"Trinket"; Read or Die; Joker/Wendy; #27, #32, #47
Title: Trinket
Author: rhianwen_24601
Fandom: Read or Die
Pairing: Joker/Wendy
Themes: #27 - Silver, #32 - Mirror; reflection, #47 - Deceit of the Senses
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own them, they don't like me.
Notes: Set somewhere in the middle of ROD the TV. AU. Christmas-themed semi-sap.
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“I think you should know,” she informs her reflection very solemnly, setting the tiny brush down on her dresser, “no amount of make-up is going to make this evening enjoyable.”
Of course, it is silly to complain about a Christmas party, when most Friday evenings would be spent cloistered in either her office or his, pushing through hours of last-minute details.
But at least she can usually get away with tucking her shoes under her desk in favour of slippers sometime between six and eight in the evening, and there is no point in reapplying her make-up when it’s just them.
And there are no Christmas songs tortured out on a saxophone and sung by a woman sounding desperately in need of more dietary fibre. The day that Mr. Carpenter would allow any sort of music in the same room with an attempt to work would be the day that bathrobes were officially added to dress code. Although, that might be nice, while the Christmas muzak would simply incite a revolt.
With a heavy sigh that makes the entire situation far worse than it really needs to be, she carefully examines eyes painted with something dark-blue and smoky; recently trimmed and styled hair that some miracle allowed her not to muss by changing; and the pretty little blouse of something in a bright shade hovering between blue and green and just a bit shiny that she still maintains airily looks daring, not indecent. Or silly, or juvenile.
Something catches her eye in the glass - a bit of movement as the door is pushed open, slowly and silently, and a youngish man whose formal wear makes far less of an impression than it might if he ever allowed his tie to be askew or a single hair out of place, slips in quietly.
“It doesn’t look as bad as I thought,” he comments after a long moment, crossing the room slowly to stand behind her and eyeing the scrap of blue-green silk and black lace in the mirror.
“Yes; I suspect the skirt helps a bit,” she says pertly, twirling back and forth just enough to make the material swish. “I don’t think it was meant to be worn with jeans.”
“Although, I still think a black dress would have been more appropriate.”
“Is this alright with it?” Wishing in slightly dizzy and fever-flushed annoyance that he wouldn’t crowd her like this when she’s trying to get dressed, she holds up a slender gold chain with a little Christmas stocking charm dangling from it.
Apparently, she decides sadly as his mouth twitches slightly with suppressed laughter, it is not. So much for festive jewellery.
“I’d like to see you wear this one,” he finally replies, poking through her jewellery box until he catches sight of a flash of a short, heavy ornate silver chain set with a deep blue stone.
She shivers as he drapes the cold metal loosely over her collarbones, and he looks up abruptly. As his eyes catch and hold hers in the mirror, he brushes her hair away from the back of her neck, although it’s too short to be an obstruction, and smiles to himself when she shivers again. After deftly fastening the clasp of the pretty little bauble that seemed to suit her so well, he rests his hands on her shoulders, left bare by the ridiculous little blouse that he’s beginning to be glad that he let her buy after all.
“Will you be ready to go in a few minutes?”
His fingers move in light circles over skin soft and sweetly scented of something like apple, just a hint, through the perfume she bought under heavy protest for tonight.
Eyes fixed on the contrast of starkly pale against softly tan, cheeks growing pink, she nods automatically.
His head dips forward, and just before his lips brush lightly over the back of her shoulder, she meets his gaze, intent and watchful for her reaction, and she is sure she can detect just a whisper of gently mocking triumph. And then her head falls back against his shoulder, and she releases a long breath on a soft, delighted murmur, and she isn’t sure of her own name anymore.
With a frown, he straightens up a bit and murmurs against the back of her ear, sternly, to watch.
Obediently, she struggles against the urge to just melt back into him, and manages to meet his gaze again in the glass.
The soft sound of a zipper sends a shudder through her almost as much as his hand along her spine, and over her waist as he pushes the shimmery little holiday garment to the floor. And several more run through her, all at once, when she catches his eyes again, pale green growing dark and glittering strangely, screaming to her what his words and gestures keep well hidden; that his interest in Christmas festivities has all but expired and he has no intention of letting himself be pulled away from this pretty little trinket that has captured his attention.
She’ll happily be a trinket, like all the other girls she doesn’t know about but imagines must be out there somewhere, if he’ll just keep doing this, keep dusting those feather-light kisses over her neck and shoulders, gentleness in sharp contrast to the nearly rough clasp of his hand at her hip, the other at her breast, fingers digging in to leave marks.
“There’s something else I’d like to see you wear tonight,” he says after a long breathless moment, reaching into his pocket with one hand, the other moving quickly to her waist when she sways a little.
When he slips the little band onto her finger, she raises a trembling hand for a closer look. Of course, she can see it in the mirror, twinkling mockingly at her that this is just a dream because she has had this dream before. But she’s not going to trust something this important to a mere reflection of reality.
