

Word Count: 1k+

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Deep family secrets are finally revealed.

Hassan had promised to take the weekend to help Leslie go through her mother’s things. His intentions weren’t entirely altruistic. The state medical examiner hadn’t issued his report, but had said off the record that it definitely seemed like foul play. Unofficially, poisoning.

There wasn’t much evidence to collect in the guest room closet that could tie someone to Cindy’s murder, but maybe he could figure out what the hell was going on on the island and why someone would want to poison her to begin with.

“What’s in this box?” Hassan reached for a hat box at the top of closet. He’d been handing things down to Leslie, most of which she’d stuffed into a black trash bag. A stack of old National Geographics, a pair of dry rotten men’s penny loafers, exactly the types of things you’d expect to find. This box was different. It was leather and very old but well cared-for.

“Uhh, I think it’s like my adoption stuff.” She gestured to the bed where they’d been putting the things she wanted to keep; photo albums and a few of her mom’s old dresses. “It can just go over there.”

“Do you-can I look at it?” It felt wrong to ask. Something so incredibly personal. He was more prepared for her to say no than yes.

“It doesn’t have who my birth parents are or anything like that. Its just like, basic info.” She replied flippantly. “I’m going to take a couple of bags down to the trash. You can look at whatever. I don’t have, like, giant family secrets or whatever.” She shot him a mockingly crazy look, laughing a little at his interest.

Fifteen minutes later, when Leslie returned, Hassan was sitting in a chair by the window deeply engrossed in the papers he couldn’t even read. It was almost entirely in Romanian. A stack of handwritten notes, typewritten documents on impossibly thin paper, a photo of a crying baby wrapped in a threadbare blanket, and a maroon passport with a picture of a pale toddler in pigtails. The name was Lavinia Eder. It was Leslie.

“Your name is Lavinia?” He chuckled a bit.

“And your name is Hassan.” She pointed out the obvious with a smile.

“Why do you go by Leslie?” He couldn’t imagine calling her anything else.

“Lavinia sounds like an 80 year old woman with a hunch back selling potatoes. Not very in line with my personality.” It amazed him how little she seemed to care about her personal history. Maybe it was something she had already worked her way through earlier in her life, but it was surprising to him nonetheless.

“Can you read Romanian?” He asked, lifting the papers to indicate that he needed translation.

“Kind of.” She took a seat on the floor next to him. “I can read these ones,” she pointed to the typewritten ones, “but not the cursive notes.” She took the first fragile page from the file, staring at it for a long time, trying to process the letters through the out of practice dictionary in her mind. “Uh, okay. It says infant girl,” she smiled at him and mouthed me, “found at Biserica Neagra, which I guess means like, Black Church or whatever, in Brasov. Weight 2.2 kilograms. Infant found beneath statue of Saint Petroclus. I don’t know if I’m saying that right. January 21st, 1998. And that’s my birthday.” She winked. His heart was breaking imagining this tiny newborn left in the cold, and she fucking winked. “And then it just says I was moved to an orphanage in Bucharest, which is where my parents adopted me.” She handed the page to him, taking the next one in the stack. “Okay, this one is their request to adopt me. It just has my mom and dad on here saying they want the infant found in Brasov on my birthday. My mom told me she read about it in the paper.” She took the next page. “This one is saying that I am Lavinia, I’m 2 years old, I weigh 11 kilograms, it says ‘no damage’ but I think that’s talking about, like, disabilities and stuff. I think it’s just info about me at the orphanage.” She takes another page. “Uh, yeah, okay. This one is saying I’m being adopted by my parents on October 6th, 2001. They get me, my clothes, my blanket, and some papers.” She shot him a final smile. “And that’s it. Nothing that interesting.”

Hassan let her brush it off while they finished clearing out the upstairs rooms her mom used for storage. They ate pizza on her bedroom floor and had kind of boring sex before he called it a night. His mind was elsewhere.

He’d taken pictures of the papers in the box, more specifically, the handwritten notes. He knew it was a violation of her privacy. She hadn’t given him permission. For all he knew, she was saying she couldn’t read them because she didn’t want to. He just had to know.

