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cajunquandary · 3 years

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Hands that Heal

Link: (coming soon to Ao3)

Summary: Sometimes all you need is a little push the right direction...

Created for: @negans-lucille-tblr SPN Secret Santa Fic Exchange

Rating: 18+ only

Pairing: Dean x OFC (Jay)

Warnings: Jealous Dean, fluff, smut, smidge of angst, medical IV (briefly), unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap the willy)

Wordcount: 3.8k

A/N: Happy Holidays, @jay-and-dean! I was so ecstatic to have received your name and hope that my ramblings make you smile a little.

It’s a funny thing, the way everyone goes on about the eyes being windows to the soul. Of course, they can be very telling, and if you ever catch yourself getting lost in those of the Winchesters, how could you believe anything else? Or perhaps you are more like Jay.

Jay has been with the Winchesters for quite some time. She’s been lost in those eyes. And she’s been found. The pure green folds of Dean’s have scooped her up, swaddled her, saved her. So have Sam’s hazel, but not in quite the same way. Not that either brother knows. Only Cas.

Cas has seen the way her deep brown eyes linger just a little longer than they ought to, can feel the ache in her chest. There are times when Jay meets the angel’s gaze just afterwards but looks away just as quickly. They both know, but they won’t talk about it. And that’s okay.

But for Jay, she can see beyond the green. Beyond the freckles and blushing pensive lips, the curve of his jaw, the gently rolling hills of his chest and arms. She traces the majestic waves and ripples beneath his warm skin with only her eyes and her heart. They come to rest just past strong wrists and fall like weighted feathers upon Dean’s weathered hands.

You see, that’s where the soul really reveals itself closest to visible flesh. Each scar and busted knuckle tell a story. The pattern of freckles and tan lines speak of years in the sun. The calluses of his palm and fingertips disclose a rough life, a tough job. They are toned with skill, accurate in all things. They can field strip a gun and put it back together in the blink of an eye, tie complicated knots with dexterity, bait a hook and cast a line without hesitation, and even mold and create custom parts for Baby as they fix her up.

And yet, the skin between those marks is soft, no longer as elastic as it once was, but still full of life and love. The very muscles that hold together the bone and sinew have the capacity to both take life, and give it. Jay has watched them rip apart monsters and gently caress and hold victims within the same minute.

Such an extreme duality shouldn’t be so neatly wrapped up in one man, but it was. It was both Dean’s light and his curse. Jay shivered as she hesitated just a moment too long on the fantasy of those thick muscled, deadly, yet oh-so-gentle hands, imagining how they might tickle as they might glide over her smooth skin. Of course, Dean notices.

“There’s no way you’re cold, Jay. It’s a hundred friggin degrees outside!”

Right. Jay had to remind herself that they were on a case. No distractions. “Yeah, I-I’m good. Just got a chill because, ya know, we’re next to human refrigerators.” She swallowed hard and clenched her teeth to help ground herself back to reality.

It really was hotter than a witch’s tit out there and not much cooler inside the mortuary. Dean continued to read silently from some forms on the coroner’s clipboard before licking his thumb and index finger to turn the page. Heat washed over Jay, spreading like drunken honey from her scalp all the way to her toes. She tried to steady her breathing, remain in persona as a stoney FBI agent, but the hot red of her cheeks was giving her away.

She tore her gaze away to inspect the body. Not that anything she made mental note of would stick at this point. Dean cleared his throat and pulled the clipboard closer to his face before setting his thumbnail between his teeth the way he always did when he was laser-focused on something. She only caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye, but it was the final bit to break her.

With a huff, Jay exclaimed a little too loudly, “There’s nothing here for us, Dean. I’ll be in the car.” Her legs carried her much too quickly out the swinging doors and up the stairs.

“Um, okay?” Dean grumbled to himself before setting the paperwork back in its place and following Jay. “What the hell got into her?”

Jay was glad to leave Texas. Mid-July heat drained her, along with every plant and tree scorched under the unrelenting and searing white sun. The world around them was bleached and bathed in the almost-eerie too-bright light. Well, everything except what existed in the shadows of the Impala. The sparse countryside rolled away mile by mile as time ticked by with every song on Dean’s favorite cassette.

The air conditioning just couldn’t keep up, so Dean rolled down the windows. Jay tied up her locks in frustration, leaving a messy excuse for a bun resting on top of her head. The leather seats did nothing to help as she sweat through her shorts until she was nearly sliding off the seat.

“How much longer until Oklahoma?” She sighed. For the third time that hour.

Dean shot a glare in her direction before settling his attention back on the highway. The heat was getting to him too, and even with sunglasses on, spots were gathering in his vision and impairing him with every piercing flash of the sun off of the windshields of passing cars. “Jay, I swear if you ask me ‘are we there yet’ one more time, I’m going to friggin pull over.”

“Ugh, FINE.” Jay wished to be nearly anywhere but here. Resignation set in and she slumped in the seat and let her bare feet hang out the window, crossing her arms.

Dean turned the music louder, trying to drown out his own misery rather than her. He began to belt out slightly off-key to “Dazed and Confused.”

Jay cracked a half smile but hid it from Dean.

He rapped out the solos on the steering wheel, his hands keeping perfect time as they danced upon the taught leather.

Maybe pulling over wouldn’t be a half-bad idea, Jay thought.

She closed her eyes, allowing the steady rumble of the engine to echo through her as hot wind whipped through the cab. She cracked them open again just long enough to witness the stretch of tight skin over Dean’s knuckles, the way the washed out wilderness blurred past behind them and accentuated the tan he’d gained from driving.

The image was burned into her mind. To help pass the time, Jay granted herself permission to linger on it, explore it. Despite the heat outside, a new, different heat grew steadily in her core, stirring somewhere deep between her heart and soul.

Not too long after, the Impala slowed and turned into a run down gas station--the first one in an hour. As Dean filled up, Jay took the opportunity to find shelter in some air conditioning and hopefully an ice-cold drink. Inside the store was no better. In fact, it was worse. The air was still and thick with humidity from the cooler, which buzzed and whirred as if it were possessed.

“Sorry, Miss. Cooler is out. Hot drinks only,” a disheveled and sweat-drenched employee slouched over the register.

“Thanks… got any pie?” Jay decided that if they had to drink hot water, they may as well have some comfort food.

“Whatever we got is over there.” The clerk motioned with his eyes, no strength to even lift a finger.

Jay stalked back to the car empty handed and more pissed than ever. If the summer heat was something tangible, she could just strangle it. Kick it, punch it. Anything to fight it.

Dean finished up just in time, careful not to touch the scorching black paint and chrome on the car. “What, you go pee and come out with nothing? I’m dyin’ here!”

Jay snapped. “NO DRINKS. NO PIE. NOTHING. K?!”

Dean was taken aback by the outburst. It was then he noticed the sunken look and dark circles under her eyes and the red sheen over her face and neck. She was getting pale and wasn’t sweating anymore.

“Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.” His brows knit as he drove slowly through the town, hoping for a decent motel to rest at for a while. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait but a few blocks before The Moonlight Motel came into view.

Pay by the hour may not be the greatest, but at least it was cheap and would likely be empty this time of day.

Jay was losing touch and the following events were a blur. The next thing she truly could grasp and remember was lying mostly clothed in a cold shower. Dean sat facing her atop the closed toilet seat, a worried face perched upon clasped hands. Still a bit out of it, Jay relaxed into the cool water as it slowly washed the fever down the drain. The world slipped away, replaced by a gentle, dark nothing.

When Jay stirred, the room was too dim to still be day and shadows were held at bay by only a small lamp on the far side of the dingy room. She couldn’t remember how she got there at first, but as she woke, things gradually came back to her.

Dean had practically carried her to the room. He’d carefully set her in the bathtub and removed her belt, overshirt and boots. He’d turned on the cold water and at first, she’d protested, but slipped in and out of consciousness. He’d retrieved ice from the machine down the hall and poured it over her as he constantly monitored her vitals and temperature.

He’d withdrawn her, a soaking wet dead weight, stripped away the sopping clothes while careful not to look where it would make her uncomfortable, and buttoned her up in the softest flannel he had.

Jay glanced down at her right hand, as it felt stiff and sore. A needle was taped there, no longer hooked to the empty bag of saline, taped down and left in place just in case. Jay wiggled slightly when she realized that her other arm had gone quite numb beneath her and--Dean?

