Post by Pisces on Sept 4, 2011 11:28:58 GMT -5
Getting my feet wet with writing Leon... 
This might evolve into an NC-17 fic... possibly. 
Our sexy timekeeper tends his own wounds...
_______________________________
Scars
The primer black cruiser rumbled to a halt in the parking lot of the Time to Go convenience store, one or two passersby eyeing the powerful vehicle with evident mistrust and loathing. Inside, timekeeper Raymond Leon gripped the shifter to put the car into park, and the blood that had pooled in his coat sleeve trickled out onto the car’s console.
He elevated the arm again.
Disembarking and securing the cruiser, Leon made a rapid survey of his surroundings: six people in total - three on their way out of the store, two on their way in, one loitering. As he strode toward the store’s entrance, he gave the loiterer a long stare, moving the man grudgingly along, and stepped jauntily up over the curb. This detour needed to be quick - there were just over four hours remaining in his twelve-hour night shift. And with the chaos that had just broken out on State Street, he did not have a minute to waste.
Entering the store, Leon gave a brief nod to the clerk behind the counter, wordlessly raised his bloody hand higher to signify his intent as he headed toward the restrooms. The clerk, a tired, rabbity looking drone with deep circles under his eyes, returned the nod with minimal vocalization, “Officer.”
Leon clicked on the light inside the men’s restroom - a small room with only one toilet and sink - and locked the door. The room, badly ventilated, reeked of sh*t and cigarettes like every other gas station bathroom in Dayton, and he swore under his breath at the stench. Though there had been a time in past centuries when cigarettes had been a mainstay across classes and lifestyles - something Leon could barely comprehend - they were now consumed solely by hopeless bottom feeders who had so little faith in themselves that they expected to time out imminently. Thus, it was impossible not to associate the smell with the ghetto.
Facing the mirror, Leon first turned to the small hole in the upper sleeve of his leather coat. Straightening his arm slowly, he held his hand over the sink as a fresh puddle of warm blood oozed downward and drained out of his sleeve and into the basin. The wound in his upper arm throbbed dully - he flared his nostrils and grunted at the pain. He shook his hand in the sink, causing a crimson spatter, and turned on the water. Gingerly, Leon removed his coat, clenching his teeth at the bright arcs of pain the motion aroused on the outside of his upper arm.
That moment, his CB squawked to life. “Sir? What’s the damage?” Jaeger - checking on his superior officer.
Leon reached to the small transmitter affixed to his belt and pressed the button to respond. “You’ll know as soon as I do. Having a look right now.” His shirtsleeve, once charcoal gray, was now a sodden burgundy and hung heavily in his fingers as he began to cautiously roll it up. “Let booking know to separate our perpetrators. I want each of them in a different holding cell. Nobody is to talk to anyone else,” he added. Jaeger acknowledged this, and Leon returned his full attention to his arm.
Though it was tight, he managed to roll his shirtsleeve until it was cuffed just below his shoulder, and he rotated the arm slowly. The limb, as lean and sinewy as a racehorse’s, was coated in blood… with a small, neat entrance wound staring back at him in the dirty mirror. Though his arm was smeared with redness, the wound did not appear to be actively bleeding. He continued his search, pivoting his arm and body still further, grimacing slightly, until he found the culprit - a larger, more ragged exit wound on the back of his arm, from which blood coursed in a slow but steady rivulet. In and out. Good.
Seizing a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, Leon wiped down his arm, then watched the flow from the wounds, assessing his options. Not quite tourniquet time. Certainly the wounds required debridement and closure. But having them tended immediately would mean two things - that his allowance of pay would be docked for whatever time it took him in the emergency room, which might well be the remainder of his shift; and, more importantly, that he would be off the streets, unable to do his job, for that amount of time. Neither was acceptable.
He would complete his shift as planned and have the wounds tended afterwards… on his own time.