The next morning, Hassan went into work early. He jumped head first into a Google rabbit hole almost immediately. At face value, Leslie’s adoption was unusual, but not extraordinary. Cindy, a Romanian woman living in America, saw that a baby was abandoned at a church and wanted to adopt her. Stuff like that happens. Once he started adding it all up, the details spelled something bizarre.

“Hey, Les.” He caught her the second she sat down at her desk. It was 8:30. She was late, but he had way too much swimming in his mind to even address it. “Come over here. I need to talk to you about something.”

“What’s up?” She rolled her chair to his desk, looking only mildly concerned.

“I know you’re probably going to be upset, but I took some pictures of the papers in your adoption file and looked up what they said.” He braced for impact.

“Whoa, Hassan, what the fuck?” Her look of disgust stung a bit, but he’d expected it. It was a violation of her trust after all.

“It’s uhm,” He leaned forward, smoothed his hand down his beard, and rested it on Leslie’s knee. “You’ve got to know there’s something weird going on there.”

“What, then?” It was her turn to find him incredibly annoying. “My parents were weird people. What did you find?”

“Okay,” Hassan pulled out his notepad and leaned back in his chair, ready to elevator pitch Leslie’s own life story to her. “So you were found in the Black Church in Brasov. Brasov is in…Transylvania.” He drew the word out, cringing a bit at her mocking raised eyebrow. It sounded so stupid out loud. “The statue you were found under was Saint Petrolcus of Troye. I tried to look stuff up but came up really short until I realized that your family isn’t Catholic. They’re Eastern Orthodox, right?” She nodded, starting to slump in her chair. He was right. The story wasn’t as cut and dry as she’d believed her entire life. “In the Orthodox church, he is the Patron Saint of Demons and Fever, and his feast day is January 21st.”

“So what does that mean, then?” She looked confused, but mostly angry. Either this was the coincidence of a lifetime, or she’d been lied to at some point by her own family.

“I’m not done, Leslie.” He almost didn’t want to tell her the rest. It sounded crazy. It was crazy. “Do you know how hard it is to find some kind of translation for cursive Romanian? It took me all morning, but I did find it.” He put his phone on the desk at their side with the photos of the three notes pulled up. “These papers were stuffed into the blanket with you when you were left.” He pointed to the first one, which read morții s�� rămână în pământ, “’May the dead stay in the ground.’ Weird thing to put on a baby. The second one,” he pointed to one reading salvatorul nostru de îngerii căzuți, “Our savior from the fallen angels.” He flipped to the last photo, this one more of a scrawl than the rest, clearly written in haste. It said ea va ști unde poate fi găsită lumina . “She knows where the light can be found.”

Leslie had her head in her hands now, not looking at Hassan.

“Now, Leslie, I want to think that you definitely didn’t know what these notes said, because you’d have told me. And it could also just be the scribblings of a crazy person. I’d believe that last bit for sure if it wasn’t for an email I got from the old Sheriff before I ever even moved to the island. It said, that if I need anything, I should ask Leslie, because she knows where everything can be found. That’s a strange way to word that, right? ‘She knows where everything can be found.’ I did a little extra research on Sheriff Henry. He was pretty well loved by everyone, but one thing he wasn’t was a Catholic. And neither am I, and neither are you, or your mother.” He leaned as far forward as he could, taking her head in his hands and lifting her face to be just inches from his. “Tell me why there are suddenly missing people on an island that hasn’t had more than a fender bender in almost 100 years, a woman is screaming about demons and then suddenly turns up dead, and her daughter, a Sheriff’s Deputy, has a few too many weird connections to be just a fluke.”

Leslie was in tears. Gasping, inescapable tears. Hassan suddenly became hyper-aware of his grip on her and pulled his hand away.

“I don’t understand what you’re accusing me of.” She gulped down a sob. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything.” He sat back, taking stock of what exactly he was doing. “I guess I’m accusing everyone else of something. I just don’t know what yet.”

“So what, Hassan, demons came to Crockett and killed my mother?” She didn’t sound entirely sarcastic. Maybe it was a start. Maybe she’d believe him.

“No, I think that Bev Keane killed your mother.”