His soft snores disrupted as she shifted, equally mortified and elated to be nestled into the crook of his arm. Dean woke and rubbed his eyes, as if pretending he’d been awake the whole time. His voice was low and gravely from sleep.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” He looked down at her, so small in his arms, furious with himself for not taking better care of her.

“M-good,” Jay choked out, completely entranced by being so close to the hunter. Close enough for their breath to mix and his cologne to shroud her senses. Close enough to see the flecks of golds and blues and dark greens in the folds of his irises. Her breath caught and she shivered. Again. Jay mentally kicked herself for that tell. “Thank you… Sorry I was being a brat.”

“No. No, this is on me. You were sun-sick. I’m sorry. I should’ve--”

Jay put a finger to his parted lips with only the intention to stop Dean from blaming himself (like always,) but the touch sent electric pulses through her fingertips and set fire to every nerve in her body. They were impossibly soft and warm.

Dean caught her hand tenderly in his before she could pull away and planted a slow kiss on her knuckles. He watched anxiously as her pupils dilated and her breathing became more shallow. Pulling their hands out of the way, Dean leaned forward just slightly and planted a firm, reassuring kiss to her forehead.

Jay’s mind was a mess. This was more than familial. Were they crossing a line? Or maybe it just meant that Dean was comfortable with her, and concerned. But even as the thoughts swirled, her lips had a mind of their own. As Dean traced his nose down hers until their heads were pressed together, Jay angled upward to meet him.

When their lips locked, there was no more question. Jay loved Dean, and he knew and he loved her back. It was soft and sweet, with their eyes shut tight, just exploring and tasting and sucking gently.

The remainder of the trip back to the bunker was spent with Dean humming, a stupid smile plastered on his face, and Jay resting across the front seat, her head in his lap. Dean stroked her soft, brown hair adoringly. The night was much cooler and comfortably dark with only dim, scattered stars to blanket the hunters.

Everything was different after the motel. The kiss.

Almost six months had gone by and for the most part, they’d been wonderful. Jay spent more time in Dean’s room than her own, and the hunts had been good so far, like old times.

Until this one.

Jay, Sam, and Dean were doing a bit of recon at a local bar to dig up some answers, or at the very least, a lead. Jay had dressed to stun, as usual. (After all, men’s lips tended to be a bit more loose around a pretty girl.)

Dean was hovering. Everytime Jay got close to some useful information, Dean would scare off the burly locals with a death glare.

Until this one.

This man was built like a tank. He towered even over Sam by a few inches and dwarfed Jay in comparison. Sam eyed her uncomfortably from a few tables over, but he always got like that when someone was bigger than him. Dean didn’t adjust his tactics at all, and when the big guy had enough of Dean dancing around him and bumping his chair with an insincere, “sorry, man,” the guy stood up and puffed out his chest. Dean moved to both protect Jay and get in a prime fighting position, but Jay yanked him away by the collar of his jacket faster than he could complain.

She didn’t stop until they were completely outside the bar, then shoved him into the soot-covered brick wall. Dean opened his mouth to spout something pigheaded, but stopped himself as he felt the chill of her glare more than the chill of the snow flurries swirling around them.

“Would you just trust me to do my job? What is your problem?”

“I do! I just--” Dean waved in a flustered motion, unable to find the words. All he knew was that when she got a little too... comfortable... with anyone, he saw red.

Still, Jay seemed to understand. She reached up and held his face firmly between her palms, forcing him to maintain eye contact.

“I’m yours. I know that you worry, what you fear. I’m not going to leave you. Ever. No one can ever take me from you, either, because I’ll haunt your ass and you know it.”

Dean’s bottom lips quivered just barely, and he quickly bit it back. “Don’t you even joke about that,” his voice broke.

“De- I’m right here, okay?”

He nodded and leaned into her until his face was buried in her neck. He squeezed his arms around her, never wanting to know what it would feel like to have to let go.

A muffled “let’s go back to the motel” emanated from somewhere within Jay’s scarf and she nodded in response.

Dean grasped her hand as they walked the short distance back to the rented room. Jay stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide and pointing over to the edge of the woods. A startled “Dean!” escaped her, and Dean dropped her hand and withdrew his gun, ready for a fight. His plumes of hot breath on the air slowed to nearly nothing as he steadied himself and visually searched the area.

What had she seen?

Before he could ask, something hard, round and icey struck the back of his shoulder with decent force. He spun on his heels and lowered his weapon to find Jay wide-mouthed and laughing, another snowball forming in her hands.

“Son of a bitch! You want to play dirty, huh?” Dean howled. He holstered the pistol and raced to close the distance between them. With a squeal and a grunt, the two ended up in a heap in the wet, mushy snow.

Jay managed to end up on top of him and leaned in for a deep kiss. She could feel the smile on his lips as his tongue graced across hers. When at last they came up for air, Dean was moving his arms and legs haphazardly.

“A slush-angel?” Jay giggled at the sorry creation.

“What, my art not good enough for you?” Dean retorted while wearing a shit-eating grin. “And no, actually, it’s a Yeti.”

The wet chill began to sink into their bones, so they hurried onward. Dean fiddled with the key card but the lock gave him fits.

“C’mon, Dean! I’m freezing to death!”

“Yeah, yeah, me too. Hold your horses.”

At last, the door swung open and Jay rushed inside, leaving Dean to close and lock the door behind them. She’d already started stripping off the wet outer layers when Dean approached. With every step bringing him closer, his heartbeat rose and he wrestled out of his own layers.

Jay moved to lift off her shirt, but Dean covered her hands with his, intertwining their fingers. He stood against her, and in one swift move, wrapped both of her wrists in a single firm grip behind her, and with the other, pressed an open palm against her belly.

Jay gasped, her knees going weak with what she knew was coming next. Despite the weather, his touch was toasty. Coarse skin slid over her soft flesh, causing a friction that left Jay needing more. Heat flushed her cheeks and pooled deep in her stomach. Dean melted with every shuttered breath of hers as he stroked up and down beneath the fabric of her shirt, making sure to linger over the more sensitive areas as she twitched and bit down on her lip.

Dean massaged her breasts with skilled fingers for a few moments, but a sensual twist of her nipple sent Jay reeling backwards, supported only by Dean’s other arm. With her head tilted back, Dean took the opportunity to kiss and suck and nip zig-zagged lines over the most delicate parts of her neck and along her collarbone.

Jay squirmed and panted with lust-blown pupils and a cry just on the tip of her tongue. Dean’s grasp only steadied her against him more until he found himself grinding into her, faint moans already filling the air. The growing bulge in his pants drove Jay mad. She wanted to be covered by him, skin on skin, needed him inside her.

“D-Dean please, please…” Jay whimpered and attempted to wiggle out of his hold once more to no avail.

“Please, what, pretty girl? Tell me what you want.” Dean breathed against her ear, just above a whisper. He sucked and nibbled in the hollow behind it.

A shudder wracked Jay, but this time, she didn’t mind the tell. She had him. He was hers. But right then, she needed more and she knew he was holding back. “Unnghh, please… need you, now,” she managed.

“Okay, Baby,” Dean crashed his lips to hers and shifted until Jay was suspended in the air and straddling him as he walked them towards the bed. He dropped her playfully and they scrambled to see who could lose their remaining clothes the fastest.

In a fray of scattered clothing, Dean climbed on top of her, comfortably crushing Jay into the lumpy mattress. He let his full weight rest upon her.

“Stop it,” she giggled as his scruff tickled her cheek.

“Why don’t you make me?” Dean grinned between planting kisses everywhere he could reach.

Before he could react, Jay had him rolled onto the floor. She straddled him and tried to concentrate despite his hard cock resting perfectly between her hot, dripping folds. Her hair created a curtain around their faces, blocking out everything but that moment and the sensations it was riddled with. Dean’s eyes closed and mouth opened like a fish out of water. His breaths were shallow and shaky. Jay fought the urge to lift her hips just so, knowing that if she did, and she came back down upon him, his throbbing dick would line up just perfectly… and they’d end up on the floor for the remainder of their romp.

She rose to her feet, grasping his hand and pulling him up with her. Dean’s eyes were full of question, longing. His cheeks were flushed and hot to the touch. He was melting at every touch and could do nothing about it but wait for her.

Jay led him over to the chair and pushed him into it. He nearly tripped on his way down. That stupid smile she loved so much spread across his face again as he dug his fingers into her hips and pulled her onto him. She let out a yelp as the broad head of his large cock spread her entrance, dripping with precum, and buried itself deep inside until her walls stretched almost uncomfortably. The shock of his size was something she’d never get used to. Each time was like the first, the same butterflies swarming in her stomach, the same jolts of pure lust burning through her veins.

