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anteroom-of-death · 9 days

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Yayo, part 1 of 2

Synopsis: Gideon Shepherd wastes a life or two over a girl.

A/N: thanks to @lex144 for inspiring me to not give up. Will be a 2 parter. Dark fic time. Sorry for no publishing of all .... burn out. Listen to the unreleased version of Lana del Rey while reading.

How many times must he repeat the same life, the same lie, over and over again? How many times could he go through the exact same suffering and the exact same thwarting of evils in this world?

Gideon, in his sixties, again, having a cup of tea in an inconspicuous tea shop, mused. He’d just stopped a plane crash he had stopped dozens, if not hundreds of times. He was losing count. Losing control.

He knew it was only a matter of time before he was locked back up, dressed in red with those detectives again. Bargaining with the girl, Lucy. Trying to make her understand her son and him. Each time it seemed a tad more futile.

He tied the bag’s string around his finger like he’d done with that red one in that room. Repetitive and simple as always. Perhaps even a nervous tic.

He’d always die, just before total lucidity. It was annoying. And it just added more into his already over-crammed skull. He felt bursting at the seams. Almost like he had multiple brains.

Preposterous!

He admitted that in this particular cycle he’d been a little more neglectful of his needs. More rash. Less calculated…It was getting worse each time. More world-saving. Less keeping himself intact to save it.

He had to change all of this. Maybe take a breather. He’d still stick to his schedule from thousand lives past. This time, it would be difficult, just infinitesimal.

He even had been to this little tea shop every single time. Exactly the same day, the same time. He had observed people casually. Not much to do with anything…

Everyone was safe by his calculations.

The slouched-over nervous girl was going to accidentally water board herself with her drink in a few seconds.

On cue, her little iced coffee spilled. She sighed, seemingly looked up, as if beckoning a favor from God. She grabbed a napkin and went to wipe herself and the ground up.

In an echo of so many times previously, “Nothing comes easy, does it?” She muttered and slouched into her knees. She started to scrub a particular big stain in the making on her floral skirt with her spit.

It was probably incoherent to anyone who didn’t hear it or know to hear it time and time again.

She eventually pulled herself off the ground, her hip cracked. The slit in the side rode up, accidentally flashing the grey panties she wore…

Suddenly he felt like focusing in on her.

Maybe next cycle he’d offer to help her.

For now he got up and offered her his napkin. A small smile spread on his face.

“I have a spare coat in my boot…you can cover it up, keep it.” He offered another shiny object.

He didn’t know what exactly started coming over him. It was carnal, primal. Effervescent even. She obviously suffered from some self-confidence issues. Despite her bold outfit choices. Her large earrings clanked against her necklaces. Skittish. Unsure.

It made him incredibly hard.

He hadn’t allowed himself any pleasure, just the continuous pursuit of justice. In his own way. The only way that was dramaturgically correct he felt. He had to be the one to make it happen. The cops were as much as complicit as sometimes perpetrators.

“Go to the toilets and freshen up, yeah?” He instructed her plainly. The pit of the toll of all his dark deeds starting fray him like the trim of her denim jacket that seemed slightly too small.

He forced himself out to the car and popped the boot. He grabbed the aforementioned coat.

He walked back into the shop just she exited the loo.

She sniffled and saw the coat. It was black, utilitarian. Nothing special.

“Thanks.” The smile was weak, she still was obviously reeling from her previous remark of nothing coming easy. However, it was genuine. She was thankful and seemed placated by the action.

“I’ll…get another coffee.” She remarked as she tied the thing around her waist.

He couldn’t help but notice it hung sensually around her hips. Accented the torso and her tits in a weird way. How would it be to bite them? Mar them with his teeth?

“Why don’t you join me?” He offered.

“I can’t.” She frowned, a line developing in her still somewhat-young forehead that didn’t go away when her face relaxed moments earlier. It was fully etched in.

How lovely was it that such a nervous wreck had somehow made it this far in life? To see such a line. Pity it was there in the first place.

Such a contradiction…

She got her new coffee.

He still felt incredibly urged to take her and hide her away. Stop her from herself and her own nervous nature.

The proverbial butterfly was stepped on, who knew what was in store now…

Next cycle, he remarked to himself as he got into his car and drove off. He had to complete this. Make the Lucy woman understand. Die, come back. Same shot, different day…

His cock still remained at attention. The depraved thoughts still rung in his thoughts.

×××××

Here he was, back at the tea shop. She was walking in. Here was his chance!

He’d fantasized about this chance for decades now. Ever since the first rush of teenage hormones rushed into his body. Again.

She walked in, her tote bag swinging.

