[Fic] a few facts about his manager that elliot olsen notes
Title: a few facts about his manager that elliot olsen notes (though far be it for him to care)
Fandom: Crossroads/No Entry
Characters: Elliot Olsen, Yomohiro Tomoe | implied, barely there you have to squint your eyes so much that they're closed Elliot/Tomoe
Word Count: 1,415
Rating: M
Warning/s: actually it doesn't warrant that high of a rating except for one part. relatively clean for me lol. anyway, implied masturbation haha
Summary: Elliot makes a list. | elliot, tomoe, and forced domesticity
Disclaimer: Elliot is Karu's!
Notes: i would just like to say that this is an au which karu is very much aware of. this is more bro than anything haha. lj-cut from marianas trench's haven't had enough. entry for #30DaysofErotica
a few facts about his manager that elliot olsen notes
(though far be it for him to care)
1. she likes to wear drab pantsuits that make her look older
"Thirty-five," he says, tone flat and deadpan, as he pours himself a glass of orange juice.
She looks up from her plate of bacon, halfway through cutting her breakfast into neat square shapes of approximately the same size.
"Your age," he points out, and he cannot quite keep the smirk that lifts his lips when her knife clatters against her plate and her expression of surprise morphs to an affronted glare. He sips his drink and it tastes fresher than usual. "Oh. Thirty-four, was it?"
There is a bright flush that creeps up her neck. Across the bridge of her nose too.
"Twenty-eight," she mutters, spearing a piece of bacon with her fork. She looks about as vicious as a wet cat; she'd probably make him wash the dishes again, or God forbid, fold his clothes. He drains his glass and pushes his chair back, its legs screeching across the tiles. He places his empty glass on top of the sink and gives her a pointed look.
There is a minute wrinkle that creases the space between her brows and she stands up, her chin tipped in haughty disdain to which he knows he's successfully annoyed her. He shoves his hands into his pockets when she - heh, there - orders him to take his share of the household work and wash the dishes.
Five years. It's been five years already and she has to find new ways to punish him; meanwhile, he gets his satisfaction from seeing her infuriated.
2. she has her crazy color schemes he won't even try to understand
"Green means it's from acquaintances, while orange is for family and close friends," she walks around his bed, rummaging beneath the rumpled pillows and sheets. She pushes against him to check the space beneath where he's laying but he grunts, continues tapping his phone, and is otherwise unmoved.
"Red is for messages from the management while gray is for my messages… Have you seen my stack of post-its?" She stops and hooks her fists on her hips.
He grunts and swipes his screen.
"I'm certain I put them on the kitchen table…" She bites her bottom lip and gives one last, desperate look around his room.
He shuts his phone and sits up. "If you left it outside, why are you looking for it here?"
She lifts her hands in a vague gesture. "I might have brought it when I came here last night."
"Well, you obviously didn't, so…" He waves one hand in a 'shoo' gesture.
She sighs, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
He shifts on his bed and pulls out a heap of post-it notes from beneath his legs.
3. she can be an utter bitch
"No."
The word erupts out of her in such a forceful manner that he looks up from his phone. Short woman that she is, and yet she looms at the end of the conference table like she's poised to take down the building. Knowing her, she probably was.
And did he just love to watch the fallout when someone got her so angry and it wasn't directed towards him.
"You don't understand, Miss Yomohiro! This is a prime opportunity for Elliot-"
"This is going to be a great-"
"He'll become even more popular and well-sought after-"
"You'll earn more out of this!"
She lays the flat of her palm against the glass surface of the table, gentle and calm, but the television executives stutter to a stop.
"Would you care to explain to me," she drawls, leaning against the backrest of her chair with an imperious tip of her head. "How you could possibly even think that your project is interesting?"
Heh. He shuts his phone and slides it into his pocket.
"You, who ride on the coattails of the celebrities you hire for your wealth."
She gives a theatrical sigh, a disappointed shake of her head.
"And now you propose to submit my client to such inhumane working conditions?" Her voice creeps with steel. The television executives tense in their seats.
"My responsibility is to my client."
She stands up and her chair idly rolls back.
"Come, Mr. Olsen. The rival company wants to have a word with you." She pauses halfway out of the room and gives the suit-clad men a passing glance over her shoulder. "Make sure to take a last look at these people. It won't be long before their company crashes and is bought out."
She sniffs, nose wrinkling like she caught a whiff of a particularly unpleasant odor. The door shuts behind her.
One of the executives rises from his seat. "Please, Elliot! This is the last chance of the company-"
He pats his pocket as he strides out, a smirk quirking his mouth up.
"Sorry. My manager said no."
4. she can't cook to save her life
He won't try that burnt abomination she's scooping out of the pan and ladling onto a plate. He will not try it even if she threatens him with a knife. No, no, no.
