Contrary to public belief , I do not own Darker Than Black and anything associated with it, other than an unnatural obsession with the fictional romantic lives of it's fictional characters. Excuse me while I contemplate my lack of social life. 8C
It was that damn ring tone; she couldn't stand it, that salsa-esque tune that grated and raped her eardrums with horrifying aplomb. He insisted on using it, thinking of it as something witty and off-beat, just like his sense of humor. April could perfectly understand him wanting to show off his natural skill with the comedic arts; the only problem was that he had no skill in comedy. His jokes had the worst timing, horrible set-ups and god-awful punch lines. Maybe it was his unique way of coping with all the work that came with being an intelligence operative with SIS. It didn't mean that his fellow operatives had to suffer through his bad jokes, though.
April groaned loudly as she rolled over on the bed; her yellow eyes peerd over at a tiny green cell phone, vibrating and still blaring out the annoying little tune it was infamously known for back at SIS headquarters. It would go off at least inopportune moments; debriefing before a new assignment, in the middle of a stake-out and more importantly when they were together. She slammed her head against her pillow repeatedly, as if she could simply beat the sound of that infernal ring-tone out of her head. The clean white sheets were tangled amongst her legs, a contrast against her mocha skin, sheets that was inhabited earlier by someone else. A certain someone whom was in the shower and too damn stupid to turn off his cell phone. With a groan of pure annoyance and exasperation, April sat up with her arm against her chest, keeping herself from exposure despite no one else being in the room. Reaching out for the green phone, her eyes narrowed at the caller ID she could see on the thin LCD strip on the outside of the phone. Misaki Kirihara. That woman. What in the world did she need to call for?
April wasn't entirely sure how to assess this; most would assume as a Contractor, she'd be incapable of feeling jealousy. Most Contractors were believed to be emotionless killers; this was partly true, but it didn't explain last night. Or the past week for that matter. It was all a pleasant blur, a cozy little whirlwind of passion, hotel sheets and fragrances. She fondly remembered the first night, hot and clumsy kisses, and precision thrown out the window in lieu for raw lust. The scent of his cologne clinging to that suit of his, his wavy blond hair that she never tired of running her hands through, blue eyes shooting her smoldering looks when they weren't drinking in other parts of her body, all of this combining together in a phantasmagorical blend of ecstasy. The second one was probably just as raw and hungry, but with abit more passion; she fondly remembered that they didn't even make it to the bed, opting to use the wall as leverage. Legs wrapped around his waist, slender fingers running through his hair, his own fingers tracing up her sides with icy calmness. Then there was the third; it was much more slow, more passionate, care taken in the tiniest of actions, red silk sheets moving just barely under the slow ministrations.
Hah, Contractors. Passion. It was almost ludicrous to think of such a thing; despite the fact that Contractors felt every emotion humans did, logic still ruled their thought process. Logic dictated that their love was reckless, unnecessary and a possible threat to their performance on the field. There was one problem, though. They didn't care. It happened each and every night with no sign of slowing down; it was passion of an unstoppable variety, the type that seemed reserved for those who weren't clinical sociopaths. Everything about their affair was wrong. It went against every scrap of research their agency poured so much money into about Contractors. It was wrong. Completely and utterly wrong. But, here they were. She even had a key to his house. A key. He was an intelligence operative for God's sake; the very act of giving someone else access to his home was a monumental sign of trust, a virtue that became very gray in the world of espionage. And though she knew it was completely ridiculous for him to have done such a thing, she would never ask him to take the key back. She carried it on her at all times, almost as if a charm to ward off enemies and simply feeling it in her hand brought unnatural warmth to her stomach.
Fuck. Would that phone shut the fuck up? She looked back at the cell phone, that damn name still glowing on the LCD strip. Sorry, , but Jack Simon was very busy at the moment. She flicked the phone open, seemingly to answer, only to press "Deny Call", effectively silencing it once and for all. A smug and satisfied smile spread across her features; she always been good at cutting down her enemies before they even had a chance to retaliate. As she held the cell phone in her hands, an irresistible urge flowed over her, one that demanded she do some intelligence work and find out exactly how much November and little Misaki had been communicating. She had begun to search through his text messages before a deep and suave voice, smooth and crystal clear jolted her from her covert task." Well…we are both spies, so I suppose this was bound to happen eventually." Jack Simon AKA November 11 said with a smooth chuckle as he couldn't help but smirk at the barely suppressed surprise and shock on April's features, caught with her hands in the bright green cookie jar. "Still, my text messages? Terribly invasive, dear. When a spy can't even keep his messages safe, what hope is there left?" A facade of mock exasperation crossed over his handsome features as he placed his head in his palm, seemingly shocked by the monumental violation of privacy.
"Oh shut up, you bloody drama queen. It's not my fault you have people constantly call you. Mind you, most of them are women. Mind explaining that, dear?" An bluish-gray eyebrow quirked ever so slightly, expecting an answer that could sufficiently satisfy her fears; fears which, as a Contractor, she should not be having. But, November 11 simply shook his head and leaned in close, a still damp hand reaching towards her chin and tilting April's head up, his eyes boring into hers. With that, they were taken to a world where impromptu texts and female-laden contact lists meant nothing. This meant something when it should mean nothing. The shifting of the sheets should've meant nothing. The mingling of fresh cologne and perfume meant should've nothing. The fusion of cigarette smoke and expensive beer should've meant nothing. Dark skin meeting white, blond hair meeting blue, all of this should've meant nothing. But, yet it meant everything.
Somewhere in the background, a green cell phone buzzed and rung to no avail. Though she was distracted in such a pleasant way, one thought fluttered into her consciousness; that phone was fucking annoying.
Okay, so...this took me shit-forever. This is the time to deliver an excuse, but since I lack one, I'll just accept my humiliation. This fic also happens to be something of a trial run; if they chemistry between these two is well-received, I might pursue a multi-chapter fic with this lovely espionage pairing. As such, I'm waiting for those reviews, yo. |D