#sheriff hassan x ofc #sheriff hassan smut #sheriff hassan #rahul kohli smut #midnight mass #midnight mass fanfiction

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thisoneisbatter · 2 years ago

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Holy: Chapter Seven

Holy

Chapter Seven

Word Count: 1k+

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Things start adding up, but it brings more questions than answers.

Hassan woke up to Leslie rolling over dramatically to get away from the sun streaming into his window. Her hair was wild on his pillow and her leg was thrown over his waist.

“Good morning, honey.” That was the third time he’d called her that. He made a mental note not to make a habit of it. He reached across her to his bedside table to look at his watch. It was after 7. He hadn’t intended to go into the office early like he usually did. The people from the state police wouldn’t be coming until 9:30 on the Breeze anyway. 7 was late for him, though.

“Good morning, honey.” She mocked back. He knew no kind deed would go unteased.

“I think it’s a good idea if I go into your house without you today to recover your mother.” He cut right to the chase. No sense in skirting around it. “If you don’t feel comfortable going into work, you’re more than welcome to stay here.”

“No, I want to work today.” She stretched her arms over her head, arching her back dramatically. “I think it will be good to take my mind off of things.”

Hassan snaked an arm under her torso and pulled her flush to him. His other hand gravitated to her face, cupping her cheek. He wanted to kiss her. He was so sure that if he let it, his body would do it without permission. He brushed his thumb over her lips instead.

“You were so sweet to me last night.” Her green eyes were dark and intense the way she was backlit, but her gaze still cut right into him. He tried to brush it off, scoffing like it’s what anyone would do. “No, Hassan, I’m serious. For once.” He gave her a pained smile. He didn’t for one moment regret the tenderness he’d shown her, but he was afraid of opening up more. It was already scary enough. “Why are you so good to me? I haven’t done anything to earn it.”

“Hey,” His hand had slipped down to the side of her neck. He could feel her pulse just below the surface. “That’s not-you don’t have to earn that. You deserve to be treated with care, Leslie.”

“Do you think this is all we’ll ever be?” She looked sad. Not the sadness she’d shown the night before. This was different, less raw, more gutting. It was something he suspected had been sitting with her for some time.

“This isn’t the right time to have this discussion.” He didn’t mean to be curt. It truly wasn’t the right time. He didn’t have an answer.

He thought about it all day. While he helped the medical examiner heft Cindy’s frail form into a body bag. While he rolled the carpet from the floor and stuffed the sheets into plastic bags. They didn’t exactly have a crime lab on Crockett. It would all be shipped away to almost certainly never be heard about again. An old woman collapsing wasn’t top tier crime anywhere else. They weren’t even positive it was a crime there on the island yet.

But still, he thought about what Leslie said. Would they ever be more? He couldn’t see a reason in any direction. What even was she to him then? A coworker, a subordinate, a young girl with a big mouth, a woman he occasionally took out his frustrations on. Was she going to be his wife some day? Would she want children? He was old and used up, tired of carrying on and on and on. Is that what she wanted? Leslie was so full of life and light and energy. Her mouth moved a mile a minute and Hassan rarely attempted to keep up. How would that work?

On the other hand, Leslie made him feel comfortable, wanted, accepted. She was in his corner in a place where very few people even wanted to be near him. She’d wiggled her way into his life, his bed, his thoughts, and she wasn’t going anywhere. It wasn’t the type of relationship he was used to, but it could be a relationship nonetheless. If he wanted it to be.

The Breeze left at 7:30 with the contents of Leslie’s living room on it, including her mother. Hassan drove home expecting to see her, but when he walked in he was greeted by his son and only him.

“No Leslie?” He questioned absently, toeing off his boots by the door.

“Don’t you guys like text each other?” Ali was already digging in the fridge, trying to will dinner to appear. “Why are you asking me?”

“Watch it.” He draped his coat over a chair and sat down, scratching his beard and breathing out the stress of the day.

“Is it true that someone murdered Ms. Cindy?” Ali sat down across from him, elbows on the table, hands planted between them firmly. Hassan didn’t answer. He simply shot Ali a pained, annoyed look. “What’s the point in my dad being a cop if I don’t get to know anything?”

