terrie
in
deathmance
(no subject)
O HAY, HAVE A SPY STORY. i almost typed 'soy story'?
this is about um two times the size it should be according to the prompt i used, i got carried away. :( THERE IS KIND OF SOME SEX IN IT? but nothing too explicit. also violence, but duh, what community do you think you are reading?
--
The Dunhills are red, just like her, and just like their blood.
Molotov smoked the same brand of cigarettes that Hunter did. Brock found this pretty funny, but neither of them were ever amused by it when he brought it up. Then again, Molotov was never really amused by anything Brock said unless he was screaming in pain. And Hunter just plain hated Commies.
It was an expensive brand, far more than Brock could regularly afford on his meagre salary, but whenever he was missing her, he would tell himself Okay, and allow himself to splurge on a pack. Sometimes he would smoke them all at once, all straight down to the filter, but usually he would conserve them, one a day, padding out the rest of the hours with his regular brand, some cheap as fuck thing that college kids used when they were trying to slum it. They got the job done, and they were probably going to kill him some day, if Nancy Reagan knew what she was talking about.
Sometimes he would smoke them after sex. He always felt like he should be guilty about this, but he never was.
They always cried out his name when he made them hit their peak, Senor Samson, Brock, Agent Samson, Mr Samson, Brock Brock Brock. Whatever he told them his name was, if he was undercover. He just grunted and yelled incomprehensibly, or vaguely enough where it could apply to any of them, which was fine; he didn’t know their names half the time, or he forgot them after a few minutes. But always, through his head, the words were always running the same, over and over, Molotov, Molotov.
He didn’t know if she only wore that scrap of metal for him. He didn’t know if she was free to give other guys the key as long as she kept Brock Samson out. He didn’t know, and he didn’t like thinking about it. But when he did, and he always did, when he was smoking her brand of cigarettes after sex with some Tuscan whore, he hoped that she was thinking Samson, Samson while she smoked his brand, wherever the hell she was.
When he finally got under that goddamn titanium, when she finally gave in -- or when he finally gave in; he didn’t even know whose move it was anymore, they had been at this for so long -- he was going to make her call him Brock.
She would be writhing against him, against his hand, and he would be kissing her neck, and she would whimper Samson, like she always did right before she slapped his hand away, but this time it would be different, there would be no cold metal, just warmth. She would call his name, and he would bite down and tell her to call him Brock. And she would laugh, she would call him a woman for needing to hear it a certain way, but she wouldn’t be able to disobey when he moved his fingers like so and she would wrap her legs around him and it would just be Brock, Brock, over and over, for the rest of their lives.
Brock arched his eyebrow at the pretty Thai lady, who had been making eyes at him the whole evening. He was on a stakeout, but it was turning out to be a bust; the guy he was supposed to be following, some neo-Viet Cong man with one leg, never showed up. He was going to have to go back to the hotel and regroup, retrace his steps, figure out where this asshole had disappeared, and then hunt him down. But this could wait a few hours, he had time, and he had need, and this stir fry he was picking at had old pork in it, and was sort of putting him off his appetite.
He stood up and approached the woman, who smiled at him and took his hands in hers, her nails long and red.
They didn’t speak, which was fine because his Malay was terrible; she immediately tugged him into a back room and they started kissing, pulling at clothes, murmuring in English and Malay and Mandarin and Thai, until Brock was stripped to the waist and she was completely naked, her clothes on the floor at her feet like she had just shed her skin. Then she pulled away, cooing softly in her cultural tongue, her hand snaking down to gently take hold of his crotch, her eyebrows raising high when she realised how big he was. Welcome to America, baby, everything is supersized, Brock thought, and she just smiled and pushed him backwards into a chair that he hadn’t even noticed was there.
The woman slowly got to her knees in front of him, one hand lightly caressing his thigh while the other worked at his belt buckle, then the button, then the zipper, and Brock lifted his hips so she could tug his trousers down enough for her to pull his cock out. Still smiling, she wrapped both hands around him, her nails bright red against his skin, and she leaned forward, locking eyes with his. Her eyes were a pretty colour, hazel, but Brock found himself wishing there was only one and green.
Parting her lips slightly, the woman continued down, and almost had him in her mouth, when Brock noticed something in his peripheral vision. He looked up, sharply; the Thai woman didn’t even notice, and when her head was separated from the rest of her body, she still had her eyes on his, her mouth slightly open, lips curved up in a smile.
Brock rocketed backwards in his chair as her head fell to the ground where his lap had been a half a second before, her body slumping forward after it. Brock stood quickly, hand going for his knife at his hip, which unfortunately was now somewhere near his knees since he had forgotten his trousers weren’t up. He continued clutching at air for several seconds until he realised, at which point she emerged from the shadows, katana blade dripping red from the Thai woman’s blood.
