A/N: Two people want smut! ( If you don't include me, that is ). Words cannot express how happy I am that everyone is enjoying my story. The response has been overwhelming, and all your reviews have been very kind, with comments that never fail to make me grin like an idiot whenever I reread them. And just to clear up some confusion, this story ISN'T canon. It is a rival assassin AU, as stated in the summary. Lastly, reviews, subscriptions and favorites are appreciated! Enjoy the new chapter!
"Psycho Boy said what now?" Sitting next to Nagisa on the expensive leather seat of the Rolls Royce, Scrunchies and Boobs shakes her head in amazement.
Dressed in a devastating leopard print Roberto Cavalli silk gown, Scrunchies and Boobs brushes an errant wisp of hair away from her face. The dress is slashed down from neck to navel, revealing her pale, ivory skin, and ends in a haze of feathers that flutters down her calves. Her chocolate brown hair is twisted up into an artful chignon that resembles a figure eight, and pearl studs glitter in her ears.
"I know." Shaking her head, Nagisa uncaps a bottle of Perrier and knocks half of it back in a gulp, shuddering as the icy water hits her mouth. "First he tries to blow me up, and then he goes and does that."
"He must have taken an interest in you," Mistress comments with one of her famous Mona Lisa smiles, the kind that has grown men falling at her feet to do her bidding. "After he saw you in the hotel that day."
She giggles when Nagisa groans. Mistress is wearing a plush velvet dress in a lovely shade of emerald green that dramatically offset her cascading raven tresses. Her pale, ivory complexion looks almost translucent against the deep rich, dark jeweled color of the gown. It has a plunging, outrageously low neckline, cut from collarbone to belly button, revealing a generous amount of cleavage but stops short of anything obscene. The bodice is embroidered with a thousand Swarovski crystals that twinkle against the fabric like stars in the night sky.
The car screeches to a halt, and the three of them are helped out. The Carlyle Hotel is an understated, elegant hotel on Madison Avenue in the style of a grand English manor. It is one of those hotels that whisper of luxury with an intimidating Old Money sang-froid. Even the air-conditioning is always a frosty sixty-six degrees. It was here that Nagisa had met Professor Bitch. The curvaceous blonde had been seated at the bar, smoking a Marlboro, and drinking one Sazerac after another. Nagisa had been sitting quietly, Shirley Temple in hand, looking at the frolicking animals on the mural and counting the many ladies who came in wearing hats and corsages. Having taken 'a liking' to her, Professor Bitch had offered her a job – but it wasn't until Nagisa had accepted the offer that Professor Bitch had told her exactly what that job had entailed. And the rest, as they said, was history. On the rare occasions when Professor Bitch – and everyone else – was free, they would repair to several suites at the Carlyle for a holiday. Nagisa would order strawberries and cream from room service, fill up the whirlpool bath, and eat her nutritiously deficient dinner amid the bubbles.
When Nagisa walks into the ballroom that evening, she feels at home in the hushed surroundings. The two fifty-piece orchestras face each other across the expanse of the ballroom, playing a serene waltz as the guests display all their finery - the men dashing and suave in their tails, the women preternaturally thin and impossibly stylish in their couture ball gowns. It is a magical sight, but Nagisa doesn't stay to admire it. She slips away, darting around the rest of the guests clogging the carpeted entrance. Out of the corner of her eye, she can Mistress smiling vapidly as she talks to the eager cluster of males that ring her in a loose circle.
"You know the plan, right?" Forever Flat asks through Nagisa's earpiece.
"Yes, we've gone through it before." Nagisa replies, hardly breaking stride as she walks out to the main lobby toward the guarded elevator. "While Mistress and Scrunchies and Boobs circle the crowd, I grab the documents and go."
"Any idea on how to get through the elevator guys?" Forever Flat changes the subject abruptly. "Your target has booked a room in the hotel, but you'll need to be a guest to actually get up there."
"No problem. We know them, remember?"
She smiles at the elevator man in his shiny red coat with brass buttons. "Hi, Martin."
"Hi, Miss Shiota, you haven't been here in a while," He says, tipping his hat.
"I know, it's been too long," Nagisa says smoothly, stepping into the mirrored elevator.
"Twelfth floor?" Martin asks genially.
"No, they uh, put us on ten this time. You guys must be booked."
"It's October," He explains. "Lots of tourists. Some show at the Met or something." He presses the TEN and takes a step back, smiling genially at Nagisa.