Somehow, she manages to hear the question, murmured quietly into her hair, and somehow she manages to choke out a response. When he asks, sounding something between concerned and annoyed, what’s this about, she swipes away a few teardrops and tells him how just a second ago, she was so grateful to be upgraded from tool to trinket, and certainly never expected anything like this.
And then concern evaporates and annoyance deepens, because she’s never been only a tool, and she is very certainly more than a trinket, and just because he doesn’t have time for prolonged and tiresome waxing sentimental was no reason for her not to know that. If he thought she needed constant and empty reassurances, he would have given them.
Seeing disgust amid anger and fearing it like nothing else for the chance that he’ll find her less than he had imagined and change his mind, she apologizes, hasty and panicked; of course she knew he cared, she’s always known, she’s been in a stupid mood all day, really thick, you know, not good for anything.
Perhaps because he is convinced, but more likely because of her borderline pleading and desperate grip on his arms, he smiles and brushes her hair off of her cheek.
“Don’t worry; it isn’t fair to expect you to read my mind. You just come so close the rest of the time that I suppose I’ve come to assume it.”
A radiant smile washes over her face like daybreak, and his hand lingers at her cheek, she basking in implied forgiveness, and he drinking in this addictively sweet adoration that has only become more potent since he became the only one to receive it. And rarely, at that. Unsettlingly easy to jar out of place, too, recently. He’ll have to step carefully for a while.
But for now, she is entirely his and snuggling happily against his shoulder. When she asks, a low murmur muffled by his jacket, if that means he’s changed his mind, he pulls away a little.
“Why would I want a mind-reader?” he asks around a soft laugh. “A man would have to be a saint to live peacefully with one. And I don’t imagine you want a saint.”
No, she implies somewhere in the process of jumping him, she does not.
----------------------------------------------------
Several minutes later, he punches a number into the telephone, only slightly distracted by her arms wrapping warmly around his shoulders and her cheek pressed to the top of his head. The little matter of her distinct lack of a shirt of any sort is really a matter for greater consideration.
“Yes, hello,” he says in response to the cheerful, breathless, and slightly panicked greeting of their intended host for the evening. The boy could clearly do with a few drinks before the party even begins, he thinks at the back of his mind. “I’m afraid my…ah…friend and I have run into an unexpected delay. We’ll be a little late.”
A pause, during which he catches her hand in his and toys idly with the ring glinting in the warm light of the desktop lamp.
“Look for us in a few hours, I think.”
-----------------------------------------------------
Author: rhianwen_24601
Fandom: Read or Die
Pairing: Joker/Wendy
Themes: #27 - Silver, #32 - Mirror; reflection, #47 - Deceit of the Senses
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own them, they don't like me.
Notes: Set somewhere in the middle of ROD the TV. AU. Christmas-themed semi-sap.
---------------------------------------
“I think you should know,” she informs her reflection very solemnly, setting the tiny brush down on her dresser, “no amount of make-up is going to make this evening enjoyable.”
Of course, it is silly to complain about a Christmas party, when most Friday evenings would be spent cloistered in either her office or his, pushing through hours of last-minute details.
But at least she can usually get away with tucking her shoes under her desk in favour of slippers sometime between six and eight in the evening, and there is no point in reapplying her make-up when it’s just them.
And there are no Christmas songs tortured out on a saxophone and sung by a woman sounding desperately in need of more dietary fibre. The day that Mr. Carpenter would allow any sort of music in the same room with an attempt to work would be the day that bathrobes were officially added to dress code. Although, that might be nice, while the Christmas muzak would simply incite a revolt.
With a heavy sigh that makes the entire situation far worse than it really needs to be, she carefully examines eyes painted with something dark-blue and smoky; recently trimmed and styled hair that some miracle allowed her not to muss by changing; and the pretty little blouse of something in a bright shade hovering between blue and green and just a bit shiny that she still maintains airily looks daring, not indecent. Or silly, or juvenile.
Something catches her eye in the glass - a bit of movement as the door is pushed open, slowly and silently, and a youngish man whose formal wear makes far less of an impression than it might if he ever allowed his tie to be askew or a single hair out of place, slips in quietly.
“It doesn’t look as bad as I thought,” he comments after a long moment, crossing the room slowly to stand behind her and eyeing the scrap of blue-green silk and black lace in the mirror.
“Yes; I suspect the skirt helps a bit,” she says pertly, twirling back and forth just enough to make the material swish. “I don’t think it was meant to be worn with jeans.”
“Although, I still think a black dress would have been more appropriate.”
“Is this alright with it?” Wishing in slightly dizzy and fever-flushed annoyance that he wouldn’t crowd her like this when she’s trying to get dressed, she holds up a slender gold chain with a little Christmas stocking charm dangling from it.
Apparently, she decides sadly as his mouth twitches slightly with suppressed laughter, it is not. So much for festive jewellery.
