Seven ♥

black gun metal.

Sun, 18 Nov 2007 03:31:23 GMT

characters: Lucky Genevra & Seven.
rating: PG-13 - vague violence.
genre: eidetic angst.
words: 946.
author's note: Lucky belongs to kaitlinbell. x-posted to paper_inc

---

Paralysis is what's got him.

Lucky is only distantly aware of the arm clamped around his chest, pressed tightly against his sternum. The nails digging into his shoulder, chipped red and shaking, aren't what acts as the vice -- the restraints.

It's the fear. The cold, quiet, primal terror that seizes his gut with frosty fingers. That's what keeps him still.

He can hear Seven breathing behind him, with her arm around his shoulders and her lips beside his ear. He can see the gun clutched in her hand, skin white as a dove, and he can feel the feral fury in her pulse. He feels the quick, tight beating of her heart crushed against his back, and Lucky wonders if she is more afraid than he is.

He can see the other gun as well, reflecting dully in the moonlight, and it matches Seven's with the notable exception that it's pointing at Lucky's face.

It isn't the gun. Either one of them, really, that gets him.

It isn't the stranger standing in front of him or Seven behind him or the blood dripping from her temple to her chin that frightens him.

Knowledge is what's got him. The paralysis of fear.

He is going to die.

Lucky wants to laugh, in a distinctly strangled way. It's funny, in a sick sort of fashion, the situation at hand. It's funny that instead of being confined to a hospital room or an empty apartment to die alone of lung cancer like he thought he would be, he is going to be shot to death by a stranger with a gun the same color as Seven's hair.

The teenage boy glamor of the death appeals to the writer within, and Lucky can't help but be grimly amused. He wonders if Seven has thought of that, and he thinks she hasn't.

Her finger tightens on the trigger. So does the stranger's.

It's stupid, so very stupid of Lucky, that beyond the veil of fear, he thinks the stranger is a rather appealing one to look at. His lips are full and parted slightly, the lower one only fractionally larger than the top. His nose is straight and proud, and above it, Lucky thinks his eyes are a pretty blue. The boy's hair is dark and mussed and his eyebrows are drawn together in anxiety. But, even so, Lucky can appreciate a handsome murderer. At least he would be treated to that before his brains are smattered on the wall behind him.

The boy is looking at him. And Lucky looks back, for he cannot will himself to move. Not even his eyes; impossibly wide, impossibly green, and impossibly still. He is shackled firmly into place.

Paralysis is what's got him. The paralysis of fear.

What happens next, though, comes as a slow surprise. Time comes to a grotesque stop, the noises around him melting to run together as though someone had put a tape recorder in reverse. Like crayons in an oven, he can't tell one from the other. The sound is obscene.

He can barely discern as Seven moves, her chest pressing tighter to his back, no less sluggish and languid than if she had been moving through water. He does not see her pull the trigger, just hears it -- the sudden cacophony of gun metal as the lever pushes the hammer backwards, compressing the spring inside the handle, all while the pawl attached to the trigger pushes the ratchet, and the cylinder rotates in a smooth circle.

The breech chamber is positioned in front of the gun barrel in a single, fluid transition. Seven pulls the trigger all the way back, and the hammer is released.

The compressed spring drives the hammer forward; the firing pin on the hammer extends, striking the bullet's primer with a single note of finality. It explodes, and the propellant is ignited.

Another explosion, and the bullet tears forward so fast that time is ripped back into place in its wake, surging Lucky forward until nausea grips at his stomach and leaves him in a dizzy heap on the floor with Seven sprawled on top of him.

He struggles to raise himself, looks up with wild eyes and is stunned to see that the only trace that the bullet had ever been there is the ribbon of blood suspended in the air in a lazy spiral.

The bullet buries itself in the wall, and the stranger's legs buckle. Three bodies collapse to the floor. Two guns clatter across the ground. One of the bodies is dead.

Silence is sudden and overwhelming until Lucky drags himself to sit in a daze, and Seven slides to the floor behind him. He twists around, groping blindly for her, and when his hands find her shoulders, she is jerked forward. The woman's body comes pliantly, and Lucky's arms encase her.

They sit that way for an hour, Seven on his lap with his arms across her back, and they wait in silence for the police to arrive and take her away. She is resigned to this. She accepts that her fate had always been one behind silver metal bars. But the police don't come, and it's another quiet hour before Lucky manages to stand.

The body is still stretched out on the floor when Lucky quietly leads Seven back to his bedroom, a hand on her elbow and an unsteady gait. The boy lies alone in the dark kitchen with a hole between his eyes, dark head haloed by a darker circle that stains the kitchen floor, spreading over the tiles like a cancer.

skin

Sun, 04 Nov 2007 17:20:07 GMT

characters: Lucky Genevra & Seven.
rating: R - perversion, red lace, and a horny Lucky.
genre: perfectly degenerate humor.
words: 696.
author's note: Lucky = kaitlinbell. Written as a companion piece to Typical Saturday Afternoon

---

"Are you mad at me?"

Her voice slides like silk between her lips, the way it usually does, and Lucky is not going to fall for it this time while her hands curl over his shoulders. Her skin is deliciously cold against his collar bone, her palms roaming across his flesh and gliding down his arms. Staunchly, he refuses to give her the satisfaction of seeing just what she is doing to him all over again, and his mouth tightens into an irritated line.

"Yes," Lucky snaps, and he can hear Seven laugh in his ear, grating in how absolutely not grating it sounds. Rather, it is smooth and perfect just like always, and that annoys him more than if it had been obnoxious and loud.