She slides the plate in front of him and sits down on the opposite chair with an expectant look. He bumps his knee against the underside of the dinner table in an effort to keep himself rooted on his seat.
There is a spot of sauce on her cheekbone and her hair looks like it's been run through with static electricity. He knows she's been puttering around the kitchen for the past, oh, five hours now, a crumpled piece of paper containing a recipe clutched in her fist as she yet again attempted to do something she was distinctly horrible at.
He looks down at the- the mush of things swirling around in his plate. He looks up and meets her eyes.
He grits his teeth and exhales, grabbing a spoon.
She smiles.
He feels his life expectancy decrease from the first swallow.
5. she's an irrevocable bitch but she's not stone cold
That night, after the fiasco in the kitchen which ended with ordering delivery, he collapses on his bed and slumps a hand over his forehead. Never again, he swears to himself. Never again.
Something hits the wall adjoining their rooms, a thud followed by a muffled exclamation from her. Probably fell off the bed again, which was stupid because her bed was already pushed up against the wall. He exhales a clipped sigh and pushes off his bed, intending to ask her to keep it down because someone's trying to sleep here and billboard ads didn't run on Photoshop alone, but his hand is poised to knock when he hears her sigh.
It's entirely too different from the usual thoroughfare she'd give him, exasperated or furious or even worried. This one is softer, more feminine, a sound like the tail-end of an afterthought. He hears the rustle of her bed sheets and this time, she moans.
In the sudden silence, he can hear the hitch of her breath in counterpoint to the sudden thud in his chest.
"Oh," she murmurs, a series of syllables which gradually rise in pitch. Something hits the wall again and dimly, he notes the possibility of it being her foot or- or her leg.
He feels the blood pounding in his ears, and turns around and marches back to his bed as she breathes a stuttered cry.
6. she owns exactly one sundress - or at least as far as he knows
"Twenty-six," he says, and takes a sip of the cold orange juice. It's already stifling hot this early in the morning, he wonders how horrible it's going to get around noon especially when he has a scheduled shooting to attend. He pours himself another glass.
She looks at him, square piece of bacon poised halfway to her mouth.
"Your age," he says, and drinks again.
She pitches her gaze down, though he can still see the flush bloom across her cheeks. "Twenty-eight," she says, sedate, bashful.
"I know." He snaps. He pushes his chair back and its legs scrape against the floor.
He glances at her as he leaves the kitchen; he isn't planning on washing any dishes if she suddenly changes her mind.
She's smiling down at her bacon.
7. eh, he can do worse.
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/14606.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Crossroads/No Entry
Characters: Elliot Olsen, Yomohiro Tomoe | implied, barely there you have to squint your eyes so much that they're closed Elliot/Tomoe
Word Count: 1,415
Rating: M
Warning/s: actually it doesn't warrant that high of a rating except for one part. relatively clean for me lol. anyway, implied masturbation haha
Summary: Elliot makes a list. | elliot, tomoe, and forced domesticity
Disclaimer: Elliot is Karu's!
Notes: i would just like to say that this is an au which karu is very much aware of. this is more bro than anything haha. lj-cut from marianas trench's haven't had enough. entry for #30DaysofErotica
a few facts about his manager that elliot olsen notes
(though far be it for him to care)
1. she likes to wear drab pantsuits that make her look older
"Thirty-five," he says, tone flat and deadpan, as he pours himself a glass of orange juice.
She looks up from her plate of bacon, halfway through cutting her breakfast into neat square shapes of approximately the same size.
"Your age," he points out, and he cannot quite keep the smirk that lifts his lips when her knife clatters against her plate and her expression of surprise morphs to an affronted glare. He sips his drink and it tastes fresher than usual. "Oh. Thirty-four, was it?"
There is a bright flush that creeps up her neck. Across the bridge of her nose too.
"Twenty-eight," she mutters, spearing a piece of bacon with her fork. She looks about as vicious as a wet cat; she'd probably make him wash the dishes again, or God forbid, fold his clothes. He drains his glass and pushes his chair back, its legs screeching across the tiles. He places his empty glass on top of the sink and gives her a pointed look.
There is a minute wrinkle that creases the space between her brows and she stands up, her chin tipped in haughty disdain to which he knows he's successfully annoyed her. He shoves his hands into his pockets when she - heh, there - orders him to take his share of the household work and wash the dishes.
Five years. It's been five years already and she has to find new ways to punish him; meanwhile, he gets his satisfaction from seeing her infuriated.
2. she has her crazy color schemes he won't even try to understand
"Green means it's from acquaintances, while orange is for family and close friends," she walks around his bed, rummaging beneath the rumpled pillows and sheets. She pushes against him to check the space beneath where he's laying but he grunts, continues tapping his phone, and is otherwise unmoved.
"Red is for messages from the management while gray is for my messages… Have you seen my stack of post-its?" She stops and hooks her fists on her hips.