“Have you considered that it may not be your business?” Hassan wanted coffee, but he also wanted to sleep. He settled for a cup of tea, crossing the kitchen to fill the kettle.

“Dad, Warren says that if Ms. Cindy just fell or had a heart attack or something you wouldn’t have called the cops on the mainland. And if Leslie did something you wouldn’t have taken her here to do whatever with her.”

The last sentence made Hassan wince a little. Teen boys suspecting that two adults are sleeping together is hardly notable, but in a small town things spread fast.

“So you’re a detective now?” He resisted the urge to shovel sugar into his tea. He intended to end this conversation quickly.

“So somebody did kill her?” Ali clapped his hands together, deciding that he was definitely correct. “What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we called the state police.” He sat down again, this time with his tea in hand and his most straight dad face. “If you hear anything, Ali, anything weird at all, you tell me. Okay?”

“I hear weird stuff all the time.” Ali looked smug, able to give Hassan information for once. “Ms. Keane has been pushing harder than usual lately for everyone to attend Mass. I don’t think that’s super weird because of who she is though. She left early yesterday, so we spent the afternoon with Ms. Greene’s class.”

Hassan sat forward quickly, startling Ali slightly. “What time did she go?” Leslie’s mom was cold when he checked her for a pulse. She had to have died sometime in the early afternoon to have cooled off that much. He wouldn’t know what the window was until the report from the state police came back, but it was something. Another puzzle piece on the table.

#sheriff hassan x ofc #sheriff hassan smut #sheriff hassan #rahul kohli smut #midnight mass fanfiction #midnight mass

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thisoneisbatter · 2 years ago

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Holy: Chapter Six

Holy

Chapter six

Word Count: 2k+

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Hassan isn't the only one blinded by loss.

“Oh my god!” Leslie’s breathy cackle echoed through the boathouse. “Where’s the romance, Sheriff? This is your idea of a date?”

Hassan pulled his chest waders up and stepped onto the deck of the police boat. Leslie had her nose in the corner of the plywood building with her own waders down around her ankles. She was being punished for being mouthy. He’d picked her up for an early morning patrol of the Uppards and she’d called him baby. Since the night at his house, she was unbearable. He liked her and she knew it. The only thing that would make her shut up about it was a cock in her mouth or a tranquilizer dart.

“If you don’t shut up I’m leaving you.” Hassan took a labored step back off of the boat, crossing the boathouse quickly to kick her feet further apart and plant two fingers deep inside of her. She yelped.

“Oh no, I don’t have to go on a freezing cold boat ride to an island full of feral cats and garbage.” She was oozing sarcasm. Hassan pulled his fingers from her pussy, slapped her ass, and turned around frustrated.

“Get in the boat.” He didn’t bother to check over his shoulder for her. She was inches behind him pulling her jacket on as he started the motor.

“Can I drive?” She sat down with a wide, childlike smile, shooting him doe eyes.

He didn’t answer, simply lifting her out of his seat with the toe of his boot and sitting down himself. She gave him a pouty look but it was short lived.

They were going to the island on the mayor’s request, deterring teenagers, but they were also going to look for something specific. Whatever killed the cats after the Noreaster came from the island. Whatever sucked the blood out of hundreds of cats had been there at some point in the recent weeks. Hassan felt like it could mean something.

The truth was that since Leslie’s empowered speech about something weird happening at St. Patrick’s, and her mother’s screaming fit about Bev harboring a demon on the island, Hassan had been after just about every weird little bread crumb that came across his desk. So long as it didn’t mean actually having to set foot in the church or ruffling any obvious feathers, he was willing to take a look.

None of the puzzle pieces fit together yet. He was still collecting them, spreading them across the table, trying to find a pattern and a place to start. He wasn’t even entirely sure that there was anything to piece together at all.

They criss crossed the island separately. The most suspicious thing that Hassan found was nothing at all. Not a single living creature on the entire scrap of land. It had been overrun with cats, rabbits, and rats just a few months before. Leslie swore she found massive footprints, but they could have been anything. For all he knew, it was a pelican.

The afternoon had much more to offer, though, and neither Leslie nor Hassan were prepared for the pain that was to come.