Molotov smiled, eye colder than the Thai woman’s had been, but her mouth curving up the same. They had the same shade of lipstick. Red.
Brock just stood there, waiting to see what she was going to do. She wasn’t supposed to be here, he heard through the grapevine that she was supposed to be in Germany this week; why was she halfway around the world? Maybe she heard through her own grapevines that Brock was supposed to be in Singapore. This was, he realised, wishful thinking.
“What?” he finally said, after several long moments of silence, just looking at each other from across the room, the corpse between them.
Molotov shrugged her shoulder, then dropped her sword and came at him, pushing him back against the wall, her mouth immediately against his, urgent and greedy, her hands on both sides of his face. Brock could smell cigarette smoke on her, and it was his brand. He distantly heard her sword clatter to the ground, but he wasn’t paying attention; he just grabbed her hips and pulled her toward him, kissing back furiously, desperately, trying to tell her through his lips and tongue and teeth the words that he couldn’t make come up past his heart, I miss you, I miss you.
Her teeth in his bottom lip, one of Molotov’s hands slid down his stomach toward his pelvis, the other wound tightly in his hair. His eyes fluttered open to look at her, questioningly, and found that she was already looking at him, her eye not as cold as it had been before. It was different now. Sad.
Her fingertips stopped at his pubic bone, and she smiled, her teeth still in his lip, then drew away. Brock stayed where he was, back against the wall, his hands slowly losing contact with her hips as she gradually moved back. He had just the tips of his fingers pressing against her bone when her expression suddenly took on a sneer and she slapped him hard across the face. Brock dropped his hands to his sides. Molotov silently turned and left, snatching up her katana from the floor as she did.
Brock hadn’t seen her in eight months, and didn’t know if and when he would ever see her again, and she left him with nothing. Left him without a word, with a dead Thai woman on the ground, with a partial erection, with one side of his face stinging. Typical.
He sighed and bent to pull up his trousers, fastened them, then reached in his back pocket for the Dunhill reds and lit up. He waited for a few minutes until he had calmed down, then crumpled up the empty cigarette pack. After thinking about it for a second, he slid it back in his pocket again, and left the room too. It wouldn’t be long before someone found the dead girl, and the Singapore Police Force was not as accommodating to American spies as the OSI would have him to believe.
As he walked down the narrow streets to his hotel room, he couldn’t help but hope that Molotov would be there waiting for him. He still had a full pack of his brand of cigarettes on the bedside table. Maybe they could trade.
this is about um two times the size it should be according to the prompt i used, i got carried away. :( THERE IS KIND OF SOME SEX IN IT? but nothing too explicit. also violence, but duh, what community do you think you are reading?
--
The Dunhills are red, just like her, and just like their blood.
Molotov smoked the same brand of cigarettes that Hunter did. Brock found this pretty funny, but neither of them were ever amused by it when he brought it up. Then again, Molotov was never really amused by anything Brock said unless he was screaming in pain. And Hunter just plain hated Commies.
It was an expensive brand, far more than Brock could regularly afford on his meagre salary, but whenever he was missing her, he would tell himself Okay, and allow himself to splurge on a pack. Sometimes he would smoke them all at once, all straight down to the filter, but usually he would conserve them, one a day, padding out the rest of the hours with his regular brand, some cheap as fuck thing that college kids used when they were trying to slum it. They got the job done, and they were probably going to kill him some day, if Nancy Reagan knew what she was talking about.
Sometimes he would smoke them after sex. He always felt like he should be guilty about this, but he never was.
They always cried out his name when he made them hit their peak, Senor Samson, Brock, Agent Samson, Mr Samson, Brock Brock Brock. Whatever he told them his name was, if he was undercover. He just grunted and yelled incomprehensibly, or vaguely enough where it could apply to any of them, which was fine; he didn’t know their names half the time, or he forgot them after a few minutes. But always, through his head, the words were always running the same, over and over, Molotov, Molotov.
He didn’t know if she only wore that scrap of metal for him. He didn’t know if she was free to give other guys the key as long as she kept Brock Samson out. He didn’t know, and he didn’t like thinking about it. But when he did, and he always did, when he was smoking her brand of cigarettes after sex with some Tuscan whore, he hoped that she was thinking Samson, Samson while she smoked his brand, wherever the hell she was.
When he finally got under that goddamn titanium, when she finally gave in -- or when he finally gave in; he didn’t even know whose move it was anymore, they had been at this for so long -- he was going to make her call him Brock.
She would be writhing against him, against his hand, and he would be kissing her neck, and she would whimper Samson, like she always did right before she slapped his hand away, but this time it would be different, there would be no cold metal, just warmth. She would call his name, and he would bite down and tell her to call him Brock. And she would laugh, she would call him a woman for needing to hear it a certain way, but she wouldn’t be able to disobey when he moved his fingers like so and she would wrap her legs around him and it would just be Brock, Brock, over and over, for the rest of their lives.