Dean gasped and held her close to him, trembling hands roaming her back and squeezing her ass. Jay carded her hands through his hair and pulled just slightly at the nape of his neck as he whined in approval. Those laments made her head swim and her limbs weak. Drunk on Dean, she adjusted her position until he was sunk deep into the spot that was just right, then began to move back and forth, slow and steady. Dean’s breaths stuttered and his head fell back, leaving his neck open for Jay to take into her mouth.

“Fuck--Baby you feel s-so good,” he stammered between increasing moans and grunts. She could see in his eyes that he was losing control.

Jay cried out as he began to fight her movements with his own, pounding up in all the right spots. She arched her back as the coil wound tighter… higher… tighter… higher... until she shattered in his arms, his name and curses spilling from her gaping mouth.

He held her through it and chased his own orgasm, sucking a mark onto her chest before he spilled into her. Everyone would know she was his, and only his. Her walls clenched in waves and he pulsed within them, his delicious sounds filling her ears as she came down.

Jay crashed her lips into his, and he returned with fervor until they were both completely breathless. Wrapped there in Dean’s arms, Jay was home.

No, nothing was ever the same after that first kiss. And that was okay. It was amazing.

WAYWARD PEEPS:

@carryonmywaywardcaptain @manawhaat @supernatural-jackles @jensen-jarpad @wheresthekillswitch @bummblebeeblue @nothin-after-79-blog @docharleythegeekqueen @fangirl-writing-fiction @taste-of-dean @impala-dreamer @arryn-nyxx @idk-life01 @attorneyl @deathtonormalcy56 @xwing-baby @wonder-cole @itsangelpie @thinkinghardhardlythinking

ANGST BABES:

@trexrambling @abbessolute @emptywithout

ALL ABOUT THAT DEAN:

@akshi8278 @will-winchester

@waywardbaby* the smut was heavily inspired by The Scene. Tagged as promised lol

Tag List now open!

#spnsecretsantaficexchange #hands that heal #dean winchester #dean x reader #dean x ofc #dean x jay #fluff #smut #supernatural

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4point7 · 4 years

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THWACK - A Negan One Shot

Summary: a load of words slung haphazardly together to create a modern masterpiece. Written for @negans-lucille-tblr 6K Roll The Dice Challenge using the prompt “ I'm a slave to your games. I'm just a sucker for pain “.

Characters: Negan x Reader (ft. Floral Wallpaper)

Rating: 18+ but maybe less than 98

Warnings: All the warnings. Don’t read this if you get offended by anything typically Negan. Floral Wallpaper.

Word Count: 1,963

Tick.

The sound of the clock echos through your mind. It suffocates your thoughts as it reminds you of the monotonous grind of time. Every "tick" amplified through the dark. The space between each one extending for eternity as the silence between them crashes through you like unrelenting waves on a crumbling cliff face, slowly beating away at your resilience. The rest of the community sleeps blissfully as you lay there, your consciousness unwavering.

Tick.

You roll on to your side and open your eyes, staring blankly at the wall. The floral wallpaper, once pristine, now peels away slightly at the seems, unveiling the illusion of perfection, breaking the once perfect pattern.

The luxuries of the past have long been abandoned. What's the point in keeping the inside looking nice any more? Compared to the horror that lies in the world beyond the mildew covered window of The Sanctuary, the room you're in, even in this state, IS luxury these days. You only need to see a couple of Walkers have their heads smashed in to be cleansed of material desires and become satisfied with basic needs being met.

Another tick of the clock calls an end to the time you're willing to designate to falling asleep. You sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed, exposing them to the chill of the air that your bed sheets were protecting you from.

You feel the layer of dust and dirt on the soles of your feet as they connect with the cold floor. You reach to grab your clothes from the chair next to the bed and pull them on, taking the time to dust the debris from your feet before donning your boots.

You open the door, trying to muffle it's creak by pulling it softly and slowly away from the latch before stepping out into the hallway. You would rather not wake anyone. People would get suspicious if they saw someone walking The Sanctuary grounds in the early hours of the morning.

You make your way along the corridor to the door that leads outside and gently push it open. The cool breeze from outside washes over you, almost through you, as it breaks into the corridor. You take a deep breath, feeling the air fill your lungs, calming you, if just for a moment.

The door comes to a stop with a soft thud, fully revealing the early morning landscape. The trees and buildings in the distance consumed by a mist that spills onto the roads towards you.

As you step out, gravel crunching underfoot, a glint catches your eye. You follow it to its origin, finally laying your eyes on the steel barb wire coiled tightly around a baseball bat, like a snake wrapped tightly around a branch. It's doing no harm where it is but anger it and it will bite! Lucille, resting by the man himself, Negan.

You wonder if you can back away, sink back into the darkness of the doorway but it's too late, even though he isn't facing you, you know he knows you're there.

He stands, leaning on a barrier, his folded arms resting along it supporting the weight of his upper body, leather jacket taught across is broad back. Lucille stands propped against the barrier beside him, perfectly inanimate yet still so menacing. It's like the bat had a presence all of it's own, bringing fear to many while being nothing more than a prop to the horrors of it's master.

You have wanted to be this close to Negan for such a long time but now, in his presence, you freeze. Just standing there taking him in, feeling your heart thump harder in your chest, adrenaline surging through you.

"You just gonna stand there pissin' your pants or are you gonna join me?" His deep voice startles you for a moment, you weren't expecting him to speak. You walk over and lean on the barrier next to him, staring out into the mist.

You sense him turn to look at you but you don't dare look back. Not yet.

"So... who are you?" He says in a gentle deep drawl.

"I am Negan", you respond, now turning your head to look him, traces of a smirk lining your lips.

He chuckles and looks back to the landscape. "Holy shit balls, we got ourselves a joker!"

You don't take your eyes from him, taking in his profile. It's not until you're up-close like this that you can see his imperfections, the lines starting to creep across his skin, breaking the perfect appearance, reminding you of that floral wallpaper.

"What the fuck are you doing awake at this time, Comedian?"

"Can't sleep", you respond.

"Huh. No fuckin' shit!" He pauses for a beat and you say nothing. "Me either."

"Why?" You pry and he lets out a sigh.

"Could you fuckin' sleep if you had to do the shit that I do? Smashin' dead fuckers' heads don't make my prick hard, Joker! Smashin' livin' fuckers', even less so but some fuck's got to protect and lead this community. They haunt me. Every one of the cunts marchin', around my fuckin' thoughts like they're on parade. That's why."

It's an honesty you weren't expecting from him. You had always been sold this fearless, unfazed persona yet here before you stood a man troubled by the actions of his past. Almost broken. For a moment you let yourself pity him.

"Does nothing ever help distract your mind? Help you sleep?" You ask.

"Fuckin' my wives! At least, it used to. But knowing their just fuckin' me out of fear has started to take the shine off the pussy, if you know what I mean? Shit! I wanna slip my cock down the throat of a fucker who wants it, not just because they feel obliged. Then I might have the release I need". His hand slips down and gently caresses the handle of Lucille as if unconsciously.

You're so close to getting what you have wanted for a long time and you know you can get it if you play your cards right.

"WANT ME TO GIVE THE OLD CODGER A DAVID BLOWIE?", you exclaim.

"Oooh err, yes please, if that's okay with you, like? If you like don't mind and stuff and that?" He says back in a melancholy tone not far from how a school boy might ask for his ball back when he kicked it into his neighbours garden.

"You want to?"

"WANT TO? I'D FUCKING LOVE TO!" you whisper. "GIMME THAT WONDER WURST!"

You drop to your knees. Ouch! You think. You should have gotten down gently. Why the fuck you decided to drop so hard no one fucking knows.

You undo his pants revealing his big, flaccid whopper. "It's flaccid." You say. "Yes" he replies.

You stick out your tongue and touch the head of his penis with it as though your testing an ice lolly to see how cold it is. THWACK! His instant erection ploughs into your chin, essentially upper cutting you, and knocks you over. His meat looks like a big fat sausage that's about to explode. You get back to your knees and take his shaft in your hand. "Hey ho, here we go, yo!", you sing into his flesh stick like it's a microphone, before... boom! You slam that happy package right on down your gob hole! Your head smacking back and forth like your headbanging to a heavy metal track. Your throat is making noises like a fucking plunger making hard work out of a toilet or some shit. Like gluh, ung, gug, guh, glug, guh, guh, guh, gug, gluh, ug, ugh, glug... ... guh, gluh, uh, ugh. You had to stop in the middle there to take a little breath. You are human after all.

