Spaceverse Flopsie, Expanded
From fic chat tonight. Edited and expanded upon. Dedicated to willowmae for her assistance in coming up with this scene and to everyone else who's been following this crazily-disjointed and random and strange ficvese. M/N, totally not in order and sometime further down the road from the rest of the ficlets, and... yeah.
Prompter: Satine
Prompt: "In a universe of ambiguity, this kind of certainty comes only once, and never again, no matter how many lifetimes you live."
AN: Spaceverse and very out of order. Oh well. PG13/R for sensuality.
The tycoon known only as the Wiseman has a reputation that is known across an entire solar system, a name not discussed amidst polite company and a dossier left to gather dust in every major and minor law enforcement agency and office from Seon to Thalassis. No one could hope to actually take him in, of course, because he is too rich, too powerful, and the tales of what happens to those who cross him are more chilling than the most gruesome records of war crimes or gang violence.
Morela doesn't "butt into" (as he so uncouthly puts it) Newman and Etienne's business, but the old-fashioned wax seal with a skull impressed into the black circle is unmistakable, and everything inside her goes cold. For the first time in years, since it was gently but inexorably coached out of her, she runs without a thought about grace or dignity up to the room where Newman is staying. She pounds on the door with clenched fists and completely ignores the drawn blaster in his hand when he pulls it open.
"You can't!" she holds the scroll with shaking fingers. "You don't know what this man can do-- what he's capable of!"
Newman sets the gun down on a spindly end table and gives her one of those patented eyebrow-raises that should by all rights infuriate her, but her breath is hitching and all anger is buried underneath gut-deep fear. He shrugs, taciturn and big and capable and cocky. "The pay is too good to pass up, sugar. I'm not stupid. He's up to no good, I know it. But I'll get the job done and we need the money."
Morela hisses between her teeth and gives the end of the scroll a yank, skimming through the Wiseman's offer. "Two thousand Denier." She reaches around her neck and pulls her golden necklace, with its fancy filigreed tiers and a teardrop emerald pendant the size of a man's thumbprint, over her head. It's still warm from her skin as she stuffs it roughly in Newman's hands. "Here. This can tide you over. It's worth twice that. Take it!"
Now insult darkens his expression and furrows his brows, and he sets the necklace down-- yet with more care than she had-- on the table next to the assignment scroll. "I don't need your help."
"Goddammit, Newman, stop being so stubborn!" The tears come to the surface and once the first one falls-- artless and unplanned and hot-- she can't seem to stop them. "He's a beast! Don't you know how many people he's tortured, killed? They have files on him in seven different worlds!"
"I can handle myself," he grumbles, and half-turns away, and she feels something inside of herself break. "I don't want your money."
"It isn't about the money, you hateful, aggravating idiot!" Her words are coming far too fast and far too loud, punctuated by ungraceful sniffles. "HE NEVER HIRES THE SAME PEOPLE TWICE BECAUSE HE KILLS THEM AFTER THE JOB SO HE DOESN'T HAVE TO PAY MORE THAN THE ADVANCE! This is about YOU, you arrogant bastard! I can't let you die! I WON'T!"
She sobs into her hands because she doesn't know what else to do, and the fear-- the certainty that she'd die too if he accepted the job and met his inevitable fate-- is all she has any more. She doesn't hear him turn around, or walk towards her, but when his rough hands pull her own away from her face and brush over her wet cheeks, she shivers. Through damp eyelashes and stormy emotions, she meets his gaze, but before she can find the words to beg him not to go, he closes the remaining distance between their faces and their hearts and it's the softest kiss she's ever shared.
The moment his lips touch hers, far lighter and gentler than she would have expected him to be capable of, she gasps. It's barely there, the brush of his lips lighter than a flick of a butterfly's wings, but all their almost-insurmountable differences seem to be breached by that one brief touch. She reaches up and sinks the fingers of both hands into his hair-- far longer than fashionable, not at all neat or tamed-- and suddenly neither of them can be close enough. A dozen random meetings and more than a few thoughtless comments and more bickering than was ever socially acceptable and the little ways that they constantly surprised each other and the countless looks that lingered far too long for propriety. They had nothing in common, not really. And yet, in all of her life, she has never been more certain of anything.
