(no subject)
~*Happy Birthday, naemi!*~
Ah, my lovely noodle! I'd say "Hope you're having a good time!" but that's just STUPID, considering your American-touring!! *hugs tight*! I KNOW you're having a good time, and good GOD, I can't *wait* to see you!!
Here's a treat!!!
*SQUOOSH*!
Title: Designated Hitter
Pairing: C/Z
Rating: Hard R
Warning(s): heavy violence, death (not main char)
Disclaimer: Don't own1
Synopsis: Casey speeds karma along.
Casey was surprised he wasn't shaking as he flipped his phone open. “Yea?”
“Dude, where you at? We're heading into Oak Hill!” Stan told him. Casey swallowed, stood and looked out over the many rows of gravestones ahead to the break in the fence; in the distance were indeed four shadows hopping over it, hidden by large trees and bushes.
“I'm where I said I'd be, at the Neeley marker,” Casey replied, glancing down to the plot he stood by. He tapped the baseball bat against the stone lining the family of four, all of whom had passed on in the late eighteen-hundreds. The large willow trees surrounding it assured privacy.
“Well hurry up; you're bringing the video camera, right? We're gonna catch that weird shit you saw on film!”
Casey smiled and held the bat tighter. “Yup.”
“We're on our way.”
“'K,” Casey said. He shut the phone, shoved it in his pocket then moved to get behind the tree. The need for quiet was a must; the foursome approaching seemed to know this, not attracting attention from anyone passing by the graveyard with loud noises or laughter or shouting. Even if the place was huge, with many trails leading in and out that couldn't be seen from the street, sound carried. Casey went still as the sound of their footsteps came closer and closer, until they were only ten yards away. He smiled wide; Stan had most definitely gotten his 'new friends' three sheets to the wind, going by their stumbling and hiccuping.
“We're here... check this out, dude,” Stan said. He led them over to the willow, needing to lift the long fringe of leaves hanging down. The three others followed, each one shushing at each other for chortling as Stan continued. “Check it-this whole family died in a fire. My friend came here the other night, right? He said he saw ghosts, little kids, dancing around.”
“Bull-hic! shit, dude,” the tallest one said. Casey remembered this one the most-Terry.
“Yea, you like that? Let's see you fuck your little fag-princess NOW, ya queer!”
“I've seen ghosts heeere... shit, I am fucked. UP.” The stoutest young man of the group plopped down on the grass right before the small steps leading to the plot.
“Yea, me too. When my bro gets here, we're gonna go all ghost-hunting,” Stan said.
“Hey... my ex-girlfriends dad's buried down that way,” the third young man, one still wearing his football jersey, said. Casey stared at his arms, remembering how they'd felt around his own while holding him back-making him watch.
“This is FUN, huh??” he'd said directly into Casey's ear, breath reeking of alcohol.
The bigger guy laughed. “Y'mean hic! Tina?”
“Yea. I wanna... head down and fuck his tombstone up. That cunt deserves hic! it.”
They all laughed, minus Stan, of course. Casey watched as he moved to stand by the one sitting, slapping his hand on the pillar there. “Man, you guys DID get wasted,” he said, adding a small, quick chuckle.
“Well, you fed us well, m'man! Maybe next time you should learn to hic! play pool and not bet four rounds in a row,” Football-jersey said.
“Eh, it was all good. I LIKE buying new friends some drinks,” Stan said.
“You bought the place OUT, bro,” Terry said.
'And you got a few extras,' Casey thought wildly as he watched them all sit down, swaying and looking bewildered. Stan had gone above and beyond tonight, most definitely. It'd been a risk for him to 'sweeten up' the drinks he'd so graciously bought for these bastards, but he managed to do it. Casey wouldn't miss a few Xanax pills, knowing how much good they'd done for him-almost better than the reasons he'd been taking them for the last few years altogether.
“Where is he? Your... yer friend?” Terry asked.
“He'll be here soon, he said. So-hey, c'mere, lookit this grave...”
Casey straightened and brought the bat into position as Stan directed the group to the smallest stone. It made them all move their faces down to peer at it, while Stan made up some cock-and-bull tale about how 'Christine' had been the baby of the family and died last-or whatever. Casey wasn't listening as he came around the large trunk, strode over and lifted the bat over his shoulder. The stout boy saw his shadow at the last second, but was too late in turning around or calling out, not when Casey swung the bat as hard as he could into his face and sent him sprawling to the ground.