He had her take the truck back to the office while he walked home from the boathouse. He needed to be alone. It was barely a quarter mile, but it was enough. Enough to clear his mind and calm the pounding behind his eyes. The cold wind on his face had never affected him well. He would have been a horrible fisherman.

He climbed the steps to his front door, kicked off his boots, and shrugged off his coat. He was going to go to bed early. He could almost feel the warm sheets as he stepped into the shower. He thought about warming up leftovers for Ali and making himself a cup of tea.

He was gently waterboarding himself under the searing hot shower spray when he heard pounding at his front door, quickly followed by Ali running into his room.

“Dad!” He wasn’t the type to barge in, but there he was, standing in the middle of his bathroom. Hassan hustled to grab a towel from the rack. “Leslie is here! She said it’s something with her mom.”

He threw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt and hurried down the street to her front door. She was kneeling on the living room floor next to her mother’s slumped over body, still in uniform. Cindy had bloody foam crusted to her mouth, her skin was grey and lifeless. She was dead. She had been for some time.

“Ok, Les, honey.” Hassan used his most gentle voice, crouching down to help her up to her feet. He didn’t love using pet names, but it just flowed out. She needed a more tender touch. He knew enough about her to know that at least. He checked Cindy’s pulse, just in case. He was secretly thankful that he wasn’t going to need to perform CPR on a mouth full of purge. “It’s ok, its ok.” He pulled Leslie into the kitchen slowly.

“I came in the front door and, and-uhm, she was just there and she was so cold.” He’d never seen her like that. She was struggling to take off her gun belt, hands shaking. He covered her hands with his and unbuckled it for her, laying it on the counter.

“Deep breath.” He demonstrated for her, placing her hand in the middle of his chest while she breathed along. While she regained control, he looked around the living room where the body sat. Her bedside table was knocked over. The sheets were pulled off of her medical bed by the window and laid partially under her body. There was vomit on the rug in the center of the room. Her clothes were twisted and disheveled like she’d been on the floor writhing around for some time. “Was the door unlocked?”

“It’s always unlocked, Hassan.” Her eyes welled up again, threatening to break open the dam and drop more tears from her pink rimmed eyes.

“Has anyone been over today that you know of?” Whatever happened to Cindy, it wasn’t the peaceful, quiet death of an elderly woman fading away. It was a struggle.

“Sarah, next door, she looks in during lunch time.” Leslie had taken a seat at the table, head in her hands. “What the hell happened, Hassan?”

“Dr. Gunning?” It was the only Sarah he knew on the island. She wasn’t next door, but they shared a back yard.

“No, Sarah Sturge. She’s in 848.” She gesture to the side door off of the kitchen, the one that faced directly to her neighbor’s house.

“Sturge’s wife?” He didn’t do a good job of keeping up on the names and stories Leslie had fed him in his first few weeks. If someone didn’t work at the General Store or have a good reason to be in front of him every day, he easily forgot their name.

“Sister. She works at the harbor during the evenings.”

He didn’t need to explain his suspicions to Leslie. He needed to get the body out of her house and get in contact with the state police on the mainland. He placed two calls. One to the dispatcher from the city who would be sending someone from the medical examiner in the morning, and one to Dr. Gunning to help him make sense of what he was seeing.

In the meantime, he took Leslie home, to his home.

“They can’t get her mom out until the morning so she’s going to stay here tonight.” He explained to Ali, who had a million questions that he knew wouldn’t be answered by his famously steel trap father. Leslie was on the couch, her head still in her hands. She wasn’t sobbing anymore. It was more of a scrunched face and vacant look.

“Do you want me to change my sheets for her?” Ali spoke slowly, testing the waters. He had his suspicions. Warren said that he’d seen his dad slap Leslie’s ass once when she got out of the truck behind their office. He couldn’t imagine his dad slapping anyone’s ass, much less hers. Until he saw her out for a walk around the block with her mom a few days ago, wearing an NYPD t-shirt that he’d seen before. “Dad, are you-“ He didn’t get the rest of the question out before Hassan held up his hand and shook his head, dismissing the question immediately.