She's already yanking the tails of his shirt out of his trousers as he backs her against the wall, his lips hot as they trail from hers down the line of her jaw to her neck. His hands hoist her up by the hips, crushing the fine silk of her dress as he bunches the fabric in his fists. She tastes salt and passion on his skin as her questing fingers shift away his clothing, but when she looks up to meet his eyes, there's something deeper there than just attraction, and it makes her lose her breath.
Neither of them can wait to remove all their clothing or make it to a bed, and it's fast and furious up against the wall when they take each other. Her hair flies wildly in her face and sticks to the back of her neck as she writhes against him, and when she comes, she screams. It's the height of unladylike behaviour and there are no roses, no bottles of champagne, no promises. But afterwards, after both their legs give out, he continues to hold her in his arms even as they sink to the floor. She curls up in his lap, feeling more vulnerable than she has ever been as she tries to arrange her hopelessly ripped and wrinkled dress over her legs. He reaches out one hand and traces the tracks over her cheeks that have been left by her tears.
"Please, please don't get involved with the Wiseman," Morela breaks the silence, managing a ladylike tone almost free of a quiver in her voice. "There has to be a way."
He takes a deep breath as though mulling it over. She's not just speaking about jobs and dangerous employers, but he doesn't have to know that. All of her carefully-constructed plans about her own future, her own destiny, lie in ruins. She should be mourning, because he's nothing like the type of man she'd always thought she'd wanted, but right now, curled up in his arms like they were always meant to hold her close, it feels perfect.
He shifts, slowly easing himself into a standing position without letting go of her, and half-leads, half-carries her to the narrow bed in the corner of his room. Laying down on his back, he gently pulls her over him so that her bared breasts press against his chest and his dark eyes can gaze up into her green ones. His gaze is still wary, still full of battle-lights and stubborn will, but there's a tenderness and a warmth there that gives her hope. His rough fingertips brush over her cheek, then her hair.
"I'll try to find a way," he murmurs, and she knows that he's not just speaking about jobs and dangerous employers either. She manages a shaky, unpracticed smile and leans down to press a kiss as gentle and careful as their first upon his lips.
She would, too.
Prompter: Satine
Prompt: "In a universe of ambiguity, this kind of certainty comes only once, and never again, no matter how many lifetimes you live."
AN: Spaceverse and very out of order. Oh well. PG13/R for sensuality.
The tycoon known only as the Wiseman has a reputation that is known across an entire solar system, a name not discussed amidst polite company and a dossier left to gather dust in every major and minor law enforcement agency and office from Seon to Thalassis. No one could hope to actually take him in, of course, because he is too rich, too powerful, and the tales of what happens to those who cross him are more chilling than the most gruesome records of war crimes or gang violence.
Morela doesn't "butt into" (as he so uncouthly puts it) Newman and Etienne's business, but the old-fashioned wax seal with a skull impressed into the black circle is unmistakable, and everything inside her goes cold. For the first time in years, since it was gently but inexorably coached out of her, she runs without a thought about grace or dignity up to the room where Newman is staying. She pounds on the door with clenched fists and completely ignores the drawn blaster in his hand when he pulls it open.
"You can't!" she holds the scroll with shaking fingers. "You don't know what this man can do-- what he's capable of!"
Newman sets the gun down on a spindly end table and gives her one of those patented eyebrow-raises that should by all rights infuriate her, but her breath is hitching and all anger is buried underneath gut-deep fear. He shrugs, taciturn and big and capable and cocky. "The pay is too good to pass up, sugar. I'm not stupid. He's up to no good, I know it. But I'll get the job done and we need the money."
Morela hisses between her teeth and gives the end of the scroll a yank, skimming through the Wiseman's offer. "Two thousand Denier." She reaches around her neck and pulls her golden necklace, with its fancy filigreed tiers and a teardrop emerald pendant the size of a man's thumbprint, over her head. It's still warm from her skin as she stuffs it roughly in Newman's hands. "Here. This can tide you over. It's worth twice that. Take it!"