"Thanks, Martin, see you around!" Nagisa says when the doors open.
A minute later, Nagisa finds herself on the tenth floor, her hand hovering cautiously over the knife tucked into her sleeve. With a practiced ease, she moves down the carpeted hallway, ducking behind walls and keeping to the shadows lest anyone spots her. But the staff is all presumably occupied with the party downstairs, and the hall is clear and quiet, with dark teak walls and plush red carpeting. Nagisa stops at room 1001.
Out comes the master key that Fluffy Stag Beetle has procured, and Nagisa slips into the room a heartbeat later. The suite is big, and white, with plush wall-to-wall carpeting. A potted orchid stands proudly on the nightstand. An immaculately made king size bed takes up most of the room space, but an equally impressive mahogany desk sits in the far corner, with a view that overlooks the lush greenery of Central Park. Two white armchairs sit before a flat-screened television, empty tea cups and crumbs littering the marble coffee table. With an anxious glance at the door, Nagisa moves over to the desk, rifling through every inch of its polished surface. But it is devoid of papers, save the generic notepad, with the hotel's insignia embellished in the corner. Frustrated, she pokes into the dustbin as well, hoping to at least find some castaways that she can use, but the little white bin is devastatingly empty.
She hears a sudden intake of breath before she catches the door creaking open. A cold draught of steel whistles past her cheek, and Nagisa reflexively hits the ground. The blade - a fine one with a long sharp blade, serrated near the handle - lodges in the wall, and she frees it in one smooth motion, claiming it as her own weapon.
She exhales through clenched teeth. "Akabane."
In the light, Akabane Karma is even more striking than she remembers. Golden eyes, shrewd and assessing, bore into her. Nagisa has never seen hair that intense. It is glossy and slightly long, the ends drifting over his collar. As Professor Bitch would say, only rogues and raiders had hair like that. He has gone all out in black tie, but he's skipped the tie. His crisp white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a flash of creamy, translucent skin that looks absolutely surreal in contrast with the coal black of his Brioni tuxedo.
"Nagisa," Karma greets her in response, running a tongue over his lower lip.
Just as quickly, he slashes experimentally at her side, and Nagisa pirouettes out of reach. If Akabane wants to play with her, who is she to object?
Nagisa can feel the blood-lust and aggression rolling off Akabane in waves, sees the wicked grin that makes his lips curve as he tries to carve a second, bloody smile into her throat. She ducks, meeting his dagger with the one she'd swiped from him mere seconds earlier. And then, there is nothing but metal ringing, her own labored breathing, punchy with every footfall and the sound of Akabane's full, throaty laugh, which flows over her like a rush of warm water - it is soft, but tinged with a hint of hysteria, and Nagisa's blood turns to shooting stars – and then she is soaring through them, delighting in the feral song that sings in her cells and bones, and reverberates through her very being.
He's good, Nagisa thinks grudgingly, as the male leaps aside to avoid her gutting him, quick as a flash of lightning. She lunges, feinting left, but the red-head catches her attack with a silken smile, pivoting on his heel and slashing at her unprotected chest, as deadly as a striking asp. Nagisa staggers back, but not fast enough to avoid the sting of Akabane's dagger as it slices through the white cotton of her Michael Kors dress shirt, scattering buttons in its wake. The tight cloth binding her chest from under her arms to her lower ribs comes undone all too easily, ripped to shreds by the dagger's serrated edge. Strips of fire dance across the bare skin of her abdomen, a thin line of blood welling up and trickling down her body.
In a too-fast movement Akabane grabs her wrists, twisting her to the ground. Nagisa slams into the carpet so hard the air is knocked from her lungs, her head spins, and she loses her grip on the dagger. Nagisa kicks and squirms, trying to buck him off, but the boy pinning her to the ground is too heavy and refuses to budge. Akabane raises his knife, about to send the blade plunging home, but stops. And blinks. His eyes trace over the swell of her chest, down to the curve of her hips, and Nagisa has the pleasure of seeing Akabane Karma being caught off guard.
"- You don't have it down there?"
Nagisa sees her chance and she takes it. Mustering all her strength, she brings up her legs and aims a kick to Akabane's groin – hard enough that he doubles over with a wheeze. She doesn't stick around to answer his question, locking the door behind her with a growl.
Another mission, compromised, thanks to Akabane freaking Karma.
She's never been one to use violence if she can help it, but Nagisa has never wished to sock someone in their perfect face so badly before.