Anyway your smashing his trouser snake and shit and he fucking loves it and all that and he is like "yeah, yeah, ooh, fuckin' yeah" and shit. Drool is all puddling on the floor beneath you and all that and like splashing all over the place, you know. Like, step off Shamoo, people need to be careful of MY splash zone! And you like grab the shaft in one hand and the balls in the other and stuff and your like working it like that. Your tongue giving it the biggun on his nut balls. Like slip, slop, lollipop mother fucker. Better tongue action than a fucking ant eater. You pushing your tongue down his urethra and give a good old lick all up in there. Then you start slurping on that junk like a fucking kid trying to get the last of their slushy. And his eyes are popping out his head and shit and he's like "Holy shit balls, joker this is a damn acceptable level blow jay." And you like slap it on your forehead and shit and like maybe prod yourself in the eye with it a bit, I dunno. And you like slap it and he looks at you like "uh okay, I s’pose" and then you slap it again because fuck it. And back in the face opening it goes. Plunger noise returns. And he maybe grabs your hair or maybe not, maybe if you're into that and you're not but maybe you are. And he is all like, "I'm going to do a cum" and you're like "pardon?" And he's like "I'm going to do a cum" and you're like, "sorry what?" And he's like "I'm going to..." and you stop sucking and are like, "I'm so sorry, I can't hear you over the racket". He's like, "ever so sorry, I was just letting you know, I was going to do a bit of a cum" and you're like, "Right you are, Sonny Jim" and stick his whoopsie back in your cock pocket of a mouth. Then all of a sudden, without any warning whatsoever, *pew, pew* he does a bit of a cum in your throat making you gag. Then like a fucking fireman's house, white spaff juice sprays out of the end sending you flying backwards as he drenches you with his load. Like DRENCHES you. When he is done, you pull a hanky from your pocket and wipe the corners of your mouth. You have some class after all.

You get to your feet and walk back over to him, a twinkle in your pink eye.

"Thanks Joker, that was okay, I really fuckin' needed that".

You blush slightly and lean in for a kiss. As your faces connect you take his lip in between your teeth and hold it there. You hold it there until you feel it go slack in your grasp, until his eye's glaze over and then you pull out the knife you had plunged into his throat, his blood starting to gush over you. His body goes limp and falls to the floor with a thud. The vibration knocks Lucille from her perch and she falls across his slumped body. You wipe the blood from the knife on your shirt and place it back through your belt, behind your back. You had finally got what you had come for and you didn't care what it took to get it. You didn't fear the walking dead but you did fear what someone might do to you if they found you like this so you decide it best to head off. You step over Negan's lifeless body and start your walk home. After all, people will be waking up soon and it's a long walk back to Alexandria.

... oh yeah! You sing "I'm a slave to your games. I'm just a sucker for pain" as you walk off or something.

#bees6krollthedicechallenge #Negan Smut #Smut #Fan Fic #Walking Dead #Negan

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greytoiletpaper · 4 years

Text

Out on Allen Street, it’s 7 in the Morning

Set in the Street Siblings au by @a-sketchy-character | @streetsiblings without which I may not have had the motivation to write this much.

Drizzle | Deluge | Squall | AO3

Chapter 4: susurration

The world is dark.

Somehow, she knows how many marks and cuts criss-cross her body; how many bruises decorate her like a canvas. But she can’t feel them, not even one.

Instead, all she can do is listen, tuning in to the rain as it pours, as red droplets fall in time off of Mad Dog’s blade. If she really listens to the sound, it almost sounds like a different boy’s laughter.

She focuses on the noise and it alone, her body so perfectly still.

Mad Dog thrusts his blade to her chest, and Cassandra’s eyes open.

They’ve only been in Gotham for a week, yet, it feels like he never left. At least for Park Row, the “Crime Alley”, the city has never changed. Slowly, the Red Hood and Ravager make the area their own. He does everything to make sure that the Bat never catches a whiff of what he’s doing. He knows it is pointless; even if Bruce knew, he would be too much of a coward to venture into the evil heart of the city.

It infuriates him, the remnants of the old argument. If Batman was ever truly needed. It would be - no, should be - here. In the black, beating heart of Gotham, where crime and cruelty channel through its citizens as if it were in their own blood. Yet for all he prattles about his crusade of justice, Bruce will never set foot into Crime Alley; too hung up on the ghosts of his past to banish the ones that haunt others.

It’s why he’s wearing the original persona of the man who murdered him. Jason had lived these streets, born and raised and died because of them. Deep down, Jason understands what Bruce simply refuses to believe. Some people simply want to watch the world burn, and they can never be stopped, only carefully controlled, managed or otherwise taken out. He never wants what happened to him to be inflicted on someone else. Not if he can help it.

Now, Red Hood is here, slinking through the darkened hallways of Arkham. Past every guard and camera until he arrives at one particular cell. He knocks on the door, and a mop of neon green flips upwards.

The madman beams; his eyes are whirlpools of chaotic energy.

“What’s this? Birdy clipped his wings!” The Joker begins, guffawing like a howling hyena. “I was wondering when you’d come back to see me, little Jay.”

To his credit, Jason doesn’t react. The pneumatic seals of the helmet hiss as it comes off. The Joker never takes his eyes off his face.

“There you are, my boy. Just like your uncle Jay” The lunatic says without tone, feral grin seeming plastered. “Say, you seen Cass anywhere?”

That makes him shift uneasily on his feet. The Joker leans in close, almost conspiratorially.

“You think the Bat ran her out? That he…” Something morbid flashes in the eyes of his monster. “Killed her just like I did you?”

Jason wants to drive his fists into the man’s back. Stamp on his legs until the bones shatter. Bludgeon him over and over with whatever is on hand until the madman’s flesh is nothing but paste. Instead, he stands frozen as the cackling echoes around the room and in his ears.

“I’m not doing this for you,” Is what he says. “And I’m not doing this for me either.”

His hand lifts the pistol from its holster.

“I’m doing this because someone has to do what Batman can’t.”

The Joker takes the words in stride, nodding to himself. To Jason, it’s the calmest he has ever seen him.

“Not a fan of the whole motorcycle fetish style, but to each his own,” The madman’s eyes, still rotting in their own insanity, meet his. Something about the gaze seems so clear despite the instability. “You’re going to be wonderful for the Red Hood name.”

He sighs.

“When you do it, boy, make sure you get as much of the colour out of me.”

Jason nods and presses the barrel into Joker’s forehead, closes his eyes, and everything is silent.

He presses his hand to the glass, the rain sliding down the pane on the other side, its streams the same lengths as the rivers that flow from his red crown.

Fact One, a statement: Roman Sionis is the Black Mask, one of Gotham's most powerful crime lords with connections running deeply in the underground drugs and weapons trade.

Fact Two, an amendment: Roman Sionis is the Black Mask, arguably one of Gotham's most powerful crime lords with sizeable connections in the weapons trade.

Fact Three, a truth: He is absolutely livid with the Red Hood and the Ravager.

Roman stares at the text on the notepad; he picks it up and throws it across the room.

In the space of two nights, the new duo had taken over his entire drug operation and cut off every tie Roman had to Crime Alley. Internally, he thinks ‘cut off’ is still too lacking a description. Half of his thugs breathing through tubes for days. Pimps found castrated and dangling from lampposts. Drug dealers with their mouths frothing as they dissociated. If the rumour mill among villains is anything to go by, Red Hood had killed the Joker in his own damn cell. Roman shudders. He’d seen the images from the crime.

The pair are definitely a threat, and Roman needs him gone as soon as possible. Hiring the Joker would have been one of the best choices: effective, relatively cheap and definitely motivated to take on whoever dares don his previous mantle. Alas, reality disagrees.

Black Mask picks up the phone, ready to dial the more expensive alternative. He sighs and hopes they don’t call Deathstroke the ‘Terminator’ for nothing.

Cassandra dives away at the last second, adrenaline flushing through her body and lifting the fog from her mind. Her opponent’s blade impacts with the ground, firmly planting itself the whole way. Mad Dog, clearly thrown off, becomes an easy target with her renewed energy.

She does not hold back, unleashing a flurry of blows to the assassin’s chest, even as he tries to hold his defence together. With renewed focus, she redirects every strike he makes and strikes him back thrice as hard.

It is not long until Mad Dog is at Cassandra’s mercy, nearly a bloody pulp under her hand.

