(no subject)
And here we have the relatively rare appearance of femmeslash! Well, not really femmeslash- more like really awkward situational groping.
Pairing: Holly White/Natasha Markova
Summary: Metal Gear 2: Solid Snake How Holly White might have met Natasha Markova in Zanzibar.
Note: This came to be after I (belatedly) went to the aid offirefly99 to supply her with some requested Natasha/Holly. This came about while I was under something of a block, so it doesn't have as much as I wished it did.
Anyway, enjoy!
The air felt different, foreboding- like a storm was coming. Holly White pulled in the last of the cheap cigarette smoke, feeling it scorch her lungs with a practiced appreciation. She'd taken up smoking again after she'd come to Zanzibar, for a variety of reasons. For street cred, for one- no one fucked with a woman who could smoke like a Marine. A good barter tool for two- she’d gotten the supply master to get her some decent shampoo for a carton on Lucky Strikes.
The children, for three. Seeing kids, babies practically, all under the age of 12, wandering around complacently took her right of her stride.
Unfortunately, her supply had dwindled to the point where now the most available ones were those she could bum or barter from the guards. And while their salaries were high enough to pull in some pretty expensive toys, little in the way of luxury items happened by Zanzibar, including American cigarettes.
She coughed slightly, the dry desert air hitting her lungs harder than the acrid tobacco smoke, and she dropped the butt to the floor, grinding it out delicately with the toe of one boot.
Used to be, she'd do it with her pumps, and still manage to make sure that she didn't have ash smeared on the sole. Now that was talent.
What the hell was she doing here, anyway? It was the feeling of the air that brought on the thought- that grim dread she read in the faces of the men, the lines of their body. There was something coming, and there would be very few people alive after it swept through. Although she couldn't sense it the way they could- the way they did, with their last night to air strike eyes, and no back up coming laughs- she could read it off their bodies.
She was a journalist- well, journalist-turned-spook-turned-undercover journalist/spook, but that was just complicating matters. She wasn’t a soldier, or a mercenary, and being here knowing that the axe was going to fall was terrifying.
She was scared.
It was the first time she had admitted it to herself. A little shudder coursed down her back, as she leaned out over the catwalk railing and watched the darkening compound below. She had managed to keep it at bay by focusing on the task at hand- making a nuisance of herself to the guards, talking to the weird little commodities that wandered around the base like it was a giant daycare center, scribbling notes and doing her best to avoid being suspicious in the way an agent was suspicious.
But now, as she was almost thoroughly familiarized with the base, could name the guards by their gaits a corridor away, and had gathered as much information as was possible under the circumstances, she had come to the edge of the chasm.
There was nothing for her to do, and she finally felt dread. It was that moment, brief and surreal, before the fall.
It wasn't the first time she had felt this. It was years ago when it last happened, when there was an instinctual hush on the base before the inevitable axe fell. It had come in the form of a single soldier, who had been sent in via HAHO jump, and had ripped Outer Heaven to shreds.
She had tried to interview him afterwards.
She remembered his eyes. There was nothing in them. Thinking back on it, he reminded her of the men in the base. He had come back for debriefing, and she had caught him for some questions that would have hopefully led to a longer interview later.
Holly never got to ask them. He had not responded to her- hadn't even noticed her presence. He had been ushered away a few moments later by a pair of soldier in drab, and she had been approached by a man in a crisp suit who had turned out to be CIA-
-Which led her here.
Fuck Zanzibar Land.
She straightened, determined to go find some alcohol or a small child and get her mind off all of this, just wait for it to happen so she could keep on reacting, when she heard a light tread. It was odd enough for her to stop and listen, incongruous enough for her mind to refuse to make sense of what she heard. Definitely a firm walk, definitely booted, and much bigger than any of the children, bur the pace was all wrong to be a man.
Holly was staring in baffled vexation at the corner of the corridor when the unlikely figure swung into view.
A woman. Blonde, strong Germanic features, dressed in a uniform a tad too big for her.