“She’s going to sleep in my room, with me. Is that ok with you?” Hassan shot him a stern look. The question had been rhetorical.

Ali was surprised, and honestly a little impressed. His dad hadn’t even been on a date that he knew of since his mom died ten years before. Aunties had tried to set him up for awhile, but Hassan wasn’t exactly on the lookout for a new wife. He still wore his wedding ring every day.

He was admittedly slack jawed when he saw his dad take the grieving and absent Leslie by the hand and lead her to his bedroom.

It surprised Hassan too. He was surprised at how easily he unbuttoned her work shirt, helping her slip her arms out, and hung it up in his own closet. How mechanically his body walked into the bathroom and turned on the hot water, filling his tub for her. How mindlessly he could work the hair tie out of her ponytail and run his own comb through her knotted hair. How truly easy it was for him to sit on the floor next to her while she wept in the chest high water, holding her hand that hung over the edge of the tub.

He’d had grief take a seat in him before. He knew what it felt like to have that anvil in your belly dragging you underwater when you least expect it. He wasn’t sure if he still had enough heart left to break, but watching her go through it, watching this tiny, fragile thing buckling under the weight was a different kind of pain. Seeing it from the other end.

He took her hands and lifted her from the tub, wrapped her in a towel, and carried her to bed. She didn’t protest but his body did. It was less than 20 feet and she couldn’t be more than 120lbs. His back could take it just this once.

“Do you want to talk?” She hadn’t said anything since they’d talked in her kitchen. He put her in another one of his t-shirts. This one was grey, it was one he still enjoyed wearing. She shook her head no and climbed into his bed. “Do you want me to talk?”

That elicited a nod, and even a fleeting smile.

“When I was younger, I, uhm, was really into Ghostbusters. I saw the movie as many times as I could. I was 10 when the second movie came out and I begged my mom to let me see it in the theater. She even took me herself.” He shuffled around to pull Leslie into his chest, wrapping his arms around her in a nearly suffocating hold. He wanted to squeeze the sadness out of her. He knew he couldn’t, but he wanted to surround her anyway. He wanted to create a barrier between her and everything in the world trying to hurt her. “Just imagine me, tiny, ten years old, so excited I’m standing in my seat, and my poor mom having no idea what the hell is going on. I think about it sometimes and it always makes me laugh.”

“Is your mom still alive?” Her tiny voice broke through.

“No, she died when I was 30.” He desperately tried not to make it come out somber. It really wasn’t somber anymore. She’d passed from cancer just like his wife, but the shock of it had long worn off by the time she was gone. It was slow. “My dad is still alive. He lives in Pittsburg.”

“My mom used to make me watch Gene Kelley movies. She liked to sing along to his music and dance in the living room.” She sniffled, bringing her hand up to wipe her face before burrowing into his tshirt. “I know my mom was dying, but she was still so alive. She still watched Gene Kelley.”

“It’s so hard to lose someone when they’re still in your life every day. When my-when my wife died, I felt like she was turning into dust in my hands. She was still fighting every day but I couldn’t do anything to help her.” He closed his eyes and wove his fingers into Leslie’s hair, grounding himself there. “Her name is, was Shameema. She’s gone, but not really. She’s still in Ali. When I parent him, it’s for both of us.” He craned his neck down to look at Leslie’s face. She was listening, not turned away. She was captive. He continued. “At first she was in every room. I could still smell her. Her fingerprints were everywhere. I didn’t want to wash the clothes I wore the last time I held her. That wasn’t how she wanted it to go, though. She didn’t want to haunt me, so I don’t let that happen. What you did for your mother, moving back here, caring for her, I hope you know that what you did was good and right and you got to have so many more memories with her because of it.”

He felt like it was the most words he’d ever spoken to her. Opening up, taking a sledgehammer to the wall he kept between them, it was all so draining. It didn’t feel foreign or wrong though, and that was curious.

“Whatever happened to her, Hassan, she didn’t deserve to go like that.” The crack in her voice was heart wrenching.

“We’ll find out what happened and make it right, honey.” He kissed her forehead one last time for the night. He knew his sleep would be fitful. It’s so hard to sleep with someone when you’re used to being alone. Exhaustion was a powerful drug, though. He let it take him.

