yoshitsune: text: oh dear i really ought to do something but i am already in my pyjamas (misc; jin)
[personal profile] yoshitsune posting in [community profile] cherrymilk
Wish You Were Here
Jonah, Chiquita. 244 words.
Gonna go for a drive, it's so quiet.


It's afternoon in central Europe when they're on the road. Not their territory, but he doesn't care to question it. Low sun catches bright on passing yellow fields. The large clouds far on the horizon seem as unmovable as mountains. The interior of their car is quiet for now, no rowdy talking or loud music while Kasper and Chiquita sleep.

Jonah rolls his head on the headrest and looks at the light through his lids, feels the warmth. Cool dappling shadows of poplars wake him on the approach of a village. Poe slows the car in search of a petrol station.

Even before they stop Jonah has his seatbelt off, gun out. He holds it pointing down between his knees, forearms resting on his thighs. There's a yellow rental car parked on the forecourt, three young people; to the side, an old woman, hair covered by a scarf, carrying a basket and dragged along by a lanky dog that's following a trail.

His gaze sweeps for the relevant details, the way they move, things in the shadows. One of the girls smiles, raises her hand. Beads and metal flash. He instantly presses himself back against the seat. Chiquita squeezes his wrist. She cracks one eye open and regards him from the side.

'Careful Misha, don't turn into one of those twitchy little bitches. I'd be really sad about the waste.' She slips her hand back down onto the seat, and with it his gun.


Basic
Kasper, Chiquita. 167 words.
Pre-canon. Little Kasper finds his sadistic streak when he gets too close to the family business.
Notes: NSFW, violence/guro

Kasper had wanted to see so badly how Chiquita did it. He'd been sleepless from his imagination giving him the details he craved. The brief smell of blood and sweat were more sharp to him among everything else. He'd seen the remains on her--the blood stains, the small pieces of shrapnel and meat.

Like one of his favourite movie heroes she'd walked out calmly, a little smirk for her audience.

He liked thinking about the men she'd killed--she killed women too--but Kasper liked to think of the men. Seeing them ruined when they'd been alive only moments earlier.

He wanted time to look at their ruined bodies, to examine the neat points of entry, cuts that reached bone, sometimes snapped right through to show marrow. He wanted to take off their masks. He wanted to see under their skin.

He was not interested in other sources. Crime-scenes and war-zones bored him when they didn't make him uneasy. He knew there was a difference.

He wanted Chiquita's kills.
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