"I told you I'm sorry." She is very nearly purring by now, lips lacing into a grin that brushes behind Lucky's earlobe, and she finds Lucky's burnt hand in one of her own and immediately assumes rubbing it with gentle fingertips. "Honestly, if you were any more stubborn, I don't know what I would do with you."

Again, Lucky adamantly resolves not to answer her, and he's very tempted to jerk his hand away and grumble his displeasure, but damn do those fingers feel good. Thus does he have to content himself with simply grumbling his displeasure, leaving his hand at Seven's mercy and feeling awfully embarassed that he is so weak for her.

Seven is well aware of this fact, and she smirks quietly to herself, pushing Lucky forward and urging him to lie on the bed directly in front of them. He does not particularly want to (meaning that he very much did, but did not want to give her the pleasure of obeying), but he winds up complying to her anyway, flopping down on his stomach and groaning his annoyance more loudly. Seven ignores him patiently, sidling onto the bed after him, knees finding the sheets while she sits on his lower back.

"See how nice to you I am?"

"You are sitting on me."

"Yes, well, that's beside the point." Really, there is not much of a point, but Seven would like to think there is while her palms come flat against Lucky's back, and she begins a slow, gentle, and utterly tantalizing massage that go all the way up his spine.

"Then what is the point?" Lucky is mumbling into his pillow, but Seven understands clearly anyway, and she laughs gently in the knowledge that she doesn't have one. Which, honestly, is not very funny, but she finds it inexplicably amusing.

"The point is, I'm nice to you."

He can feel Seven's comforting weight settled at his back; feel the intricate pattern of her lace underwear biting into his skin, and his brain is making an extremely admirable effort, working furiously to keep his body in check while he attempts to resume conversation as though he is not overwhelmed by the desire to roll over and pin her beneath him. "I should hope so," he grunts. "Considering you're living in my apartment."

"Yes, darling, I know." He can feel her grin sizzling at the back of his neck, and it bothers him significantly - until he realizes with a start that her grin is quite literally sizzling at the back of his neck, as she has bent over him and pressed an impossibly warm kiss against his throat.

He can also feel her breasts pressed against his shoulderblades.

"..."

Lucky swallows a sudden knot in his throat, and the pain coursing through his hand is ignored in favor of a very strong sense of arousal.

Damn it.

He comes to a quick decision in that very brief moment just before Seven breaks the kiss and pulls away, at the very second her lips come away from his skin, and Lucky turns over unexpectedly quickly. His hips roll along the insides of her thighs, both hands lifting to grab her shoulders, and in yet another liquid motion, he has the woman pinned beneath him.

She does not look particularly surprised.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No."

Seven sends him a searing smile, lips bright red that Lucky likes so much. "Good."

Honestly.

Wed, 24 Oct 2007 22:16:38 GMT

It is Wednesday, and I have officially moved into Lucky's apartment. I have, to be technical, been here for about three weeks, but I only just finished unpacking my suitcase. Yes, I am apathetic and lazy. What of it?

This will be the first time in several years that I have been out of the country. I would say I am excited, but it would be a blatant lie, because I'm not. America has never particularly appealed to me, but I assumed it would at least satisfy my never ending supply of burning curiosity. Unfortunately, it doesn't.

This is an excruciating disappointment to me, because I am in your most lauded city in the nation, and it falls spectacularly short of expectations.

To put in the oh-so-charming vernacular of the culture, New York City sucks.

Here I come, hoping that it will be as wonderful as described. You lot are meant to have beautiful architecture, museums full to the brim of gorgeous artwork, a fascinating culture and interesting people - but, quite frankly, you don't. New York City is big, it is cramped, and it is abominably filthy. I cannot even begin to fathom how you all tolerate the constant torrents of bird excrement raining from the skies, or your own perfectly obnoxious behaviour.

Lucky is very lucky indeed that I like him so much to suffer these awful conditions for him. Anyone else, and I would have been on the next plane home the second day.

As I'm sure you can imagine, I don't choose to get out much. Rather, I spend most of my time sitting in the guest room and sketch or paint pictures. Mostly of Lucky, considering I have next to no imagination, and there are very few other available subjects in this apartment. And that's alright; I'm sure seeing his face all over my walls is doing wonders for his already massive and carniverous ego. What can I say, I aim to please.

My room is very red, and I have decided I quite like it. It's actually very surprising, to those of you who aren't aware, because I've been surrounded by clinically white walls my entire life. But, needless to say, the change is not exactly unwelcome.

Thus has red become my new favorite color, and I've taken a liking to strutting about the apartment in my lacy scarlet underwear. Lucky has been complaining (he is evidently an ungrateful heathen), but he can get over it as far as I'm concerned. It gets me free postage. The UPS man likes me quite a bit.

At any rate, as much as I dislike the city, I do like being here. The apartment is nice, in spite of what Lucky's opinion seems to be of it, and I get quite the kick out of watching him pay the utility bills. But I won't go into the sordid details of that endeavor, except that I find it hilarious that he can't even wash a smudge of lipstick off his shoulder (and various other body parts, I'm sure). I mean, really. I've always managed just fine.

I don't know what his problem is.

Anyway. I've heard all kinds of fun stories about the lunatics Lucky associates himself with. I'm particularly interested in meeting one or two, if only to witness for myself just how profoundly retarded these people really are. I will most likely hate them with a furious passion once I have done the predictable thing and forced myself to be in their presence. But I will do it anyway. I have a sick sort of romance for regret, I believe, and vaguely masochistic tendencies.

Not to worry your pretty head, however. I'll simply verbally rend them in half, and then I'll feel much better.

♥ Seven.