The cloudy, smeared mirror threw his reflection back at him, his strongly boned face and resolute gaze partly obscured by the haze, and he gave himself an affirming nod. The streets of Zone 12 had been anointed with his blood countless times over half a century; preventing his name from being etched into the marble of the Timekeeper’s Memorial monument in front of the station was feat enough over the decades, and his powers of endurance had become legendary among the ranks. The crimson trail that ran down his arm now troubled him no more than would the sight of rain on his cruiser’s windshield. It had happened before; it would happen again. His arm was meant to last forever - as was he.
He contacted Jaeger again. “Nothing critical. Just needs a little spit and polish. I’ll be back on scene in ten.” Hastily he went back out into the store and purchased a small first-aid kit - his own, typically carried in his cruiser, had been utilized and exhausted a half hour before as he had administered a fellow officer. Collecting the items with bloody hands, he retreated to the smelly bathroom to bind his wounds.
As he tended his arm, he mused on the fact that he had gained yet another scar, and the eventual collateral benefits he would reap because of it. His most recent sexual encounter flashed through his memory - a pulse-pounding, taut, sweaty, and frenzied coupling with a woman who had become so carried away that she had bitten him several times, mottling his flesh.
When it came to their opinion of timekeepers, women could often be categorized into one of two camps. The first camp of females were appreciative and even aroused by the dangerous men themselves and the perilous events the officers experienced in protecting the system. And, as head timekeeper of the district, Leon’s rank and good looks granted him an exclusive brand of nearly rock star appeal to some. These were women who found his calling the most alluring of aphrodisiacs, who begged to sit in his cruiser (or engage in intercourse upon it - though he had not done so… yet), asked to stroke the lethal weight of his weapon, yearned to see the scars on his body. Hero worshippers all; Leon was grateful for their attentions, because they were far outnumbered by the women in the second camp.
These women reviled the timekeepers, hated and feared them - sometimes with valid reason, Leon was aware. They were the vixens who screeched insults at him as he patrolled their streets in his cruiser, who spit, struck out and hissed with feline viciousness when he arrested them… and who nearly always resided in Zone 12. One of whom had given him his gunshot wound tonight. A wound which, ironically, would eventually be admired as a scar - kissed, caressed… even licked by a different woman who appreciated it as a hard-earned medal.
It all had a beautiful symmetry, Leon thought.
He sucked his lower lip into his mouth and held it as he swabbed his wound with peroxide, listened to it bubble and fizz faintly in his flesh. For a moment, the pain rose to an unignorable crescendo, and he bowed his head, leaned on the sink with his good hand, and stomped his booted foot on the floor in a slow rhythm as he waited for it to subside.
He was jolted out of his discomfort by a sudden pounding at the door. “Hey man, anybody in there?”
Leon didn’t move, remained propped against the filthy sink. “Occupied,” he called, his voice echoing in the small space. “Find somewhere else.” He didn’t want the interloper waiting outside the door for his exit. Wiping down the wounds again, he hissed between his teeth at the scorching sensation, but noted with satisfaction that the bleeding was slowing. Binding the arm, he swaddled it in heavy gauze, wincing slightly at the pressure of the tape. The mechanics of this were difficult, with only his left arm to manipulate the strands of sticky tape, and he wished for assistance. Officer Fields, in particular, was a conscientious and creatively attentive nurse when the situation called for it. He smirked to himself.
There was a third camp of women, and they were Leon’s favorite. They were the female timekeepers. Every inch as tough and courageous as the men, they made up less than five percent of the organization, and rare as they were, highly prized by men like himself who sought acceptance along with sexual solace. Fields would understand his self-administered bathroom first aid in ways other women never would… never could. She was bold. All business, except between the sheets, where she became something else entirely. And like Leon, was capable of switching this passionate zeal on and off at will. Always situation-appropriate. And damn, she was funny as hell. Not many people could coax genuine laughter from him - Fields was one of the few.
As he shrugged back into his coat, Leon made the decision to see her after his shift… and after visiting the emergency room. Rolling his shoulder inside his coat, he winced faintly, took one final glance at his reflection. He ran a quick hand through his combed-back dark hair and exited the restroom.
There were four hours left on his shift.
This might evolve into an NC-17 fic... possibly. 