#sheriff hassan x ofc #sheriff hassan smut #sheriff hassan #midnight mass fanfiction #midnight mass #rahul kohli smut

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thisoneisbatter · 2 years ago

Note

ㅤ

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thisoneisbatter · 2 years ago

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can’t believe i have to go to work when all i want to do is think about the relationship dynamics i have made up between fictional characters

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thisoneisbatter · 3 years ago

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RAHUL KOHLI as RAVI CHAKRABARTI iZombie | 4.03 “Brainless in Seattle (Part 1)”

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thisoneisbatter · 3 years ago

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Thanks for giving me a chance ❤

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thisoneisbatter · 3 years ago

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Holy: Chapter Five

Holy

Chapter Five

Word Count: 2k+

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Hassan lets down a few of his defenses and sees something new in Leslie.

“Open up, it’s the police!” The voice on the other side of the door made Hassan roll his eyes.

“Leslie.” Hassan opened the door and gestured for her to come in.

“I don’t know why I imagined your house being more minimalist.” She wandered in, slipping off her boots next to his by the door and making her way toward the book shelf and mantle that held all of his family photos. “Less sentimental, I guess.”

“Don’t.” His tone was firm, but hushed. Laced with shame. It stopped her in her tracks.

“Sorry.” She turned around, holding her hands to her sides like a scolded school girl.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to see the photos. She, like everyone else on the island, knew that he was a widower and single father. It was that he wasn’t ready for that side of his life to occupy space with this side.

He crossed the room quietly, giving her time to feel guilty. Something about her guilt made him feel good. Powerful. He wrapped her long braid around his hand and pushed her in front of him toward his room.

“Stand right there, don’t move.” He sat down on the edge of his bed and looked her over. She was in black leggings and fuzzy pink polka dot socks bunched around her ankles. She had an oversized Dallas Cowboys tshirt on. It was grey and faded soft. He knew where it most likely came from. “Where did you get that shirt?”

“I uhm,” She lifted the bottom hem and looked down at it. “An ex gave it to me.��

“Take it off.” She’d never mentioned an ex, not even in her most irritating of one sided conversations. He knew she must have dated quite a few men, though. She was beautiful. Beautiful women, even annoying ones, don’t keep single long. “You’re mine. Don’t wear anything anyone else gives you. Take it all off.”

“Yes, sir.” She held her hands behind her back, swaying back and forth gently. She hadn’t been wearing a bra.

He unbuttoned his own shirt, removing it and the long sleeve t-shirt underneath.

“You know, I’ve never seen you without your clothes before.” Leslie bit her lip, still swaying.

“I wouldn’t get too excited.” Hassan chuckled, unbuckling his belt.

“Can, uhm, can I do that?” Her hand shot out to cover his on his zipper, stopping him. “Please.”

He simply nodded and moved his hand, letting her finish undressing him. Her hands were a little cold, but soft when she touched him. Her mouth was warm, though.

She took him deeper and deeper until she gagged, drool rolling down her chin to her chest, finally landing on the floor where she was kneeling. He pulled out and brushed his thumb along her pink lips.

He reached down to lift her up by her armpits, sitting down on the edge of the bed and pulling her onto his lap. Her sitting there, straddling him, her body completely open to him, Hassan felt like a different man. She was a different woman and he was a different man.

He hid his admiration by burying his face in her chest while she buried his cock in the unforgiving heat of her core. She didn’t speak to him. She barely made a sound apart from heavy breathing that turned into muted moans.

When she got tired and slow, beads of sweat rolling off of her collar bones and shoulder blades, he stood up, taking her with him only to drop her back down on the bed. He was ready to watch her now, and have her watch him.

He slid his thumb into her mouth as he entered her again. A deep groan rumbled up from her chest. He was hitting her differently and he relished in the way her body reacted. Her back arching, her ribs flaring out when she breathed, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. It would be incorrect to say that he was lost in her. Lost in the sense that the outside world didn’t matter, but he was completely present right there where he stood.

He pulled his thumb from her sucking lips and brought it down to rub slow circles on her clit. Her eyes shut tight. She threw her arms up over her head. He’d enjoyed hurting her, taking out his anger and bitterness on her, but making her feel good was what really got him off.