'Who says I can't play baseball?' he thought madly as he immediately turned on the jersey-wearer, who'd whirled around on his knees and fell back. All he managed to do was make a lone bellow before he received the same treatment as his friend; there was a sickening crack! that came from his face, most likely his nose as it spurted blood instantly. Unlike the first guy, he didn't pass out immediately, but wasn't getting up either.
“Wh-Wha...”
Casey turned on his heels to Terry and smiled. The look of fear and terror on his face was wonderful, but even better was his lack of motor skills. He was trying to crawl backward but his hands kept slipping on the grass. “Hey. 'Sup?” Casey said in a gritty voice.
“W-Who the FUCK are hic! y-you?”
Instead of wielding the bat again, Casey stepped over, kicked at Terry's ankle to make his legs fly open and sent his steel-toed boot to his groin, hard. Terry doubled-up in a flash, a choking cry escaping his throat. Casey sniffed and looked to Stan, who was waiting for him. “Here,” Casey said as Terry moaned and groaned, producing the roll of duct tape he'd brought. “Start tapin'.”
Stan made a lone, serious nod, took the tape and went to the two others while Casey went to kneel by Terry. He was still incapacitated by pain, both hands clutching his battered cock and balls. Casey took advantage of his position to grab a handful of his bangs and turn his head up. “Look at me,” Casey told him, and Terry did, eyes emoting a mix of anger and fear. It made Casey ball a fist and slam it into Terry's face with brutal force; it made things more personal, and out of the three men he deserved the 'attention'. Terry cried out and put one hand over his face, the other still trying to offer his groin comfort.
“The f-fuck, m-m-man, please--”
“He's died three times,” Casey interrupted. “Three. Fucking. Times.”
Terry turned his eyes to Casey's face again, a little more bleary-looking this time. “Wuuuh...?”
“Done,” Stan said from behind. Casey glanced over his shoulder and smiled at the sight of the other two young men, now bound at the ankles and wrists by tape.
“Are they moving?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“S-Seriously, I... hic! I dunno hic! w-WHO you are, but... my dad's fuckin' loaded, he'll--”
Casey whipped back around to Terry and brought the bat to his neck. The side of it was held over it and crushing down, making Terry's mouth fly open, along with his eyes. “I know your dad's 'loaded', you prick.” Casey cocked his head to the side and shoved the wood down harder. “Daddy's done good, keeping your ass underground until the police stop looking. They already have-so I took over.”
“You...” Terry croaked out. “Are you...”
“The fag. Ring a bell?” Casey glanced to Stan again, who was kneeling by them and pulling a piece of tape from the roll. “Get his wrists-and mouth. We don't need the noise.”
“N-No! No, please--” Terry went to beg, but the moment the bat was moved, Stan was binding him tight then covering his mouth with shiny silver. Casey got on his feet and watched Terry's squirming, his defenselessness complete.
Finished, Stan stood, lips in a tight, thin line as he turned to Casey. “Got a cig?” he asked.
“Hah... really?” Casey said; the boy didn't smoke, but if there ever was a time to start, this was it. Seeing as he'd delivered this wonderful set-up just as he said he would, Casey reached into his pocket to get the pack of cigarettes, Zeke's brand of course, took two out and lit them. One was handed to Stan, who nodded.
“Thanks. Need help?”
“No. You said you'd cut out about this time.”
Again, Stan nodded, slower this time. He took a drag, letting it out in tittering, new-smoker coughs and raised his eyebrows. “I'll be in the car.”
~*~
The nurse setting up a new bag on the IV stand looked to the opened doorway and smiled. “Hi, sweetie,” she greeted Casey, who did his best to smile back.
“Hi, Marisol.”
“Mmm, I always tell you-Mari,” she said, even wagging her finger at him.
“Marisol's prettier,” Casey replied. He walked into the room and looked to the bed, biting his lip. “How's he doin'?”
“Better than this morning. They said there's more brain activity, and he's healing well,” Marisol said. “They say he'll come out all right.”
“Good,” Casey said, though he didn't mean it. What would've been 'good' would be Zeke's eyes opening, his bitching about the skimpy jonny he was in and asking if he could go outside for a cigarette. Instead, Casey was sitting in the provided chair next to the bed and staring at the motionless, bruised-up body of his boyfriend. “Hey baby,” he whispered while running his fingertips over Zeke's hair. Marisol put the railing of the bed back up and sighed.
“I'll let you two be alone,” she told him. In passing, she slid her hand over Casey's shoulder, smiling wider. She dimmed the lights on her way out and closed the door most of the way, leaving only a crack-leaving them with privacy.