“Finish it,” Shiva calls suddenly, and she almost complies. But, with her hazy vision, the images of Faizul and the assassin blend together. The vertigo Cassandra is feeling becomes sharper, and she’s drowning in it.

In her hesitation, Shiva tuts and stabs her own blade into Mad Dog’s heart, crimson fluid spraying in all directions.

Cass doubles over, desperately heaving, and liquid green purges from her body.

Bruce stares up at the readout on the Batcomputer. There are new players in Gotham, but there’s something that makes them stand out from the others. They make headway faster than he’s ever seen it, clearing out and claiming Park Row as their own territory in a week.

Twenty-seven confirmed kills and thirty-four hospitalisations. He would have stopped with his investigation then and there. Yet, the detective in him tugs the back of his mind. He checks through the names again and finds that each one is attached to a laundry list of crimes that become more appalling the further he reads.

Then Red Hood killed the Joker; and for the first time since the madman’s debut, Gotham is quiet.

Bruce rubs his face in his hands and turns to the screens entirely dedicated to monitoring his daughter Cassandra. (The memorial makes itself known in his peripheral vision.) Her work in Hong Kong as Black Bat had been phenomenal so far. Every story he can find of her weaves the same story: Black Bat, hero of the Forgotten. Of the waylaid and the oppressed.

What would they think? Bruce finally turns to the statue, mouthing the words on the plaque to himself.

“Can you promise something for me, Bruce? Just one thing?”

“Anything for you, Jaylad.”

He tears his eyes away.

Damian becomes cagey whenever either of the three vigilantes come up in conversation. It is suspicious, but he has had the lesson very solidly ironed in his mind how unconducive to understanding he can be. So, he gives his son his space.

Despite the child's refined nature, little pieces of him remind him of Jason, far beyond the boy's temper, pride, or even his cursing. Bruce had seen Damian in the library once, his fingers tracing the spine of a newer copy of Huckleberry Finn.

Red and orange flash by his primary monitor, and Bruce pulls himself from his thoughts.

Batman rises, ready to confront whatever ghosts will taunt him in the shadows.

The world roars in her ears, and no matter how hard she tries, Cassandra can’t stop the erratic sequence of deep breaths that claw out her throat. For once she’s glad she’s not wearing her old costume. The mask reminded her too much of smoke inhalation and chains and-.

“Why?” She rasps in a throaty, breathless voice that has not escaped her for years. “Why would you do this?”

“Can’t a mother test the progress of her daughter?” Shiva replies coolly. Her stance gives off nothing, so Cassandra does not deign her a response.

“He went looking for me, you should know.”

Her head snaps up.

“He was curious. A unique girl who can read the body as if it were a book and a unique woman who can do the very same? An unlikely coincidence,” Shiva turns her head away, ducked down as if she had already admitted too much. “He asked me, if it was my choice to leave you with your father.”

“It wasn’t.”

Sandra nods.

“He told me that was, and I quote, ‘a load of shit’.”

“Sounds like Jason,” Cass mutters under her breath. A hush falls between them, not comfortable but not unwelcome either.

“It is not me you came here for,” Sandra says with such conviction that Cass can’t help but gape in her disbelief. Of course, she did. Shiva gave birth to her.

Before she can voice her thoughts, Sandra grasps her shoulder and wraps her arms around Cass.

“You’ll find your brother soon. I can promise you that.”

Gotham rumbles, her shock snaking through the crown of her scalp. She knows that tonight is the night; when events will pass and tear the whole city asunder. For better or for worse, she cannot tell.

But she is eager to find out for herself.

“Think that’s a wrap for tonight?” Jason asks quietly, almost inaudible over the Gotham rain. It’s the only coherent sentence he’s made in days, so Rose takes what she can get.

“Probably, you’re not shanghaiing me into grabbing groceries, right?”

“Maybe,” He chuckles, but even though his voice is filtered by their comms, she can tell it’s forced. “Anyone ever tell you how similar some of our problems are?”

“Really? You realised this just now?” Rose rolls her eyes because, honestly. “I mean, at least your dad isn’t some psycho assassin supervillain.”

“Aww, Rosie, making your old man sad. Truly, I’m hurt,” Hues from orange and blue armour melt from the shadows as Deathstroke emerges, eyeing her. “You don’t wear the uniform like Grant did.”

“It’s not meant to and either way, I barely knew him or Joey.” She draws her blades, trying to hide how much her arms are shaking. It doesn’t help. “No thanks to you.”

“Is that Slade?” Jason’s voice is like music to her ears, relaxing her muscles in the ways she needs.

“I made your brothers stronger,” There’s an edge to Slade’s voice, sharp as the glistening blade he brandishes. Ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. “I suggest you come with me so you can be the same.”

“What, dead because of problems you caused?” She laughs shakily, grimacing under her mask. “I suggest you fuck off.”

“I’m coming, Rose.”

“No can do. There’s a hit on the two of you, and its fait accompli,” Deathstroke makes a ‘what-can-you-do?’ gesture and Rose darts forward, her tears faster than the raindrops that dance on her skin.

Batman has followed the Red Hood for hours now, and he has no idea what to think. He expected someone wielding the Joker’s former identity to be as insane as the Clown Prince himself. Yet, the red helmet only bobs up and down as if it were in conversation rather than rotating listlessly.

Despite how antithetical the new face in Gotham is to his beliefs, some actions catch him off guard about the man.

While he has seen no deaths on this patrol, with every bone the criminal breaks, the same hands offer food to street children and escort working girls to their homes. Bruce is thrown, viscerally, into a memory of the bird that flew beside him to do the very same.

The Dark Knight watches him stalk through Park Row, freeze and then take off in another direction.

It is time.

He pursues the criminal, sprinting across the rooftops of Gotham, gliding above catwalks and fire escapes. Within minutes, he overtakes and blocks the path ahead of Red Hood, who curses and vaults over his body.

Or at least, he tries to as Batman grips the man’s ankle and slams him back into the pavement. Hood never misses a second, drawing a knife and swiping at his limbs. He lets go; the man faces him again, twirling the knife round and round.

“B,” A modulated voice hangs in the air, but there is a quality to it that tickles his conscious, like an old ghost whispering in his ears.

“Red Hood, I suggest you surrender peacefully, or I –.”

“Cut the act, alright? You think that just because you’re Batman, nobody can be above you,” Red Hood laughs. Through the modulator of his helmet, it comes off as hollow. “The truth with a saying like that –.” The knife is stowed away. “– It just means nobody is beneath you either.”

The criminal grapples him; kick, jab, punch, kick again in a rapid dance of attacks that Bruce can barely keep up with. Some of the criminal’s movements are achingly familiar yet so foreign that the composite form nauseates him. Red hood strikes over and over until he actually has him, the Dark Knight, pinned.

“And some of us can’t wait to drag you all the way down.”

Jason had always had a gift for speaking. His sister’s hands may be knives, but his words were bullets.

Breaking out of the Red Hood’s hold, that is what Bruce muses in his mind.

They’ve been at a game of cat and mouse for so long now. Locked in a chase of diving and darting around a maze of alleyways and rooftops. Jason drops on one of them and turns to face his pursuer, who draws short away from him.

“What, can’t work it out?” He triggers the seals on his helmet as he lifts it off. Without the lenses he can see, even in the rain, the second Bruce recognises him. “You really didn’t care enough to remember my name or something?”

“Jason,” Bruce’s tone gives off nothing and everything. “W-Why are you doing this? How are you –.”

“I’m doing this because you refuse to do what needs to be done.” Jason snarls, venom laced in every word. “You want to rule them by fear, but you never go any further with the ones who aren’t afraid.”

“Jason, I don’t under-.”

“I died for your cause, and in less than a year you shove some other kid in the uniform so he can die too!” He is raving now. He also doesn’t care. “You let my murderer run wild and slaughter thousands and when someone finally steps up to do what needed to be done, you cut her out?”

“I had to –.”

“Had to what? Isolate her? Run her out of the only family she’s ever known? She was my sister, my whole fucking world; who believed in you and you left her like she means nothing to you! Cass is gone now, and that is your fault!”

“If you would –.”

“Do you even remember? That the only thing I ever made you swear to me, that you vowed on your life, was that you’d never let her down?” For once this night, his voice isn’t angry or vicious. It is a void, detached from any feeling. “Guess I should have known better.”