“I’d like to see you wear this one,” he finally replies, poking through her jewellery box until he catches sight of a flash of a short, heavy ornate silver chain set with a deep blue stone.
She shivers as he drapes the cold metal loosely over her collarbones, and he looks up abruptly. As his eyes catch and hold hers in the mirror, he brushes her hair away from the back of her neck, although it’s too short to be an obstruction, and smiles to himself when she shivers again. After deftly fastening the clasp of the pretty little bauble that seemed to suit her so well, he rests his hands on her shoulders, left bare by the ridiculous little blouse that he’s beginning to be glad that he let her buy after all.
“Will you be ready to go in a few minutes?”
His fingers move in light circles over skin soft and sweetly scented of something like apple, just a hint, through the perfume she bought under heavy protest for tonight.
Eyes fixed on the contrast of starkly pale against softly tan, cheeks growing pink, she nods automatically.
His head dips forward, and just before his lips brush lightly over the back of her shoulder, she meets his gaze, intent and watchful for her reaction, and she is sure she can detect just a whisper of gently mocking triumph. And then her head falls back against his shoulder, and she releases a long breath on a soft, delighted murmur, and she isn’t sure of her own name anymore.
With a frown, he straightens up a bit and murmurs against the back of her ear, sternly, to watch.
Obediently, she struggles against the urge to just melt back into him, and manages to meet his gaze again in the glass.
The soft sound of a zipper sends a shudder through her almost as much as his hand along her spine, and over her waist as he pushes the shimmery little holiday garment to the floor. And several more run through her, all at once, when she catches his eyes again, pale green growing dark and glittering strangely, screaming to her what his words and gestures keep well hidden; that his interest in Christmas festivities has all but expired and he has no intention of letting himself be pulled away from this pretty little trinket that has captured his attention.
She’ll happily be a trinket, like all the other girls she doesn’t know about but imagines must be out there somewhere, if he’ll just keep doing this, keep dusting those feather-light kisses over her neck and shoulders, gentleness in sharp contrast to the nearly rough clasp of his hand at her hip, the other at her breast, fingers digging in to leave marks.
“There’s something else I’d like to see you wear tonight,” he says after a long breathless moment, reaching into his pocket with one hand, the other moving quickly to her waist when she sways a little.
When he slips the little band onto her finger, she raises a trembling hand for a closer look. Of course, she can see it in the mirror, twinkling mockingly at her that this is just a dream because she has had this dream before. But she’s not going to trust something this important to a mere reflection of reality.
Somehow, she manages to hear the question, murmured quietly into her hair, and somehow she manages to choke out a response. When he asks, sounding something between concerned and annoyed, what’s this about, she swipes away a few teardrops and tells him how just a second ago, she was so grateful to be upgraded from tool to trinket, and certainly never expected anything like this.
And then concern evaporates and annoyance deepens, because she’s never been only a tool, and she is very certainly more than a trinket, and just because he doesn’t have time for prolonged and tiresome waxing sentimental was no reason for her not to know that. If he thought she needed constant and empty reassurances, he would have given them.
Seeing disgust amid anger and fearing it like nothing else for the chance that he’ll find her less than he had imagined and change his mind, she apologizes, hasty and panicked; of course she knew he cared, she’s always known, she’s been in a stupid mood all day, really thick, you know, not good for anything.
Perhaps because he is convinced, but more likely because of her borderline pleading and desperate grip on his arms, he smiles and brushes her hair off of her cheek.
“Don’t worry; it isn’t fair to expect you to read my mind. You just come so close the rest of the time that I suppose I’ve come to assume it.”
A radiant smile washes over her face like daybreak, and his hand lingers at her cheek, she basking in implied forgiveness, and he drinking in this addictively sweet adoration that has only become more potent since he became the only one to receive it. And rarely, at that. Unsettlingly easy to jar out of place, too, recently. He’ll have to step carefully for a while.
But for now, she is entirely his and snuggling happily against his shoulder. When she asks, a low murmur muffled by his jacket, if that means he’s changed his mind, he pulls away a little.
“Why would I want a mind-reader?” he asks around a soft laugh. “A man would have to be a saint to live peacefully with one. And I don’t imagine you want a saint.”
No, she implies somewhere in the process of jumping him, she does not.
----------------------------------------------------
Several minutes later, he punches a number into the telephone, only slightly distracted by her arms wrapping warmly around his shoulders and her cheek pressed to the top of his head. The little matter of her distinct lack of a shirt of any sort is really a matter for greater consideration.
“Yes, hello,” he says in response to the cheerful, breathless, and slightly panicked greeting of their intended host for the evening. The boy could clearly do with a few drinks before the party even begins, he thinks at the back of his mind. “I’m afraid my…ah…friend and I have run into an unexpected delay. We’ll be a little late.”
A pause, during which he catches her hand in his and toys idly with the ring glinting in the warm light of the desktop lamp.
“Look for us in a few hours, I think.”
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