He grunts and swipes his screen.
"I'm certain I put them on the kitchen table…" She bites her bottom lip and gives one last, desperate look around his room.
He shuts his phone and sits up. "If you left it outside, why are you looking for it here?"
She lifts her hands in a vague gesture. "I might have brought it when I came here last night."
"Well, you obviously didn't, so…" He waves one hand in a 'shoo' gesture.
She sighs, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
He shifts on his bed and pulls out a heap of post-it notes from beneath his legs.
3. she can be an utter bitch
"No."
The word erupts out of her in such a forceful manner that he looks up from his phone. Short woman that she is, and yet she looms at the end of the conference table like she's poised to take down the building. Knowing her, she probably was.
And did he just love to watch the fallout when someone got her so angry and it wasn't directed towards him.
"You don't understand, Miss Yomohiro! This is a prime opportunity for Elliot-"
"This is going to be a great-"
"He'll become even more popular and well-sought after-"
"You'll earn more out of this!"
She lays the flat of her palm against the glass surface of the table, gentle and calm, but the television executives stutter to a stop.
"Would you care to explain to me," she drawls, leaning against the backrest of her chair with an imperious tip of her head. "How you could possibly even think that your project is interesting?"
Heh. He shuts his phone and slides it into his pocket.
"You, who ride on the coattails of the celebrities you hire for your wealth."
She gives a theatrical sigh, a disappointed shake of her head.
"And now you propose to submit my client to such inhumane working conditions?" Her voice creeps with steel. The television executives tense in their seats.
"My responsibility is to my client."
She stands up and her chair idly rolls back.
"Come, Mr. Olsen. The rival company wants to have a word with you." She pauses halfway out of the room and gives the suit-clad men a passing glance over her shoulder. "Make sure to take a last look at these people. It won't be long before their company crashes and is bought out."
She sniffs, nose wrinkling like she caught a whiff of a particularly unpleasant odor. The door shuts behind her.
One of the executives rises from his seat. "Please, Elliot! This is the last chance of the company-"
He pats his pocket as he strides out, a smirk quirking his mouth up.
"Sorry. My manager said no."
4. she can't cook to save her life
He won't try that burnt abomination she's scooping out of the pan and ladling onto a plate. He will not try it even if she threatens him with a knife. No, no, no.
She slides the plate in front of him and sits down on the opposite chair with an expectant look. He bumps his knee against the underside of the dinner table in an effort to keep himself rooted on his seat.
There is a spot of sauce on her cheekbone and her hair looks like it's been run through with static electricity. He knows she's been puttering around the kitchen for the past, oh, five hours now, a crumpled piece of paper containing a recipe clutched in her fist as she yet again attempted to do something she was distinctly horrible at.
He looks down at the- the mush of things swirling around in his plate. He looks up and meets her eyes.
He grits his teeth and exhales, grabbing a spoon.
She smiles.
He feels his life expectancy decrease from the first swallow.
5. she's an irrevocable bitch but she's not stone cold
That night, after the fiasco in the kitchen which ended with ordering delivery, he collapses on his bed and slumps a hand over his forehead. Never again, he swears to himself. Never again.
Something hits the wall adjoining their rooms, a thud followed by a muffled exclamation from her. Probably fell off the bed again, which was stupid because her bed was already pushed up against the wall. He exhales a clipped sigh and pushes off his bed, intending to ask her to keep it down because someone's trying to sleep here and billboard ads didn't run on Photoshop alone, but his hand is poised to knock when he hears her sigh.
It's entirely too different from the usual thoroughfare she'd give him, exasperated or furious or even worried. This one is softer, more feminine, a sound like the tail-end of an afterthought. He hears the rustle of her bed sheets and this time, she moans.
In the sudden silence, he can hear the hitch of her breath in counterpoint to the sudden thud in his chest.
"Oh," she murmurs, a series of syllables which gradually rise in pitch. Something hits the wall again and dimly, he notes the possibility of it being her foot or- or her leg.
He feels the blood pounding in his ears, and turns around and marches back to his bed as she breathes a stuttered cry.
6. she owns exactly one sundress - or at least as far as he knows
"Twenty-six," he says, and takes a sip of the cold orange juice. It's already stifling hot this early in the morning, he wonders how horrible it's going to get around noon especially when he has a scheduled shooting to attend. He pours himself another glass.
She looks at him, square piece of bacon poised halfway to her mouth.
"Your age," he says, and drinks again.
She pitches her gaze down, though he can still see the flush bloom across her cheeks. "Twenty-eight," she says, sedate, bashful.
"I know." He snaps. He pushes his chair back and its legs scrape against the floor.
He glances at her as he leaves the kitchen; he isn't planning on washing any dishes if she suddenly changes her mind.
She's smiling down at her bacon.
7. eh, he can do worse.
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/14606.html. Please comment there using OpenID.