Brock arched his eyebrow at the pretty Thai lady, who had been making eyes at him the whole evening. He was on a stakeout, but it was turning out to be a bust; the guy he was supposed to be following, some neo-Viet Cong man with one leg, never showed up. He was going to have to go back to the hotel and regroup, retrace his steps, figure out where this asshole had disappeared, and then hunt him down. But this could wait a few hours, he had time, and he had need, and this stir fry he was picking at had old pork in it, and was sort of putting him off his appetite.
He stood up and approached the woman, who smiled at him and took his hands in hers, her nails long and red.
They didn’t speak, which was fine because his Malay was terrible; she immediately tugged him into a back room and they started kissing, pulling at clothes, murmuring in English and Malay and Mandarin and Thai, until Brock was stripped to the waist and she was completely naked, her clothes on the floor at her feet like she had just shed her skin. Then she pulled away, cooing softly in her cultural tongue, her hand snaking down to gently take hold of his crotch, her eyebrows raising high when she realised how big he was. Welcome to America, baby, everything is supersized, Brock thought, and she just smiled and pushed him backwards into a chair that he hadn’t even noticed was there.
The woman slowly got to her knees in front of him, one hand lightly caressing his thigh while the other worked at his belt buckle, then the button, then the zipper, and Brock lifted his hips so she could tug his trousers down enough for her to pull his cock out. Still smiling, she wrapped both hands around him, her nails bright red against his skin, and she leaned forward, locking eyes with his. Her eyes were a pretty colour, hazel, but Brock found himself wishing there was only one and green.
Parting her lips slightly, the woman continued down, and almost had him in her mouth, when Brock noticed something in his peripheral vision. He looked up, sharply; the Thai woman didn’t even notice, and when her head was separated from the rest of her body, she still had her eyes on his, her mouth slightly open, lips curved up in a smile.
Brock rocketed backwards in his chair as her head fell to the ground where his lap had been a half a second before, her body slumping forward after it. Brock stood quickly, hand going for his knife at his hip, which unfortunately was now somewhere near his knees since he had forgotten his trousers weren’t up. He continued clutching at air for several seconds until he realised, at which point she emerged from the shadows, katana blade dripping red from the Thai woman’s blood.
Molotov smiled, eye colder than the Thai woman’s had been, but her mouth curving up the same. They had the same shade of lipstick. Red.
Brock just stood there, waiting to see what she was going to do. She wasn’t supposed to be here, he heard through the grapevine that she was supposed to be in Germany this week; why was she halfway around the world? Maybe she heard through her own grapevines that Brock was supposed to be in Singapore. This was, he realised, wishful thinking.
“What?” he finally said, after several long moments of silence, just looking at each other from across the room, the corpse between them.
Molotov shrugged her shoulder, then dropped her sword and came at him, pushing him back against the wall, her mouth immediately against his, urgent and greedy, her hands on both sides of his face. Brock could smell cigarette smoke on her, and it was his brand. He distantly heard her sword clatter to the ground, but he wasn’t paying attention; he just grabbed her hips and pulled her toward him, kissing back furiously, desperately, trying to tell her through his lips and tongue and teeth the words that he couldn’t make come up past his heart, I miss you, I miss you.
Her teeth in his bottom lip, one of Molotov’s hands slid down his stomach toward his pelvis, the other wound tightly in his hair. His eyes fluttered open to look at her, questioningly, and found that she was already looking at him, her eye not as cold as it had been before. It was different now. Sad.
Her fingertips stopped at his pubic bone, and she smiled, her teeth still in his lip, then drew away. Brock stayed where he was, back against the wall, his hands slowly losing contact with her hips as she gradually moved back. He had just the tips of his fingers pressing against her bone when her expression suddenly took on a sneer and she slapped him hard across the face. Brock dropped his hands to his sides. Molotov silently turned and left, snatching up her katana from the floor as she did.
Brock hadn’t seen her in eight months, and didn’t know if and when he would ever see her again, and she left him with nothing. Left him without a word, with a dead Thai woman on the ground, with a partial erection, with one side of his face stinging. Typical.
He sighed and bent to pull up his trousers, fastened them, then reached in his back pocket for the Dunhill reds and lit up. He waited for a few minutes until he had calmed down, then crumpled up the empty cigarette pack. After thinking about it for a second, he slid it back in his pocket again, and left the room too. It wouldn’t be long before someone found the dead girl, and the Singapore Police Force was not as accommodating to American spies as the OSI would have him to believe.
As he walked down the narrow streets to his hotel room, he couldn’t help but hope that Molotov would be there waiting for him. He still had a full pack of his brand of cigarettes on the bedside table. Maybe they could trade.