He knows, almost intrinsically despite the years, that if there is one thing that Jason has said tonight, those are the words that pierce Batman’s defences. It’s why he lets Bruce rush forward like he wants to. Allows the chase to continue. When he jumps, Jason lands in an apartment that carries the same bloodstains that leaked down his mother’s arms a lifetime ago.

Black Bat arrives in Gotham, and superficially, it is empty. She almost hails Barbara when bright flashes shine in her peripheral vision. Lo and behold, Deathstroke and an unknown are locked in a duel below her.

Cassandra drops from above, and at that moment, she kicks Deathstroke into a wall hard enough to knock him unconscious. His opponent, she notices, stops immediately.

Before her is a girl, hair silver under the moonlight, garbed in orange and black.

Then the Batmobile rounds the corner, a small figure rising from the hatch.

"Black Bat," Robin says, "You have not responded to Oracle, she was-."

Damian's eyes bug out once he notices the girl beside Cassandra. She fully expects him to snarl or draw his ridiculously long katana. Instead, uncharacteristically rushes forward and embraces the girl tightly instead.

"Wilson. A-are you finally assisting us in Gotham?" Damian says, even with his head buried in a shoulder. "Drake may be intelligent, but his incompetence with the sword is impossible to rectify."

"Missed you too, D-man," The girl chuckles and ruffles the boy's hair. "I would help, but what’s up with tall, slim and broody over there?"

Cassandra crosses her arms expectantly at Robin, who obviously only just remembered her presence when he unlatches himself immediately. His cheeks may be red, but Damian still raises his chin proudly.

"I found her, Rose," His body language and eyes seem to sing. "I found his ukht."

The girl spins sharply, wolfish eyes drawn wide. “You’re her,” Rose breathes, awe rippling off her body. “You’re Cass.”

She would have flinched, but the body language is so familiar. Cass tilts her head.

“Yes.”

Rose grabs her arm so hastily that she almost rips it back in shock. But something is so honest about her body language that Cass relents, letting the girl lead her where she is needed.

He kneels, tracing the dark stains. Behind him, Batman pauses. Not even he would dare to disturb the sanctity of this room.

“Jaylad, please -.”

“Don’t call me that. That isn’t who I am,” Jason rounds on Bruce. He gestures to the shattered window, the ripped upholstery, and the bloodstained floor. “This is what I grew up being, what I never wanted anyone else to.”

He taps the insignia on Bruce’s chest with his pistol.

“That, right here, was your promise to people like me. People that needed help and protection,” He spits. “And you couldn’t even do it for the ones closest to you.”

"I just want to-."

"Want to what? Parade your antiquated sense of morality to hide, while the rest of the world suffers for what you refuse to do? Or cast out others from taking it in their own hands?"

Tears are building in his eyes, but he wipes them away while Batman stands ramrod straight.

"I don't think you understand. That you've never understood," The man begins, and Jason gapes because what the hell does that mean? "If I let myself cross that line, even for Joker, I won't ever come back."

"You know what I think about that, Bruce?" Jason breathes deeply, feeling the whispers of the Pit roaring with the heavy rain in his ears. "I think that's a huge self-aggrandizing load of bullshit."

He charges forward, knocking Batman's legs from under him and ramming his face into the ground. Batman is down to his knees before either can even blink.

"And I'm so fucking tired of hearing it."

Jason levels the barrel at Bruce’s forehead, torbernite lining the edges of his vision, engulfing him in an absence.

“What’s the use of you learning to do right when it’s troublesome to do right?”

Then, her voice shatters the tension in the air, gripping his heart and silencing the susurrations of the rain that suffocated his ears.

“When it ain’t no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same.”

“Cass?” The boy in the alleyway says. A gun. An apple in his hand. The girl falters in the doorway, her fist tongue clenches, and she nods.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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buzzdixonwriter · 3 years

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Compare & Contrast: Trumbo vs Mank

It’s the rare movie that’s about screenwriting, and rarer still the ones about actual screenwriters engaged in their craft.

Recently two films about two of the most famous (or notorious, depending on your point of view) screenwriters were released, and not only are they about actual screenwriters involved in writing scripts of actual films -- genuine classics in both cases -- but their protagonists are done in by the same group of antagonists (though to be fair, one film paints them merely as adversaries, not villains).

Yes, we’re pitting 2015’s Trumbo (directed by jay Roach, written by John McNamara off Bruce Cook’s Dalton Trumbo) nose-to-nose with Mank (directed by David Fincher, written by Jack Fincher), and may the best bio pic win.

First off, the bad: Neither film really jells seamlessly.

Both come across as a series of scenes, not a coherent story flow.

The dialog in both is too theatrical, too self-knowing though in the case of Mank’s Herman J. Mankiewicz, apparently a fair depiction of how he actually spoke (for the cheap seats: Like a pompous asshole).

Advantage: Mank because it never asks us to pity Mankiewicz as a self-destructive alcoholic no matter how brilliant his writing is. Mank’s struggles are more in the trenches -- even if those trenches run through the plush offices of MGM. Trumbo talks a lot about the struggles of the little guy but never really dips down to street level. For all its insights and good intentions, it remains a limousine liberal story.

You can’t do a Hollywood bio pic without having Hollywood celebrities in it, and for the most part Mank keeps the most famous names and faces at arm’s length.

Yes, Marion Davies (Amanda Seyfried) plays a pivotal role but virtually nobody today remembers the real Davies except as she was unfairly depicted in Citizen Kane.

Orson Welles is the best known name and face in Mank and Tom Burke does a top notch job of capturing him at his charismatic young genius stage. Other off screen personalities also serve to flesh out their roles adequately, including Ferdinand Kingsley as Irving Thalberg, Charles Dance as William Randolph Hearst, and Arliss Howard as Louis B. Mayer.

On the other hand, virtually none of Trumbo’s famous players look anything like their real life counterparts. Dean O'Gorman as Kirk Douglas comes closest in a dinner theater level of resemblance, but Michael Stuhlbarg as Edward G. Robinson and David James Elliott as John Wayne are virtually unrecognizable as their actual counterparts.

Trumbo also features Richard Portnow as their version of Louis B. Meyer and it needs be said thar Mank’s Meyer is far more dynamic and compelling.

Props to Christian Berkel as Otto Preminger for coming closest to capturing the real persona behind the role, but then Preminger himself deliberately created a living caricature of himself for public appearances -- no matter how far over the top you go, he’s already w-a-a-a-y ahead of you.

Helen Mirren as Hedda Hopper is fairly accurate in her portrayal of Hollywood’s original queen of mean / notorious gossip columnist and plays the role as close to an absolute villain as possible.

John Goodman and Stephen Root as producing brothers Frank and Hymie King are a delight, and Goodman simply backs up a truck and drives off with the picture every scene he appears in.

Advantage: Mank because less is always more.

In terms of direction and cinematography, Mank is filmed in gloriously luminescent black and white. Mank also plays with and explores the boundaries pf film making much more than Trumbo. Trumbo is an expertly made film, but a very conventional one.

Advantage: Mank

The key question for both is how accurate are they?

Truth be told, not very for either of them.

Oh, both films get their broad strokes down, but a lot of minor details are garbled or misrepresented.

Dalton Trumbo, for instance, did not originate The Brave One, which won him a best screenplay Oscar under a pseudonym while he was on the blacklist. That project was handed to him by the King brothers who acquired it from special effects legend Willis O’Brien (i.e., the guy who brought King Kong to life) but then stripped out O’Brien’s fanciful stop motion allosaur to concentrate on the story of a boy and his bull.

One understands why this aspect was ignored -- it would contribute nothing to the actual story of Trumbo -- but it is the height of irony that O’Brien’s participation was cancelled due to Trumbo coming onboard.

Likewise in Mank there’s a scene where Thalberg complains the Marx Brothers started a fire and roasted hot dogs in his office; in real life Groucho & his siblings roasted potatoes. One can understand Mank changing the menu -- the audience can “smell” a roasted hot dog easier than a roasted potato.

But enough fiddle-faddle! How well did each capture their central character and their dilemma?

Ah, there we have a split decision.

While Trumbo focuses on Dalton Trumbo (Bryan Cranston), it also spends a lot of time with the struggles of his coterie of fellow blacklisted scribes.

Both Dalton Trumbo and Herman Mankiewicz (Gary Oldmam) fell under the curse of always being the smartest guy in the room, and when you’re the smartest guy in the room you grow impatient with all the others.

In Trumbo’s case, he runs roughshod of the eminently justifiable concerns of others involved in his crusade, and in the end his miscalculations of the era’s real politik led to the notorious blacklist and the rise of McCarthyism.