He was able to coax one good, whining, sloppy, grinding orgasm out of her before he came too. The day had been so long. He was running on coffee and not much else. He laid down next to her, pulling her dead weight up to hold her to his chest.

“I want you to stay.” It wasn’t a good idea and it may never happen again, but just this once couldn’t hurt.

“Hassan, I’m all slimy.” He cut her giggle off immediately.

“Go to the bathroom and come back. I want you to stay.” They had work early in the morning. She’d have to go home and change. Logistically it didn’t make sense. He didn’t care. Being with her made him feel strong and worthy, but it also made him feel softer than he’d felt in years.

Right under the surface, just beneath the crust of him, was a new indulgent, forgiving layer that hadn’t been there before. He could board it up and seal it shut, protecting it from ever being exposed, or he could let it breathe sometimes, just like he was doing now.

Leslie did stay. She convinced him to take a shower with her. He knew he needed it, but moving wasn’t just a chore, it was a labor. She’d scrubbed him down, letting him just stand with his eyes shut and the hot spray of the shower hitting his shoulders.

He gave her his shirt to wear. It was an old NYPD shirt, one that didn’t mean much to him anymore. She put it on like it was a ball gown, though. Like it was a treasure worth more than gold.

“It smells like you.” She’d said as she pulled it over her head and let is fall down to just above her knees.

“Where were you adopted from?” Hassan was still trying to move puzzle pieces around in his head.

“Not great at pillow talk.” She was burrowed into his chest, breathing in the heat coming off of him. He’d always run hot.

“From here or from the mainland?” He wound a lock of her hair around his finger, watching the wet strand hold onto the curl.

“Romania. My parents are Romanian so they adopted from there.” She replied matter of factly. “Where are you from?”

“I was born in Pittsburg.” He felt her titter a little at his admission. “Why’s that funny?”

“It’s not. I just can’t picture you growing up anywhere but New York. I got it in my head that you’re a New Yorker.”

“Not until after college.” He shifted his weight, taking Leslie with him so that he was on his back and she was tucked under his arm. “I can’t picture you anywhere other than Crockett. Especially not Romania.”

“I think I was like three or four. I don’t know. My mom has all of the papers still in the guest room closet. I don’t remember it mostly.” She traced little lines down through his chest hair with her fingernail. “I remember being in a room with lots of crying, babies and stuff. And I remember going on the planes with them to get here. That’s it.”

“Do you ever wonder who your parents are?” Hassan knew he was probably overstepping, but Leslie had always been so open with him. It broke his heart to think of anyone giving their child away, what desperation it must take to have to do that.

“I did a long time ago, but not now. My parents chose me. Out of every kid in the whole world, they picked me. I know it sounds stupid but it isn’t. I like it.” He could feel her smiling against his bare skin. “Did your parents come to America or were they born here?”

“Pakistan. They moved from India before my older brother was born. It was still India then, but it’s Pakistan now.” No one on Crockett had ever asked about his background. He wasn’t sure if he would have shared it, but it would have been nice for someone to even inquire.

“Do you feel Indian or Pakistani, or do you feel American?” That line of questioning from anyone else would have felt threatening, interrogative. From Leslie, it was just conversation.

“Neither and both. I felt more Indian when I was with my wife.” He didn’t mean to pause, but giving the word room to settle felt right in the current context. Leslie’s body language didn’t change. He knew it was ok to talk about her, just a little bit. “She was Punjabi. She loved India and being Muslim, and her culture, our culture. I don’t think I ever fit into any culture completely. I feel comfortable in my faith, but I don’t have a relationship with my culture anymore.”

“Oh, man, my family is Romanian as hell. I think my parents kept the culture a little too alive in our house. That’s why my mom hates everyone. Too many Catholics to butt heads with, too little time.” She let out a heavy yawn. “You don’t have to be afraid of talking about your wife when you want to. I understand why that would be weird with me, but if you want to I get it. She sounds really beautiful.” She craned her neck to kiss his cheek, coming up a little short and kissing his chin instead. “G’night, Hassan.”

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