Casey took in a breath and let it out; his breathing trembled as he moved in closer, until he was laying his head by Zeke's pillow. “When're you gonna wake up, babe?” he whispered. No reply came, besides the rhythmic noises of the breathalyzer pumping air into Zeke's lungs, the heart monitor's beeping... Casey closed his eyes. “You're such a fucking loudmouth. Y'know that? You are. If you'd just listened to me and walked...” he said in another murmur but stopped.
They wouldn't have let them 'walk'. It'd been their night and their own, entitled perceived right to follow the pair throughout the whole park, jeering and sneering at them for being 'dirty fucking faggots'. Perhaps they thought all queers were wimpy crybabies, but not Zeke-not Zeke, who'd finally broke down and took on all three at once, with Casey jumping in. If that rock hadn't been involved, things would be different. It'd be those fucks beaten to pulps and sent to the hospital, then a jail cell. Instead, it was this.
The only good thing was that they'd never do it again.
~*~
“The top story this morning; three young men were found dead in Herrington's 'Oak Hill Cemetery', the victims of what police are calling one of the most brutal assaults in the small town's history. The victims are identified as twenty-one year old Jason Conroy, Jeff Gill and twenty-two year old Terrence Anderson, all students at Ohio State University...”
Casey ate his cereal in slow, unaffected movements as he and his parents stared at the television screen. “Oh my... this is...” Mrs. Connor said as Mr. Connor turned up the volume.
“Nice how this gets on the news and the crap that happened to Zeke didn't,” the man said in a gruff, angry tone.
“That happened in Columbus, not Herrington,” Casey muttered.
“So?” Mr. Connor said.
The report continued on, showing the scene of the cemetery; according to the report, the threesome hadn't been found until just after sun-up by the caretaker making the rounds before opening the gates. Casey felt a little bad to have had the poor old man find his handiwork minutes into his morning coffee, but he distanced himself enough from it. When they showed the interview with him, Casey felt a little less guilty; the man was a little too excited in being on the news. This was probably the most exciting day he'd ever had.
“If you have any information, you can call Herrington Police's anonymous tip-line at 555-7713.”
Casey breathed a little easier when the other anchorwoman was put onscreen to talk about a fire at the local Kmart, which caught Mrs. Connor's attention enough. Casey played the 'good boy' role in gathering the dirty dishes to bring to the dishwasher; after dumping them in, the phone rang. Minutes later, he was running outside to the car and heading to the hospital to enjoy the sight of Zeke's open, beautiful brown eyes.
Ah, my lovely noodle! I'd say "Hope you're having a good time!" but that's just STUPID, considering your American-touring!! *hugs tight*! I KNOW you're having a good time, and good GOD, I can't *wait* to see you!!
Here's a treat!!!
*SQUOOSH*!
Title: Designated Hitter
Pairing: C/Z
Rating: Hard R
Warning(s): heavy violence, death (not main char)
Disclaimer: Don't own1
Synopsis: Casey speeds karma along.
Casey was surprised he wasn't shaking as he flipped his phone open. “Yea?”
“Dude, where you at? We're heading into Oak Hill!” Stan told him. Casey swallowed, stood and looked out over the many rows of gravestones ahead to the break in the fence; in the distance were indeed four shadows hopping over it, hidden by large trees and bushes.
“I'm where I said I'd be, at the Neeley marker,” Casey replied, glancing down to the plot he stood by. He tapped the baseball bat against the stone lining the family of four, all of whom had passed on in the late eighteen-hundreds. The large willow trees surrounding it assured privacy.
“Well hurry up; you're bringing the video camera, right? We're gonna catch that weird shit you saw on film!”
Casey smiled and held the bat tighter. “Yup.”
“We're on our way.”
“'K,” Casey said. He shut the phone, shoved it in his pocket then moved to get behind the tree. The need for quiet was a must; the foursome approaching seemed to know this, not attracting attention from anyone passing by the graveyard with loud noises or laughter or shouting. Even if the place was huge, with many trails leading in and out that couldn't be seen from the street, sound carried. Casey went still as the sound of their footsteps came closer and closer, until they were only ten yards away. He smiled wide; Stan had most definitely gotten his 'new friends' three sheets to the wind, going by their stumbling and hiccuping.
“We're here... check this out, dude,” Stan said. He led them over to the willow, needing to lift the long fringe of leaves hanging down. The three others followed, each one shushing at each other for chortling as Stan continued. “Check it-this whole family died in a fire. My friend came here the other night, right? He said he saw ghosts, little kids, dancing around.”
“Bull-hic! shit, dude,” the tallest one said. Casey remembered this one the most-Terry.
“Yea, you like that? Let's see you fuck your little fag-princess NOW, ya queer!”