That he subsequently tries to mitigate this by creating an underground talent pool of ghost screenwriters is shown as positive in one sense and capitulation in another. Trumbo -- quite accidentally -- torments screenwriter Arlen Hird (a composite character played by Louis C.K. as if he were channeling the late Ricky Jay) , turning his already stressful life into pure misery.

Again, it is a tribute to Trumbo’s character -- at least the screen version of same -- that he recognizes the harm he inflicted and tries -- however inadequately -- to atone for it.

Herman Mankiewicz, on the other hand, was just an asshole -- a charming, entertaining asshole, to be sure, but an asshole nonetheless.

Both writers are laid low by far right politics determined to root out any and all “leftist” influence in Hollywood -- both the ideal and the workaday reality.

Trumbo depicts him as “a communist with a swimming pool” who enjoys the finer things in life while championing the largely unseen underdog.

The film doesn’t shy away from this and an encounter in prison with African-American felon Virgil Brooks (Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje) is played as a reverse Shawshank Redemption in which Trumbo learns exactly how the underclass perceives his efforts on their behalf.

Mank makes more direct contact with this underclass -- while skewering Mankiewicz’ own hypocrisy in this area -- but Mankiewicz himself steers away from any direct involvement.

He’s bright and erudite and his scenes with Marion Davies do much to show the complexities found at the intersection of art / commerce / politics -- but in the end he remains more of a spectator (albeit a spectacularly self-destructive one) than a participant.

Mank creates the fictious character of Shelly Metcalf (Jamie McShane), a low grade MGM employee who makes anti-socialist propaganda for Hearst and comes to a tragic end.

This is part of what spurs Mankiewicz to a drunken rant at San Simeon aimed at Meyer and Hearst, and in the fallout of that, the inspiration for Citizen Kane itself.

This is where the two films share a profound overlap,

But with wholly contrary messages.

Both films try to humanize their players.

Mank gives Meyer, Thalberg, and Hearst very human and wholly believable reactions to Mankiewicz’ assholery -- they sincerely try to save him from himself and failing that, only then do they cast him quite literally into the outer darkness.

Yet in trying to humanize them it also shows their monstrous natures.

Hearst, escorting Mankiewicz out of San Simeon for the very last time, tells him the parable of the organ grinder’s monkey, and while the story is delivered in an almost sad patrician tone, the underlying threat and menace is unmistakable.

Trumbo, on the other hand, does a better job of humanizing its players, Hedda Hopper not withstanding (and she is depicted with deeply personal motivations, not purely ideological ones).

Quoting from the real Dalton Trumbo’s acceptance speech for his WGA lifetime achievement award, Trumbo the movie takes pains to recognize its story possesses no simplistic duality of good and evil, heroes and villains.

Both sides were caught up in a storm of societal change that swept the world and both sides did what they felt they had to do in response to it.

Trumbo doesn’t shy away from choices having consequences, but it recognizes the vast spectrum of gray in the middle.

Advantage: Trumbo

In summation: Two good but not flawless movies. Mank is the more fully realized one and all around better production, but Trumbo is then one that gives you the most to chew on.

#Compare And Contrast #Trumbo #Mank #screenwriting

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laceys-notebook · 7 years

Text

In Which She Bruises Him

Bucky Barnes x female oc submitted by My Fucking Sister!

Synopsis: “I’ll give you one and in return, you can mark ‘hickey’ off your ”What Bucky’s Missed“ list. (or: Bucky’s never gotten a hickey before and Jayla takes it upon herself to change that.)

A/N: Not smut, but not exactly fluff either, they do share a few cute moments though.

The music was hushed throughout the near-empty living quarters as Jayla took another swing from her beer bottle. There was nothing to watch on tv and most of the team were off on a mission or doing their own thing. Steve, her and Bucky were the only ones to fill the whole compound . The night was slow and remained uneventful.

There was a shuffle from the hallway. “What are you drinking?” She heard a low voice from behind her seated position on the couch.

“It’s just a beer. There’s more in the fridge. Bottom shelf, behind the stacks of egg cartons,” she called out towards the voice she recognized as Bucky’s. She listened as he pulled open the refrigerator door with a loud sigh.

“Who the hell keeps hiding the beer?” He exclaimed, sounding aggravated.

“I’m 100% sure its Barton,” She joked, taking another sip from her beer. Bucky slumped down on the seat beside her, his heavy body caused the couch to shake as he let out a satisfying sigh. He lined the closed beer to an edge of his metal arm and snapped the bottle cap off with ease. Jayla was slightly impressed, recalling the five minutes it took her to get her’s opened.

“What’s the plan for tonight?” He asked taking a large gulp of his beer. She looked down at her cellphone in her lap as 23:10 lit up her screen.

“I wasn’t really thinking of doing anything,” She explained. Bucky nodded in agreement as they continued to sit in a comfortable silence. Steve suddenly walked out of his room and plopped next to Jayla, sandwiching the young woman between the two super-soldiers. “What now?” asked Jayla. The question hung in the air as the three of them just sat there, watching the t.v. screen light up to some random late night talk show.

“There’s beer in the fridge,” Bucky said to Steve, who got up from his seat and made his way towards the kitchen.

“Wait,” Jayla said turning around to face the super-solider. “We should take shots. I mean, there’s nothing else to do,” she suggested making her way to other to the far end of the floor towards Tony’s personal bar.

“I don’t think so, Jay,” Steve shook his head as he processed the possible outcome of the night.

“Come on, Cap, I don’t see the big problem. I mean we’re all adults here, Buck and I know our limits and you can’t get drunk,” she explained, jumping over the counter and beginning rummaging through the alcohol stash. “Now, shall we do vodka or tequila?” She asked the young men as she held up two different bottles in each hand, a visible smirk playing on her lips.

Deciding on vodka she began pouring three shots in the glasses she found behind her. With Bucky seated at the bar, his beer placed on the table, he picked up the small cup and turned to face Steve. Letting out a defeated sign, Steve walked over, took the cup off the counter and proceeded to down the liquid in the cup. Letting out a victory woot, Jayla took her shot, soon followed by Bucky. The liquid burned down her throat and sat as a heated pile at the bottom of her stomach. She cleared her throat as she began pouring a second round of shots. By this time Steve began drinking the remnants of Bucky’s beer as Bucky had disregarded his drink in favour of the new shot of vodka in front of him.

After the next few rounds, the metal-armed soldier and the dark haired agent were feeling the affects of the vodka while Steve stayed sober. He was having fun however, laughing along to the stupid jokes the girl would tell and even wincing at the retellings of their young adventures through Bucky. The night was filled with drunk banter and clumsy slip-ups.

Walking around floor with the empty bottle in her hand, Jayla made her way towards Bucky who sat on the carpet in front of the tv. As she turned the corner she crashed into the edge of the table. “Fuck,” she exclaimed as she dropped the bottle. Steve and Bucky both ran to her as she lay on the floor. The two men looked down at her as she began laughing at her own drunken clumsiness. Bucky began laughing along with her as Steve slowly lifted up her shirt to reveal that the glass table had nearly punctured her now red skin.

“That’s going to leave a bruise, I’ll get you some ice.” Said Steve as he began to make his way towards the kitchen.

“No don’t,” she called out after him “ ’s fine, I like bruises.” She explained as he laughed again. Steve looked down at her and shook his head as she began to sit up.

“I’m going to bed,” He said as he marched off towards the hallway where everyone’s rooms were.

“Good night, Grampa.” Jayla waved at him as her and Bucky burst out in laughter. Steve rolled his eyes at his drunk team members and proceeded to leave them alone. After their laughter died down, Bucky helped Jayla to her feet. and the pair made their way toward the couches. Jayla taking the love-seat and Bucky sprawled across the three-seater.

“Why do you like bruises?” asked Bucky, eyebrow quirking up as he broke the silence. “Not gonna lie, that’s pretty fuckin’ weird.” he said with a chuckle.

Jayla looked over at him, “I like the way they look, the different colours and shit. I think it’s cool.” She explained.

“Jay, its literally just broken blood vessels,” He said in an unamused tone.

She let out a defeated sign. “Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy them.” She said with a shrug. Jayla was met with a confused look. “Like hickies.” She proceeded. “I mean, the idea of someone breaking your blood vessel through your skin by just, well, sucking. I think that’s cool,” She explained as she closed her eyes and imagined the sensation. “Pretty hot too,” she added quietly, the alcohol now wearing off.