Now insult darkens his expression and furrows his brows, and he sets the necklace down-- yet with more care than she had-- on the table next to the assignment scroll. "I don't need your help."
"Goddammit, Newman, stop being so stubborn!" The tears come to the surface and once the first one falls-- artless and unplanned and hot-- she can't seem to stop them. "He's a beast! Don't you know how many people he's tortured, killed? They have files on him in seven different worlds!"
"I can handle myself," he grumbles, and half-turns away, and she feels something inside of herself break. "I don't want your money."
"It isn't about the money, you hateful, aggravating idiot!" Her words are coming far too fast and far too loud, punctuated by ungraceful sniffles. "HE NEVER HIRES THE SAME PEOPLE TWICE BECAUSE HE KILLS THEM AFTER THE JOB SO HE DOESN'T HAVE TO PAY MORE THAN THE ADVANCE! This is about YOU, you arrogant bastard! I can't let you die! I WON'T!"
She sobs into her hands because she doesn't know what else to do, and the fear-- the certainty that she'd die too if he accepted the job and met his inevitable fate-- is all she has any more. She doesn't hear him turn around, or walk towards her, but when his rough hands pull her own away from her face and brush over her wet cheeks, she shivers. Through damp eyelashes and stormy emotions, she meets his gaze, but before she can find the words to beg him not to go, he closes the remaining distance between their faces and their hearts and it's the softest kiss she's ever shared.
The moment his lips touch hers, far lighter and gentler than she would have expected him to be capable of, she gasps. It's barely there, the brush of his lips lighter than a flick of a butterfly's wings, but all their almost-insurmountable differences seem to be breached by that one brief touch. She reaches up and sinks the fingers of both hands into his hair-- far longer than fashionable, not at all neat or tamed-- and suddenly neither of them can be close enough. A dozen random meetings and more than a few thoughtless comments and more bickering than was ever socially acceptable and the little ways that they constantly surprised each other and the countless looks that lingered far too long for propriety. They had nothing in common, not really. And yet, in all of her life, she has never been more certain of anything.
She's already yanking the tails of his shirt out of his trousers as he backs her against the wall, his lips hot as they trail from hers down the line of her jaw to her neck. His hands hoist her up by the hips, crushing the fine silk of her dress as he bunches the fabric in his fists. She tastes salt and passion on his skin as her questing fingers shift away his clothing, but when she looks up to meet his eyes, there's something deeper there than just attraction, and it makes her lose her breath.
Neither of them can wait to remove all their clothing or make it to a bed, and it's fast and furious up against the wall when they take each other. Her hair flies wildly in her face and sticks to the back of her neck as she writhes against him, and when she comes, she screams. It's the height of unladylike behaviour and there are no roses, no bottles of champagne, no promises. But afterwards, after both their legs give out, he continues to hold her in his arms even as they sink to the floor. She curls up in his lap, feeling more vulnerable than she has ever been as she tries to arrange her hopelessly ripped and wrinkled dress over her legs. He reaches out one hand and traces the tracks over her cheeks that have been left by her tears.
"Please, please don't get involved with the Wiseman," Morela breaks the silence, managing a ladylike tone almost free of a quiver in her voice. "There has to be a way."
He takes a deep breath as though mulling it over. She's not just speaking about jobs and dangerous employers, but he doesn't have to know that. All of her carefully-constructed plans about her own future, her own destiny, lie in ruins. She should be mourning, because he's nothing like the type of man she'd always thought she'd wanted, but right now, curled up in his arms like they were always meant to hold her close, it feels perfect.
He shifts, slowly easing himself into a standing position without letting go of her, and half-leads, half-carries her to the narrow bed in the corner of his room. Laying down on his back, he gently pulls her over him so that her bared breasts press against his chest and his dark eyes can gaze up into her green ones. His gaze is still wary, still full of battle-lights and stubborn will, but there's a tenderness and a warmth there that gives her hope. His rough fingertips brush over her cheek, then her hair.
"I'll try to find a way," he murmurs, and she knows that he's not just speaking about jobs and dangerous employers either. She manages a shaky, unpracticed smile and leans down to press a kiss as gentle and careful as their first upon his lips.
She would, too.