“I've seen ghosts heeere... shit, I am fucked. UP.” The stoutest young man of the group plopped down on the grass right before the small steps leading to the plot.
“Yea, me too. When my bro gets here, we're gonna go all ghost-hunting,” Stan said.
“Hey... my ex-girlfriends dad's buried down that way,” the third young man, one still wearing his football jersey, said. Casey stared at his arms, remembering how they'd felt around his own while holding him back-making him watch.
“This is FUN, huh??” he'd said directly into Casey's ear, breath reeking of alcohol.
The bigger guy laughed. “Y'mean hic! Tina?”
“Yea. I wanna... head down and fuck his tombstone up. That cunt deserves hic! it.”
They all laughed, minus Stan, of course. Casey watched as he moved to stand by the one sitting, slapping his hand on the pillar there. “Man, you guys DID get wasted,” he said, adding a small, quick chuckle.
“Well, you fed us well, m'man! Maybe next time you should learn to hic! play pool and not bet four rounds in a row,” Football-jersey said.
“Eh, it was all good. I LIKE buying new friends some drinks,” Stan said.
“You bought the place OUT, bro,” Terry said.
'And you got a few extras,' Casey thought wildly as he watched them all sit down, swaying and looking bewildered. Stan had gone above and beyond tonight, most definitely. It'd been a risk for him to 'sweeten up' the drinks he'd so graciously bought for these bastards, but he managed to do it. Casey wouldn't miss a few Xanax pills, knowing how much good they'd done for him-almost better than the reasons he'd been taking them for the last few years altogether.
“Where is he? Your... yer friend?” Terry asked.
“He'll be here soon, he said. So-hey, c'mere, lookit this grave...”
Casey straightened and brought the bat into position as Stan directed the group to the smallest stone. It made them all move their faces down to peer at it, while Stan made up some cock-and-bull tale about how 'Christine' had been the baby of the family and died last-or whatever. Casey wasn't listening as he came around the large trunk, strode over and lifted the bat over his shoulder. The stout boy saw his shadow at the last second, but was too late in turning around or calling out, not when Casey swung the bat as hard as he could into his face and sent him sprawling to the ground.
'Who says I can't play baseball?' he thought madly as he immediately turned on the jersey-wearer, who'd whirled around on his knees and fell back. All he managed to do was make a lone bellow before he received the same treatment as his friend; there was a sickening crack! that came from his face, most likely his nose as it spurted blood instantly. Unlike the first guy, he didn't pass out immediately, but wasn't getting up either.
“Wh-Wha...”
Casey turned on his heels to Terry and smiled. The look of fear and terror on his face was wonderful, but even better was his lack of motor skills. He was trying to crawl backward but his hands kept slipping on the grass. “Hey. 'Sup?” Casey said in a gritty voice.
“W-Who the FUCK are hic! y-you?”
Instead of wielding the bat again, Casey stepped over, kicked at Terry's ankle to make his legs fly open and sent his steel-toed boot to his groin, hard. Terry doubled-up in a flash, a choking cry escaping his throat. Casey sniffed and looked to Stan, who was waiting for him. “Here,” Casey said as Terry moaned and groaned, producing the roll of duct tape he'd brought. “Start tapin'.”
Stan made a lone, serious nod, took the tape and went to the two others while Casey went to kneel by Terry. He was still incapacitated by pain, both hands clutching his battered cock and balls. Casey took advantage of his position to grab a handful of his bangs and turn his head up. “Look at me,” Casey told him, and Terry did, eyes emoting a mix of anger and fear. It made Casey ball a fist and slam it into Terry's face with brutal force; it made things more personal, and out of the three men he deserved the 'attention'. Terry cried out and put one hand over his face, the other still trying to offer his groin comfort.
“The f-fuck, m-m-man, please--”
“He's died three times,” Casey interrupted. “Three. Fucking. Times.”
Terry turned his eyes to Casey's face again, a little more bleary-looking this time. “Wuuuh...?”
“Done,” Stan said from behind. Casey glanced over his shoulder and smiled at the sight of the other two young men, now bound at the ankles and wrists by tape.
“Are they moving?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“S-Seriously, I... hic! I dunno hic! w-WHO you are, but... my dad's fuckin' loaded, he'll--”
Casey whipped back around to Terry and brought the bat to his neck. The side of it was held over it and crushing down, making Terry's mouth fly open, along with his eyes. “I know your dad's 'loaded', you prick.” Casey cocked his head to the side and shoved the wood down harder. “Daddy's done good, keeping your ass underground until the police stop looking. They already have-so I took over.”
“You...” Terry croaked out. “Are you...”