The last bit piqued Bucky’s interest and he turned to face her. Only to find that her eyes were closed and her teeth captured her bottom lip. ‘I wonder what she’s thinking about’, he thought to himself. “You like getting hickeys?” He asked, trying to probe the girl’s mind to see what she was thinking.

“Of course, receiving, giving, having, its all fun. I mean it feels good when you get them and its sort of like a trophy when you have them. An intimate, blood vessel, skin- breaking, trophy,” She explained with a giggle as she licked her plumped lips. Bucky’s heart began to pound as he found himself slowly bringing a flesh finger up to his throat to a little dip just below his jaw; now completely sober from the alcohol.

“Bruises have always meant a fight to me. And normally my fists were on the giving end or my face was on the receiving.” The sudden quiet nature of Bucky’s tone, now tugged on the young agent’s curiosity. She sat cross-legged on the couch to face him, head cocked to one side.

“So you’ve never had a hickey before?” She asked Bucky, whose usual confident persona was now switched out with one more timid.

He looked at her, “I mean- no,” he began to trail off, “but I’ve given a few.” He countered, gaze shifting to look up at the ceiling as he lay his head on the backrest behind him. Jayla smiled to herself as she concocted a stupid idea.

“Now how does that make any sense? From what I’ve heard the infamous ‘James Buchanan Barnes’ was quite the womanizer in his day. I’m sure a quick, steamy make-out session would’ve at least ended in a couple of neck kisses here and there,” she teased, playfully waving her hands for more emphasis. Bucky chuckled at a low tone that rose from his chest.

“No, never. it wasn’t really a thing back then, ya know?” He continued as his chuckle died down. He sighed with a smile as a short-lived wave of nostalgia washed over him, quickly veering into disappointment at what his life had become.

“Why don’t I give you one,” she piped out. His head shot towards her only to find no trace of any joke in her face. “I’m serious, I’ll give you one and in return, you can mark ‘hickey’ off of your ”What Bucky’s Missed“ list,” she offered. He frowned at her playfully as he considered his options. He knew it wasn’t right. What would the team think? Hell, what would Steve think? He considered saying no, knowing that Jayla would just brush off the exchange as if nothing had happened. But he also took in consideration that this opportunity wasn’t going pop up again. And damn, he thought, she was offering.

Bucky swallowed the large lump in his throat and winced as he felt it plop into a pit in his stomach. He had, at first, lusted after the new recruit the moment she joined the team, but the longer she stuck around, the more he found himself to quite enjoy her personality as well. His head slowly nodded as he finally came to terms with the fact that this was truly happening. He quickly sat up from his lying position on the couch as she gracefully made her way towards him. He had been with a number of women in his younger years but by now so much in his life has changed, those memories were a world away. His new found strength and robotic arm made him cower at the idea of holding the delicate body of a woman between them.

“You seem nervous, Buck. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt,” she reassured him but her words weren’t enough for him.

“That’s not what I’m nervous about,” his body stiffened as she stopped to look down at his seated composure. She placed a finger under his chin and gently forced him to look up at her, her eyes lusting after him.

“You wont hurt me,” her fingers delicately grazed the stubble on his chin.“But you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she stated firmly. Nodding his head slowly, she took his silence as permission to continue. She nudged his shoulders to lean against the backrest of the couch and she straddled his legs. His eyes never leaving hers as she brought her face closer to his lips. “Kiss me?” Her gentle demand sounded more like a question, letting him know that she wanted this but he was in control.

He nodded slightly as his eyes flicked between her waiting lips and questioning eyes. Closing the distance between them, their lips melted into one another. The burning taste of the vodka on his lips mixed with the mint flavour of her lip balm created a sensation that neither could interpret. He found himself a teenager again, having his first kiss with the prettiest girl in school, if the prettiest girl in school was a deadly assassin that could most likely best him in combat of course.

Pulling back from the kiss, Jayla chuckled when she found Bucky with the corner of his mouth raised into a smirk. 'There’s the asshole I know’ she joked to herself. “Now, for the hickey,” she started as she tapped on a spot on his neck. Bucky’s face dropped and his brows furrowed. “What?” She asked when she noticed his change in demeanor.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” he explained, though his words betrayed him. He stretched out his neck for her to gain full access, but his breathing was unsteady.

“Relax,” she whispered in his ear as she cupped his face and pulled him in for another kiss, this time, their lips moved more vigorously. After a moment. the tension in his shoulders subsided and his hands finally found the confidence to lightly cup the back of her thighs. He let out a surprised moan and she bit his lip before pulling away to look at him once more. Before Bucky could even question, her lips trailed their way down his chin, lightly nibbling on the way, until her lips found a small dip in his neck. He gasped as her tongue swiped over the spot before her mouth began to suck. The sensation of pain and pleasure caused him to tilt his head back with a satisfied sigh. Her teeth nipped at the skin while her tongue and lips soothed it over. With one more nip, she pulled away to face a satisfied and surprised Bucky.

Jayla smirked at him as she waited for Bucky to say anything. He reached his fingers up and ghosted them over the spot where her lips just where. She smiled proudly as she looked at her work on the soldier’s neck. With one last peck on his lips, Jayla began to remove herself from his lap, but before she could fully stand, Bucky, with his newfound confidence in the situation, leaned in and pulled her back. She squealed as his hands gripped on to her waist. He began devouring her neck with kisses until he found a spot that made her gasp.

She quickly, almost frantically found her arms wrapping themselves around his neck, as if searching for stability. A deep moan left her lips as her mouth remained open and her breathing became heavy. Bringing him closer, her finger knotted themselves with his luscious brown locks and tenderly tug at his roots. His tongue worked wonders to her skin nibbling, sucking, and lapping up every inch of her neck he could reach. “Oh fuck, Bucky,” she whispered out. She felt him smile against her skin as he continue his assault on her flesh.

At the moment the dim lights were now on full beam and a gasp was heard from the other side of the room. Quickly breaking apart, the pair found Steve with an empty glass of water and his jaw reaching the floor. “Uh, hey Cap,” Jayla awkwardly waved at him as she got off Bucky’s lap, much to his dismay. She readjusted her shirt and flipped her hair out of her face. “This was fun,” she winked at Bucky, “If ever, you know where to find me.” She continued as Bucky tried to hide his grin. She walked passed Steve and with a quick “goodnight” left the two men to discuss the night.

Jayla woke up in the morning as if it was one like any other. She quickly drank the stale water she kept on her bedside table she had left herself the day before. Surprised at the little, manageable, headache she was sporting, she stood and quickly stretched as she walked towards her bathroom.

Staring into the bathroom mirror, she almost gasped when she saw the many sizeable splotches on either side of her neck. “Ah, shit,” she exclaimed as she ran the cold water and placed a cloth under it. She continued to inspect the red bruises as she tapped the soaked cloth over them. Looking over to her make-up bag she prayed she could cover them up with what she had. She didn’t regret them or what happened with Bucky last night, but she new the pair could be constantly teased if they walked around with matching hickeys.

After spending an extra ten minutes longer on her morning routine, Jayla was confident that her neck looked as if they hadn’t been the victim of assault from Bucky’s lips. She walked out and found that the rest of the team had returned and were now gathered at the table chatting and munching away on breakfast.

“Dude, who gave that to you?” Sam nudged Bucky who sat next to him. He pulled the hoodie of his grey sweater up closer to his neck. Jayla walked up to the table and greeted everyone with a quick “good morning”.

“And how’s yours?” Steve called out from across the table, loud enough for everyone to hear. She sent him a quick death glare as everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at the agent’s neck, only to find it was clear from anything similar to Bucky’s. Bucky raised an eyebrow at the agent as she searched for an explanation to Steve’s question. Quickly remembering the table incident that started the eventful night, she slowly stood from her seat.

The group curiously watched as she began to lift up her shirt to reveal a cut surrounded by a purple looking bruise. “I walked into the corner of the table last night, I’m always so clumsy,” she stated with a chuckle. “But you’re right Steve, I should have iced it,” she finished. The team nodded in agreement and Jayla smiled knowing that they hadn’t linked her and Bucky. “But I wanna to know who gave that to him,” she pointed as she sat back down in her seat while Bucky quickly flipped her off.

During breakfast, the team, including Jayla, pestered Bucky into revealing how he received that giant hickey on his neck. He ended up fabricating some story about meeting a random girl at the bar, the team never once suspected that one of them was actually the culprit. Jayla had just given James Buchannan Barnes his first hickey, and it definitely wouldn’t the last.

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