Good goddamn. Holly realized she was still staring when the woman set her sights on the journalist. A flicker of suspicion traced across the (beautiful) woman's face, and she was aiming her issued submachine gun at Holly before she could collect her wits properly. A peremptory, "Halt," came at her in a short bark, and the other woman's blue eyes narrowed. "Identify yourself."
Shit, this was the first time this had happened in weeks. She had gotten used to just ghosting around the parts of the base she was allowed to. "Uh-h," Holly stammered, unable to remember the protocol for this. Dammit, was was the sequence? She had stepped away from the railing, her hands in the air on reflex, and she could feel her breath quickening.
The woman had stalked closer already, and was a few feet away, scoping her visually. God, but her uniform was ill-fitting the thought coming to Holly's mind even while he berated herself for straying like that while there was a potential of getting shot only a few feet away. The shoulders were way too big, the hems crossing her deltoids.
"I'm Holly White, a war journalist," she finally blurted, "I have papers in my breast pocket." Screw protocol. She could feel her pulse in the top of her head, how dry her throat had gotten.
"Keep your hands up." The woman soldier's voice was tight with practiced authority, her face hard. She stepped closer, keeping her gun trained on Holly, and flipped up the pocket where the bulge of papers was. Deft fingers fastened onto the small sheaf, their pressure and warmth just skimming Holly's breastbone as they dipped in and removed them. The woman stepped back again, rubber soled tread light on the metal grating. She didn't make nearly as much noise as the much heavier men, reflected Holly, with a distant kind of interest that she had managed to attain through years of being in situations like this.
Wait a minute.
As the woman commanded her to face the railing and hold onto it (and spread her legs, which she did without thinking twice), it occurred to Holly that there was something very wrong about this situation.
There were no women in Zanzibar. Although Big Boss allowed for recruitment of female soldiers, the information she had gathered before she left, as well what she had pieced together during her month in the base, all reported that there were no women. Which was odd in and of itself, given the children.
The woman's booted foot nudged on the instep of her feet from behind, and she parted them wider, trying to regain her mental balance even as the woman effectively ruined her physical equilibrium. Her mind raced, and her back automatically arched away from the strong hands that smoothed down her sides searching for weapons. Holly’s squirm prompted a testy, "Don't move," from the other woman.
Hands on her breasts, pushing and patting in a detached, professional way as Holly's mind raced on a blind track. The memory of the kidnapped scientist sprang into her mind as the hands ran down her ribcage.
The security detail was a woman. It said so in the report. She went missing right after they were brought in. What was her name...?
The touch on the inseam of her pants and pausing on her crotch made Holly jump, as she struggled to make her beleaguered mind process and sort the information she had simply been cataloguing. The men had never touched her crotch, and she was startled as the skinny finger patted briefly between her thighs, feeling for lumps or shapes that didn’t belong.
“Natasha,” she spat, running a desperate gambit. “Natasha Markova.” The fingers paused (unfortunately just where they had been searching), and the unaccustomed touch made a flush spread from her neck to her ears. Dammit, but this was uncomfortable. She shifted in place, arching her butt to try to get the hands off, feeling it bump the inside of the woman’s firm arm.
Holly’s butt was shoved down unceremoniously. “Don’t move,” came the flat tone behind her, a note of irritation or uncertainty clinging to the undertones. But the had had left all the same, to be replaced with a single prod of a gun barrel in the center of her shoulder blades. Holly tensed, but didn’t arch to get away, a stab of fear in her chest.
“Turn around.”
Holly swung around slowly, making eye contact. It made the other woman shift, re-establishing a grip on her Heckler. “Holly White,” she snapped, her voice higher with suppressed suspicion. “A war journalist. Bullshit- no war journalist would come here.”
There was no good way out of this situation. So Holly just let her mouth run on automatic. She had talked her way out from in front of gunpoint before, and she was determined to do so now.
“You’re name is Natasha Markova, and you were guarding Dr. Kio Marv. Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’m not a war journalist.” She stopped short, trying to work around the discrepancy in her mind, then dismissed it with a shrug and a roll of her eyes. “Well, yes I am, but… not just now.”
A brief moment where she sucked in a breath, the two women meeting eyes over the barrel of Natasha’s gun. “And I think I can trust you.”