“The fag. Ring a bell?” Casey glanced to Stan again, who was kneeling by them and pulling a piece of tape from the roll. “Get his wrists-and mouth. We don't need the noise.”
“N-No! No, please--” Terry went to beg, but the moment the bat was moved, Stan was binding him tight then covering his mouth with shiny silver. Casey got on his feet and watched Terry's squirming, his defenselessness complete.
Finished, Stan stood, lips in a tight, thin line as he turned to Casey. “Got a cig?” he asked.
“Hah... really?” Casey said; the boy didn't smoke, but if there ever was a time to start, this was it. Seeing as he'd delivered this wonderful set-up just as he said he would, Casey reached into his pocket to get the pack of cigarettes, Zeke's brand of course, took two out and lit them. One was handed to Stan, who nodded.
“Thanks. Need help?”
“No. You said you'd cut out about this time.”
Again, Stan nodded, slower this time. He took a drag, letting it out in tittering, new-smoker coughs and raised his eyebrows. “I'll be in the car.”
~*~
The nurse setting up a new bag on the IV stand looked to the opened doorway and smiled. “Hi, sweetie,” she greeted Casey, who did his best to smile back.
“Hi, Marisol.”
“Mmm, I always tell you-Mari,” she said, even wagging her finger at him.
“Marisol's prettier,” Casey replied. He walked into the room and looked to the bed, biting his lip. “How's he doin'?”
“Better than this morning. They said there's more brain activity, and he's healing well,” Marisol said. “They say he'll come out all right.”
“Good,” Casey said, though he didn't mean it. What would've been 'good' would be Zeke's eyes opening, his bitching about the skimpy jonny he was in and asking if he could go outside for a cigarette. Instead, Casey was sitting in the provided chair next to the bed and staring at the motionless, bruised-up body of his boyfriend. “Hey baby,” he whispered while running his fingertips over Zeke's hair. Marisol put the railing of the bed back up and sighed.
“I'll let you two be alone,” she told him. In passing, she slid her hand over Casey's shoulder, smiling wider. She dimmed the lights on her way out and closed the door most of the way, leaving only a crack-leaving them with privacy.
Casey took in a breath and let it out; his breathing trembled as he moved in closer, until he was laying his head by Zeke's pillow. “When're you gonna wake up, babe?” he whispered. No reply came, besides the rhythmic noises of the breathalyzer pumping air into Zeke's lungs, the heart monitor's beeping... Casey closed his eyes. “You're such a fucking loudmouth. Y'know that? You are. If you'd just listened to me and walked...” he said in another murmur but stopped.
They wouldn't have let them 'walk'. It'd been their night and their own, entitled perceived right to follow the pair throughout the whole park, jeering and sneering at them for being 'dirty fucking faggots'. Perhaps they thought all queers were wimpy crybabies, but not Zeke-not Zeke, who'd finally broke down and took on all three at once, with Casey jumping in. If that rock hadn't been involved, things would be different. It'd be those fucks beaten to pulps and sent to the hospital, then a jail cell. Instead, it was this.
The only good thing was that they'd never do it again.
~*~
“The top story this morning; three young men were found dead in Herrington's 'Oak Hill Cemetery', the victims of what police are calling one of the most brutal assaults in the small town's history. The victims are identified as twenty-one year old Jason Conroy, Jeff Gill and twenty-two year old Terrence Anderson, all students at Ohio State University...”
Casey ate his cereal in slow, unaffected movements as he and his parents stared at the television screen. “Oh my... this is...” Mrs. Connor said as Mr. Connor turned up the volume.
“Nice how this gets on the news and the crap that happened to Zeke didn't,” the man said in a gruff, angry tone.
“That happened in Columbus, not Herrington,” Casey muttered.
“So?” Mr. Connor said.
The report continued on, showing the scene of the cemetery; according to the report, the threesome hadn't been found until just after sun-up by the caretaker making the rounds before opening the gates. Casey felt a little bad to have had the poor old man find his handiwork minutes into his morning coffee, but he distanced himself enough from it. When they showed the interview with him, Casey felt a little less guilty; the man was a little too excited in being on the news. This was probably the most exciting day he'd ever had.
“If you have any information, you can call Herrington Police's anonymous tip-line at 555-7713.”
Casey breathed a little easier when the other anchorwoman was put onscreen to talk about a fire at the local Kmart, which caught Mrs. Connor's attention enough. Casey played the 'good boy' role in gathering the dirty dishes to bring to the dishwasher; after dumping them in, the phone rang. Minutes later, he was running outside to the car and heading to the hospital to enjoy the sight of Zeke's open, beautiful brown eyes.