Our sexy timekeeper tends his own wounds..._______________________________
Scars
The primer black cruiser rumbled to a halt in the parking lot of the Time to Go convenience store, one or two passersby eyeing the powerful vehicle with evident mistrust and loathing. Inside, timekeeper Raymond Leon gripped the shifter to put the car into park, and the blood that had pooled in his coat sleeve trickled out onto the car’s console.
He elevated the arm again.
Disembarking and securing the cruiser, Leon made a rapid survey of his surroundings: six people in total - three on their way out of the store, two on their way in, one loitering. As he strode toward the store’s entrance, he gave the loiterer a long stare, moving the man grudgingly along, and stepped jauntily up over the curb. This detour needed to be quick - there were just over four hours remaining in his twelve-hour night shift. And with the chaos that had just broken out on State Street, he did not have a minute to waste.
Entering the store, Leon gave a brief nod to the clerk behind the counter, wordlessly raised his bloody hand higher to signify his intent as he headed toward the restrooms. The clerk, a tired, rabbity looking drone with deep circles under his eyes, returned the nod with minimal vocalization, “Officer.”
Leon clicked on the light inside the men’s restroom - a small room with only one toilet and sink - and locked the door. The room, badly ventilated, reeked of sh*t and cigarettes like every other gas station bathroom in Dayton, and he swore under his breath at the stench. Though there had been a time in past centuries when cigarettes had been a mainstay across classes and lifestyles - something Leon could barely comprehend - they were now consumed solely by hopeless bottom feeders who had so little faith in themselves that they expected to time out imminently. Thus, it was impossible not to associate the smell with the ghetto.
Facing the mirror, Leon first turned to the small hole in the upper sleeve of his leather coat. Straightening his arm slowly, he held his hand over the sink as a fresh puddle of warm blood oozed downward and drained out of his sleeve and into the basin. The wound in his upper arm throbbed dully - he flared his nostrils and grunted at the pain. He shook his hand in the sink, causing a crimson spatter, and turned on the water. Gingerly, Leon removed his coat, clenching his teeth at the bright arcs of pain the motion aroused on the outside of his upper arm.
That moment, his CB squawked to life. “Sir? What’s the damage?” Jaeger - checking on his superior officer.
Leon reached to the small transmitter affixed to his belt and pressed the button to respond. “You’ll know as soon as I do. Having a look right now.” His shirtsleeve, once charcoal gray, was now a sodden burgundy and hung heavily in his fingers as he began to cautiously roll it up. “Let booking know to separate our perpetrators. I want each of them in a different holding cell. Nobody is to talk to anyone else,” he added. Jaeger acknowledged this, and Leon returned his full attention to his arm.
Though it was tight, he managed to roll his shirtsleeve until it was cuffed just below his shoulder, and he rotated the arm slowly. The limb, as lean and sinewy as a racehorse’s, was coated in blood… with a small, neat entrance wound staring back at him in the dirty mirror. Though his arm was smeared with redness, the wound did not appear to be actively bleeding. He continued his search, pivoting his arm and body still further, grimacing slightly, until he found the culprit - a larger, more ragged exit wound on the back of his arm, from which blood coursed in a slow but steady rivulet. In and out. Good.
Seizing a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, Leon wiped down his arm, then watched the flow from the wounds, assessing his options. Not quite tourniquet time. Certainly the wounds required debridement and closure. But having them tended immediately would mean two things - that his allowance of pay would be docked for whatever time it took him in the emergency room, which might well be the remainder of his shift; and, more importantly, that he would be off the streets, unable to do his job, for that amount of time. Neither was acceptable.
He would complete his shift as planned and have the wounds tended afterwards… on his own time.
The cloudy, smeared mirror threw his reflection back at him, his strongly boned face and resolute gaze partly obscured by the haze, and he gave himself an affirming nod. The streets of Zone 12 had been anointed with his blood countless times over half a century; preventing his name from being etched into the marble of the Timekeeper’s Memorial monument in front of the station was feat enough over the decades, and his powers of endurance had become legendary among the ranks. The crimson trail that ran down his arm now troubled him no more than would the sight of rain on his cruiser’s windshield. It had happened before; it would happen again. His arm was meant to last forever - as was he.