Pairing: Holly White/Natasha Markova
Summary: Metal Gear 2: Solid Snake How Holly White might have met Natasha Markova in Zanzibar.
Note: This came to be after I (belatedly) went to the aid offirefly99 to supply her with some requested Natasha/Holly. This came about while I was under something of a block, so it doesn't have as much as I wished it did.
Anyway, enjoy!
The air felt different, foreboding- like a storm was coming. Holly White pulled in the last of the cheap cigarette smoke, feeling it scorch her lungs with a practiced appreciation. She'd taken up smoking again after she'd come to Zanzibar, for a variety of reasons. For street cred, for one- no one fucked with a woman who could smoke like a Marine. A good barter tool for two- she’d gotten the supply master to get her some decent shampoo for a carton on Lucky Strikes.
The children, for three. Seeing kids, babies practically, all under the age of 12, wandering around complacently took her right of her stride.
Unfortunately, her supply had dwindled to the point where now the most available ones were those she could bum or barter from the guards. And while their salaries were high enough to pull in some pretty expensive toys, little in the way of luxury items happened by Zanzibar, including American cigarettes.
She coughed slightly, the dry desert air hitting her lungs harder than the acrid tobacco smoke, and she dropped the butt to the floor, grinding it out delicately with the toe of one boot.
Used to be, she'd do it with her pumps, and still manage to make sure that she didn't have ash smeared on the sole. Now that was talent.
What the hell was she doing here, anyway? It was the feeling of the air that brought on the thought- that grim dread she read in the faces of the men, the lines of their body. There was something coming, and there would be very few people alive after it swept through. Although she couldn't sense it the way they could- the way they did, with their last night to air strike eyes, and no back up coming laughs- she could read it off their bodies.
She was a journalist- well, journalist-turned-spook-turned-undercover journalist/spook, but that was just complicating matters. She wasn’t a soldier, or a mercenary, and being here knowing that the axe was going to fall was terrifying.
She was scared.
It was the first time she had admitted it to herself. A little shudder coursed down her back, as she leaned out over the catwalk railing and watched the darkening compound below. She had managed to keep it at bay by focusing on the task at hand- making a nuisance of herself to the guards, talking to the weird little commodities that wandered around the base like it was a giant daycare center, scribbling notes and doing her best to avoid being suspicious in the way an agent was suspicious.
But now, as she was almost thoroughly familiarized with the base, could name the guards by their gaits a corridor away, and had gathered as much information as was possible under the circumstances, she had come to the edge of the chasm.
There was nothing for her to do, and she finally felt dread. It was that moment, brief and surreal, before the fall.
It wasn't the first time she had felt this. It was years ago when it last happened, when there was an instinctual hush on the base before the inevitable axe fell. It had come in the form of a single soldier, who had been sent in via HAHO jump, and had ripped Outer Heaven to shreds.
She had tried to interview him afterwards.
She remembered his eyes. There was nothing in them. Thinking back on it, he reminded her of the men in the base. He had come back for debriefing, and she had caught him for some questions that would have hopefully led to a longer interview later.
Holly never got to ask them. He had not responded to her- hadn't even noticed her presence. He had been ushered away a few moments later by a pair of soldier in drab, and she had been approached by a man in a crisp suit who had turned out to be CIA-
-Which led her here.
Fuck Zanzibar Land.
She straightened, determined to go find some alcohol or a small child and get her mind off all of this, just wait for it to happen so she could keep on reacting, when she heard a light tread. It was odd enough for her to stop and listen, incongruous enough for her mind to refuse to make sense of what she heard. Definitely a firm walk, definitely booted, and much bigger than any of the children, bur the pace was all wrong to be a man.
Holly was staring in baffled vexation at the corner of the corridor when the unlikely figure swung into view.
A woman. Blonde, strong Germanic features, dressed in a uniform a tad too big for her.
Good goddamn. Holly realized she was still staring when the woman set her sights on the journalist. A flicker of suspicion traced across the (beautiful) woman's face, and she was aiming her issued submachine gun at Holly before she could collect her wits properly. A peremptory, "Halt," came at her in a short bark, and the other woman's blue eyes narrowed. "Identify yourself."
