Whoa. You know that scene in the show where Mr Kaplan shoots the fake FBI agents and Lizzie is all "WHAT THE HELL".
Well that's me now. Where did this come from? Fair warning, it's really dark.
I don't own anything! Don't shoot!
She'd washed the walls with blood.
Shadows played on his face as he surveyed the carnage she'd left in her wake. Blood splashed on nearly every surface. It looked like she'd ripped out his insides and gone finger painting on the walls. His stomach clenched. He turned to Mr. Kaplan, "I'm sorry Kate. You have enough on your plate right now. I'll try and...contain any more of these incidents." She'd just given him a sidelong look. He'd left. He couldn't be in that room for much longer.
She hadn't been right. Not since the day she remembered shooting her father. She'd lain her head on his shoulder and slept in the van. The woman who had woken up on the other side of that journey was not the same. She'd gone to sleep an angel and woken up as a demon.
The first time he'd taken her with him, to rendezvous with Brimley. They'd needed intel. They'd left her alone with the prisoner for five minutes to talk just outside the door. The prisoner had been securely chained. He'd come back into the room to find her circling the chained man, almost licking her lips, an odd gleam in her eyes. He should have been warned then. Her eyes were dilated, hypnotic. The strangest look had settled on her features. She'd appeared alien, exotic, deadly.
"You need to leave, Lizzie, you don't want to see this," he'd said. Apparently, she did.
She'd watched, fascinated, seating herself, ladylike on a chair, crossing her ankles and leaning forward on her elbows.
Torture was a necessary part of the business. He'd made his peace with that a long time ago. But he'd never enjoyed the necessity. Brimley was businesslike. A master blender of fear and pain, an expert at getting results. Not a man easily moved by much. Even he had stared at the feral way she'd bared her teeth when an ear had come off. She had...shifted and arched her body in time to his screams, as though she were hearing the shuddering exclamation of a lover's climax.
She'd flown at him, later that evening. She'd been waiting, pacing the room like a caged lioness. Her head had snapped up to look at him as he entered the room. He'd felt like an antelope on an African plain, about to be consumed. She'd rushed at him, fingernails raking his face, punching and grabbing for anything soft and vulnerable. She'd tried to throttle him. He'd easily restrained her against his body, panting heavily from the shock and the strain of holding this wild creature in his arms. She had struggled and writhed against him and to his horror and shame he found himself responding to her.
He had sensed her become still against him and he knew she had felt his growing hardness. He froze. She'd suddenly ground her pelvis violently against his. He remembered how his breath had hitched. She'd moaned and reached for his mouth with hers. He'd kissed her before he knew what he was doing.
He hadn't been thinking straight. Still so unsettled over the events of that day and the physical attack, he'd found himself peeling off his jacket and vest. She'd grabbed at his tie, almost choking him in her haste to remove it. She'd bitten his lower lip so hard it had bled.
She'd stopped then, fascinated. Softly and excruciatingly slow, she had licked the blood from his lip, swiping her tongue, probing his mouth, teasing, exploring.
He'd been out of his mind with want. He'd tried to be gentle, his hands smoothing and stroking. She'd slapped him away, rubbing herself on him like a cat in heat.
"Fuck me," she'd spat.
She'd shocked him. If he was honest, it had been painfully arousing, frightening in intensity. He'd surged forward for her. Pushing her onto the bed, he'd almost fallen on her.
She'd wrapped her legs so tightly around him and arched herself into him, taking his whole length, bucking up to meet him as he thrust into her. She had bitten him, not a love bite, but savage, feral and so very painful. He still had the faded marks on his cheek.
"I'm trying not to hurt you," she had whispered, biting his neck hard enough to to raise a painful bruise.
He walked alone in the dark.
Unshed tears stung his eyes. If it had been anyone else, anyone, he'd have put them down long before now.
Lizzie.