He contacted Jaeger again. “Nothing critical. Just needs a little spit and polish. I’ll be back on scene in ten.” Hastily he went back out into the store and purchased a small first-aid kit - his own, typically carried in his cruiser, had been utilized and exhausted a half hour before as he had administered a fellow officer. Collecting the items with bloody hands, he retreated to the smelly bathroom to bind his wounds.
As he tended his arm, he mused on the fact that he had gained yet another scar, and the eventual collateral benefits he would reap because of it. His most recent sexual encounter flashed through his memory - a pulse-pounding, taut, sweaty, and frenzied coupling with a woman who had become so carried away that she had bitten him several times, mottling his flesh.
When it came to their opinion of timekeepers, women could often be categorized into one of two camps. The first camp of females were appreciative and even aroused by the dangerous men themselves and the perilous events the officers experienced in protecting the system. And, as head timekeeper of the district, Leon’s rank and good looks granted him an exclusive brand of nearly rock star appeal to some. These were women who found his calling the most alluring of aphrodisiacs, who begged to sit in his cruiser (or engage in intercourse upon it - though he had not done so… yet), asked to stroke the lethal weight of his weapon, yearned to see the scars on his body. Hero worshippers all; Leon was grateful for their attentions, because they were far outnumbered by the women in the second camp.
These women reviled the timekeepers, hated and feared them - sometimes with valid reason, Leon was aware. They were the vixens who screeched insults at him as he patrolled their streets in his cruiser, who spit, struck out and hissed with feline viciousness when he arrested them… and who nearly always resided in Zone 12. One of whom had given him his gunshot wound tonight. A wound which, ironically, would eventually be admired as a scar - kissed, caressed… even licked by a different woman who appreciated it as a hard-earned medal.
It all had a beautiful symmetry, Leon thought.
He sucked his lower lip into his mouth and held it as he swabbed his wound with peroxide, listened to it bubble and fizz faintly in his flesh. For a moment, the pain rose to an unignorable crescendo, and he bowed his head, leaned on the sink with his good hand, and stomped his booted foot on the floor in a slow rhythm as he waited for it to subside.
He was jolted out of his discomfort by a sudden pounding at the door. “Hey man, anybody in there?”
Leon didn’t move, remained propped against the filthy sink. “Occupied,” he called, his voice echoing in the small space. “Find somewhere else.” He didn’t want the interloper waiting outside the door for his exit. Wiping down the wounds again, he hissed between his teeth at the scorching sensation, but noted with satisfaction that the bleeding was slowing. Binding the arm, he swaddled it in heavy gauze, wincing slightly at the pressure of the tape. The mechanics of this were difficult, with only his left arm to manipulate the strands of sticky tape, and he wished for assistance. Officer Fields, in particular, was a conscientious and creatively attentive nurse when the situation called for it. He smirked to himself.
There was a third camp of women, and they were Leon’s favorite. They were the female timekeepers. Every inch as tough and courageous as the men, they made up less than five percent of the organization, and rare as they were, highly prized by men like himself who sought acceptance along with sexual solace. Fields would understand his self-administered bathroom first aid in ways other women never would… never could. She was bold. All business, except between the sheets, where she became something else entirely. And like Leon, was capable of switching this passionate zeal on and off at will. Always situation-appropriate. And damn, she was funny as hell. Not many people could coax genuine laughter from him - Fields was one of the few.
As he shrugged back into his coat, Leon made the decision to see her after his shift… and after visiting the emergency room. Rolling his shoulder inside his coat, he winced faintly, took one final glance at his reflection. He ran a quick hand through his combed-back dark hair and exited the restroom.
There were four hours left on his shift.
'cause in the trailer he gives (to me) the impression of being quite cold and distant and I, personally, can't really assoziate something "private" with him. Hope that makes sense to you LOL
Thanks for your kind words!
LOOOL (just a joke 
But knowing that someone out there is hoping for more really helps me out!