This tavern smells like piss. Then again, if the places I frequent don't reek of questionable fluids, I don't even bother feeling lucky. It just means that whatever poor sap I'm supposed to murder that night is going to manage soiling himself before I'm out of the splash zone. This is where I might say, "At least I get paid good money for this." And, well-- I won't pretend to know your piss history (or pisstory, if you will) but if you're acquainted with the burden at all, you're either one freaky son of a bitch (good for you), or you know that I sure as hell don't get paid
enough
.
As I weave through the crowd, I try my best not to get my floor length wrap-around crimson skirt snagged on any wayward daggers. I try even harder not to let any of these stinky beasts touch me at all; I literally just washed my hair. Once I reach the bar, I take the opportunity to hoist my short frame up onto one of the raised seats, so that I can hopefully get a better look at the crowd. As I scan through the faces and absent mindedly order my drink, I mentally repeat my target's description to myself.
Tall, dark, and broody -- you guessed it-- dark elf. Darkest gray skin. Long hair, usually braided in some way, the color of ravens feathers. A face that screams, "
I'm very mean and very scary, so don't bother opening your mouth near me unless you plan on wrapping it around my cock.
"
Honestly, sounds like the kind of guy I usually prefer to fuck, not kill. But I learned a long time ago that mixing business, especially my kind of business, with pleasure is a huge no. Consent gets kind of murky when the other party doesn't realize they're about to die. I might be a lot of things, but I'm certainly not whatever that would make me.
"Pity, really." I whisper to myself, sinking back down into my seat with a slight pout on my lips.
"Anything I can assist you with?"
I shriek so loud from the low, gravel filled voice at my ear that the entire bar quiets for a brief moment, dozens of pairs of eyes shooting me dirty looks before returning to their own conversations. I manage as much ire into my own eyes as I can manage as I turn to my right, my heart picking up despite myself, the sinking suspicion settling in that my target ended up finding me this go around.
There's no way my night could be that convenient.
But as I faced him, I saw the most roguish, despicably handsome male I had ever seen.
Bingo bango bongo.
He leaned into his elbow against the bar top, his body the definition of feline grace as he stared at me with a mixture of amusement, condescension, and heated desire behind his black eyes. He wore all black, because duh, and his hair was let loose, the ends of it just barely tickling his shoulders. I don't realize how hard I'm ogling him until I hear the sexiest, most luscious chuckle I have ever fucking heard, and feel a single deft finger curls beneath my chin, gently closing my gaping mouth.
Well, it
'
s your lucky night buddy
-- turns out I
'm too mortified to kill anyone but myself right now.
But I clear my throat, trying my damndest to pull myself together. "Huh?"
And failing, clearly.
The corners of his mouth just barely quirk up before he responds to me in a voice that one might use with a child who's been caught with their hand in a forbidden cookie jar. "I heard you mentioning a pity of some sort. I asked if you needed assistance."