Traffic [Valduggery, Skulduggery Pleasant Fanfiction]

Inserts of the Sole

skuldxggxry ( On Tumblr ) said:

"{ SALSAS INTO YOUR ASKBOX HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED A READER X SKUL FANFIC OR? WALTZES RJGHT BACK OUT }"

You were living quite the boring life. Perhaps, as the narrator, I shouldn't be so quick to assume things, but judging by the way you're scowling at your minimum wage job, I would assume you're imagining bigger and better things for yourself.

Anyways, more on to the topic, you were in the basement of your work. I'm not really sure what your job is, but let's pick something, for the sake of world-building. You're in the basement of your job, a seamstress of a nice suit factory. You're currently digging through a box of proto-suits, of which your boss has suddenly decided is actually now going to be made into a design for the upcoming fall fashion show.

In any manner, you're shoulder-deep in a box of dusty suits.

The basement is an abysmal thing. It's dark, damp, moldy. Very unpleasant. It makes your nose itch, and you sneeze.

Upstairs, there is a vague commotion. You ignore it; after all, who but you can know the day-to-day struggles of a suit weaver? (A very noble profession, I will admit.) There was hardly a day without some seamstress accusing another of stealing her designs.

Someone comes down the stairs. Whoever he is, his gait is unnaturally light, as if every step was carefully balanced, thought out. In fact, you only realize someone is descending when you catch sight of one of the most beautiful suits you have ever seen.

You have no idea what the material is made out, but it shimmers with a dangerous black, even in the dim lighting of the basement. The dress shirt was crisp and white, the brightest thing in the room. It was a gorgeous ensemble; even the man's shoes shone, polished and precise.

But that wasn't the most interesting thing about the man. No, that right was reserved for his composition.

He was a skeleton. Of course, when you hear the word "skeleton," you think of a yellowing mockery. This man, standing on the stairs, poised and controlled, was made of the whitest, bleached bone. His hat was pulled low over his eye sockets, and you feel your stomach do backflips when your gaze meets his own.

"You're breathing in toxic mold," he says.

His voice hits you to the core. Something smooth and velvet, it makes your lower body turn into a quagmire. A low baritone, one that holds all the control in the world. It was a voice that could control armies; could convince the Pope to sin; could convince a mob boss to give all his dirty money away to charity. A voice like that would send nations to war at a single, powerful command and a brief wave of the hand.

"If you don't stop breathing in the air, your lungs are going to start growing a menagerie of fungi, and they I'll have to put you out of your misery."

Every word this man said seemed thought out, casual yet, somehow... powerful. You find yourself speechless.

...

Gordon cleared his throat and looked up. When he couldn't come up with anything, he looked back at the manuscript. He couldn't bring himself to flip to the next page.

"Obviously it's just a rough draft."

"Right. Yes," Gordon said, too loud and too fast. "Obviously."

Skulduggery tilted his head. He had been reclining in the armchair, hands resting over where his stomach would have been, but Gordon had the distinct feeling Skulduggery was observing him now.

"What do you think?"

Gordon swallowed. "Well, you... It's definitely... It has an extensive use of vocabulary." He looked down, eyes skimming. "Quagmire. That's quite the... mouthful," he finished lamely.

"Right, yes, but I was wondering more about the pacing, plot, description."

Gordon could feel his eye twitching. It was a nervous habit when he was lying. "Yes."

Skulduggery nodded. "I hope you realized you haven't actually said anything constructive."

"Oh. Oh, yes. Well." He cleared his throat again. "I'd like to know more about the main character's workplace."

"Really? I think I shouldn't spend so much time on the background. I need to focus more on the characters."

Gordon could feel sweat forming on his forehead. He glanced down again, but the word Pope assaulted his eyeballs and had to look back up. Skulduggery was very still, and Gordon realized he had no idea what he was supposed to say.

"Would... would the man in the suit be, uh, in any way... influenced by... yourself?"

Skulduggery tilted his head. "What would make you say that?"

"Nothing," Gordon said quickly.

"I feel as though you're skirting around the topic. You did offer to look at any writing I had laying around. I want your full and honest opinion. It's the least you could do, after ruining my favorite pair of shoes in your drunken stupor."

Gordon nearly laughed in relief. "Oh, it's a joke."

The silence that fell hit him like a fist.

Gordon grimaced. "Unless... it's not. A joke. In which case, I think you have some great potent—"

"No, it is. I just wanted to see the look on your face."

Gordon sighed, sank back into his chair. "Remind me to never make that offer again."