Only one chance. He could blow it, hypothetically. But this opportunity was literally once in a lifetime. No matter how many he’d been allowed. (Or cursed with depending on current emotions and outlook…)

He knew the pitfalls of approaching a woman and making oneself known. It came off predatory. Not that he wasn’t predating her, in more than one sense of rationale, or definition. Was there any good, wholesome way to approach her and her grey panties? He’d killed enough rapists to merit knowing what they liked.

And yet, here he was entering his era of perversion.

He firmly believed he had to liberate her from herself. Somehow.

Never one for true romance, even in the first time he seemingly entered the cycle, he lingered unsure.

He got up and made a show of asking for extra napkins.

One word, one small line would disrupt this. She’d not spill her drink, and he’d garner an actual chance with her.

“Those are some lovely necklaces.” He tried for a bit off a soft entrance.

She touched the tangled mass of gold on her neck, “Oh! Thanks!” Her left hand went to fiddle with some of the pendants on a few of them. The free thumb rested on one of those comically-large hoops.

She placed her order and went down to fight for her life to find her pocketbook.

“No worries,” Gideon assured, “I’ve got it.” The fiver, easily produced from his jacket pocket.

“Oh?” She flashed a befuddled, nervous half-grin at him. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

She shook her head. “Thanks so much!”

He felt moved to go back to his seat. He didn’t know exactly what to do to go from here.

Something told him to just toss her in the boot and drive off. Or perhaps, to lure in promising safe travels to wherever she was headed.

The darkness rubbed off so easily.

The toll of a billion lifetimes.

He remembered some parable of a little bird and a rock. Something about a boy saying something about it being ‘One hell of a bird…’

He sucked on the options. They all weighed heavy on his heart and his conscience.

He ultimately chose the less devious of them all.

Just asking.

He saw her go to pick up her drink. Would she spill it? He half-wished to see. See of the actions interrupted the truth of time. Such a small gesture maybe would provide her a sense of calm? Could it? Would it?

He started to rise yet again from his seat, and she spilled it anyways.

A flash of grey panties, a mutter again about nothing being easy for her, her spine twisting into a serpentine knot. Her lovely skirt and top stained.

He offered her a clutch of napkins. Then repeated last life’s offers.

“Are you my guardian angel? Or something?” She asked. “First paying for my latte, now this?”

Fate must have been sick to give her him if she thought he was an angel. Even in a semi-facetious manner. Sure, he was on the side of angels, in a sense. However he was far from celestial. Mortal, frequently.

He went out, produce the jacket. Came back. She tied it.

He offered to pay for her replacement- “On caveat you join me, an old man for a bit of a chat on a slow day.” He went for the genteel route.

She involuntarily shook herself, her eyes blinking rapidly.

She looked at her phone’s clock.

“Sure. Why not? Only five minutes, yeah?”

She sat at his table and they chatted. Her name was (y/n), she was (insert your age, reader) and she was between jobs. The drink went much easier down now that she was sat. Gravity and natural klutziness weren’t fighting her here.

The way she placed her elbows on the table further accentuated her heaving chest. Despite her current state, she seemed to breathe a little harder than Gideon suspected someone should.

Maybe her baseline anxiety messed around with her rhythms.

Gideon gave her the most basic and innocent of responses. Just enough information to tantalize. Keep it light, keep it friendly, he chided himself over and over again…

She glanced over at her phone and saw the time…she excused herself and left. Thanking him for everything.

She even brushed both of his cheeks with a small, friendly, definitely foreign kiss on each.

The door bashed her on her way out and she tripped on her way over the bus stop across the street. She put in her headphones and leaned against the pole marking it.

He felt them burn in response. His cock stayed as hard as rosewood.

He regretted not getting her number.

Or he could follow her discreetly. Put in what he learned from men worse than him by a thousand-fold into practice. Keep her somewhere safe, where she couldn’t be harmed by anyone, let alone herself.

Yes, that would be fine. He would just be looking after her best interests? Correct?

Correct.

He waited a moment and trailed his way to his car.

The bus pulled up, she went in. He turned his car on. A simple game of cat and mouse. If the cat were ever so interested in the mouse’s uninterrupted survival…

Or perhaps, did he not want her to meet a darker end at anyone else’s hand but his? His thoughts kept delving deeper. Were these dark, frankly barbarous images his fantasies regarding this (Y/N)? Or just fears?

He did notice from their brief conversation that she did have some scar tissue around her wrists. So even if he did very into these mental images, it would probably be for her betterment. They were obviously self-inflicted.

He felt himself grow more and more irrational. There was something burning in his chest. An itch that maybe he’d scratch just this life. Then the next, go about, offer her the basic kindness of the jacket and go.

If he was doomed to repeat every sinful day of every sinful life, what was one slip up? He’d done so well before.

He was trying so hard.

Yes, why not?

#personal #the devil's hour #gideon shepherd #peter capaldi #self insert #gideon Shepherd x reader #you x gideon shepherd #yall better be ready #or not #song fic

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