Irene Adler (beyondcompare) wrote in hellhighway, @ 2012-01-02 01:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | castiel, irene adler |
Who: Castiel and Irene
What: A rescue
Where: Chicago (specificity what's that)
When: New Year's Eve
Rating: PG-13: Violence, mild sexual themes
The ball had dropped in New York City, but that didn't mean that the night was over. Irene believed in being fashionably late, if only to spare herself tedious hours of "mingling," and so had intentionally planned on arriving at the party with barely thirty minutes left in 2011. The invitation had come from an old classmate, Diana Kensington, that had opened her party to nearly every person she's met over the last few years. Not one to pass up the chance to rub elbows for a bit, Irene decided to make an appearance - one that her fellow party-goers wouldn't soon forget. Her already impressive height was boosted by a pair of black stiletto heels dusted with glitter that matched the glimmering tie around her neck. She mishmashed masculine and feminine, straight edges with soft curves. The button-down shirt tucked in just slightly at her waist as it met her black trousers, nearly hidden by her tuxedo-style jacket. Large, loopy curls hung over her shoulders and bounced with her every step, drawing attention up to her carefully made-up face. She was the picture of couture, lips red without being brassy and eyes glittery without being overdone. Everything was in good taste, and with her hands in her pockets, she smiled as she counted down the streets to her destination.
Irene noticed that something was wrong when she passed a red light, noticing that she'd accumulated a second shadow. She began to pick up her pace, but it did little good. The shadows kept up with her, and soon her skin was growing clammy. She didn't have a gun on her, or a knife, and pathetically she wondered where Sherlock was - as if his location would somehow protect her. Disgusting. She pushed the thought out of her mind and stopped on a street corner some five blocks away from her location, holding out a hand for a cab. Yes, a taxi was the ticket. Safety, confinement, she'd be fine there.
A hand covered her mouth before she could call "taxi!" in a loud voice. Another arm wrapped around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides. It was dark, dark enough that no one saw the kicking of her heels or the flailing of her fingers as she was dragged away from the corner by the arms of someone far taller and far stronger than she. She twisted and writhed, clawing at the thighs of her attacker - she couldn't reach any further - as she was drawn into the shadows amidst a low hiss that made her blood run cold.
"Got a live one, ent ya?" a voice asked, infused with humor. "Good lad." She struggled as she found herself drawn into a thicket, held by one and confronted by two more. The men stood straight and tall, looking over her. "You got a fookin' nice one. Least this'll make things enjoyable. 'appy bloody new year to us." The other two chuckled, rumbling against her back and vibrating her very soul. For the first time since Halloween, Irene felt genuine fear. Then, it was for her life. Now, it was for everything else. She was always the one in control, the one calling the shots. Now, she was pinned by a man twice her size with his two friends, and she couldn't break free for the life of her. Her attempts to break away were quashed as her abductor held even tighter, nails biting into the skin of her cheek as he tilted her head upwards and held her arms fast.
"Who's going first?" he asked, voice near her ear as she felt his thumb brush gingerly against her jawbone. This was something that happened to other women, broken women that went to shelters and cried on the television. Surely she couldn't be attacked like this. "I'm getting hungry."
"'old your fookin' 'orses, lad," one said, raking fingers back through his blonde hair. The cigarette he was smoking flared orange-red as he took a stiff drag, plucking it from his lips with spindly thin fingers. He blew a fine stream of smoke in Irene's direction, a salty smile curling his lips as he discarded the cigarette carelessly. "I'm the brains o' this, I get first taste." He was a wicked thing with age carved into his deceptively young features. Though his face was youthful, his movements were ancient, hands too strong and sure for a mere twenty-year-old. He pulled at the knot of her tie, expanding the loop until it dangled uselessly around her neck like a battered flag. Then, he made quick work of her shirt, unbuttoning each button clear to the hem of her pants. She held her breath when his cool fingers brushed her abdomen, light touches against bared skin. She hadn't the slightest what was happening, but every movement was restricted, every escape blocked. Without a weapon, without an exit, she was trapped.
The blonde's fingertips wrote a firm map from her waist to her chin, skimming the cup of her bra with leering intent. Her skin crawled, repulsed, and she let out a wheezing sound of protest as her captor began to manually twist her. She kicked at shins, stomped on feet, and attempted to bite through her captor's hand. A leg wrapped around hers, falling back against a wall for support as it kept her from lashing out again. The hand over her mouth began to tilt, stretch, pull until her neck was fully extended and exposed between the gaping edges of her unbuttoned collar. Her chest heaved with every breath, labored and panicked, as the blonde stepped closer.
"Promise you won't feel a thing, love," he whispered against her skin, sliding a hand around her waist to lie against her lower back. He moved beneath the confines of her shirt and jacket, digging his nails into her flesh as he leaned into the arch of her neck. "Lie back and think ov England," he said mockingly, wrinkling his lips to expose the sudden fangs jutting from his gumline. She whimpered, unable to really understand what was happening as the other two men began to dissolve into laughter.