Shit, this was the first time this had happened in weeks. She had gotten used to just ghosting around the parts of the base she was allowed to. "Uh-h," Holly stammered, unable to remember the protocol for this. Dammit, was was the sequence? She had stepped away from the railing, her hands in the air on reflex, and she could feel her breath quickening.
The woman had stalked closer already, and was a few feet away, scoping her visually. God, but her uniform was ill-fitting the thought coming to Holly's mind even while he berated herself for straying like that while there was a potential of getting shot only a few feet away. The shoulders were way too big, the hems crossing her deltoids.
"I'm Holly White, a war journalist," she finally blurted, "I have papers in my breast pocket." Screw protocol. She could feel her pulse in the top of her head, how dry her throat had gotten.
"Keep your hands up." The woman soldier's voice was tight with practiced authority, her face hard. She stepped closer, keeping her gun trained on Holly, and flipped up the pocket where the bulge of papers was. Deft fingers fastened onto the small sheaf, their pressure and warmth just skimming Holly's breastbone as they dipped in and removed them. The woman stepped back again, rubber soled tread light on the metal grating. She didn't make nearly as much noise as the much heavier men, reflected Holly, with a distant kind of interest that she had managed to attain through years of being in situations like this.
Wait a minute.
As the woman commanded her to face the railing and hold onto it (and spread her legs, which she did without thinking twice), it occurred to Holly that there was something very wrong about this situation.
There were no women in Zanzibar. Although Big Boss allowed for recruitment of female soldiers, the information she had gathered before she left, as well what she had pieced together during her month in the base, all reported that there were no women. Which was odd in and of itself, given the children.
The woman's booted foot nudged on the instep of her feet from behind, and she parted them wider, trying to regain her mental balance even as the woman effectively ruined her physical equilibrium. Her mind raced, and her back automatically arched away from the strong hands that smoothed down her sides searching for weapons. Holly’s squirm prompted a testy, "Don't move," from the other woman.
Hands on her breasts, pushing and patting in a detached, professional way as Holly's mind raced on a blind track. The memory of the kidnapped scientist sprang into her mind as the hands ran down her ribcage.
The security detail was a woman. It said so in the report. She went missing right after they were brought in. What was her name...?
The touch on the inseam of her pants and pausing on her crotch made Holly jump, as she struggled to make her beleaguered mind process and sort the information she had simply been cataloguing. The men had never touched her crotch, and she was startled as the skinny finger patted briefly between her thighs, feeling for lumps or shapes that didn’t belong.
“Natasha,” she spat, running a desperate gambit. “Natasha Markova.” The fingers paused (unfortunately just where they had been searching), and the unaccustomed touch made a flush spread from her neck to her ears. Dammit, but this was uncomfortable. She shifted in place, arching her butt to try to get the hands off, feeling it bump the inside of the woman’s firm arm.
Holly’s butt was shoved down unceremoniously. “Don’t move,” came the flat tone behind her, a note of irritation or uncertainty clinging to the undertones. But the had had left all the same, to be replaced with a single prod of a gun barrel in the center of her shoulder blades. Holly tensed, but didn’t arch to get away, a stab of fear in her chest.
“Turn around.”
Holly swung around slowly, making eye contact. It made the other woman shift, re-establishing a grip on her Heckler. “Holly White,” she snapped, her voice higher with suppressed suspicion. “A war journalist. Bullshit- no war journalist would come here.”
There was no good way out of this situation. So Holly just let her mouth run on automatic. She had talked her way out from in front of gunpoint before, and she was determined to do so now.
“You’re name is Natasha Markova, and you were guarding Dr. Kio Marv. Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’m not a war journalist.” She stopped short, trying to work around the discrepancy in her mind, then dismissed it with a shrug and a roll of her eyes. “Well, yes I am, but… not just now.”
A brief moment where she sucked in a breath, the two women meeting eyes over the barrel of Natasha’s gun. “And I think I can trust you.”