oneshot collection [ kaylor ]

twelve feet deep

You set down your things, and rest your hands on her upper arms, forcing her to look at you, "I am going to keep you safe. Do you trust me?"

//Karlie Kloss is an operative for the CIA. Taylor Swift is her protection detail.//

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Inspired by Karlie's DVF Secret Agent campaign, and also as a gift for Emily (normalgiraffes on tumblr). This fic is like...30% smut, 40% Karlie being a badass, 25% Taylor being an idiot, and 5% everything else.

WARNINGS: violence, murder, death, guns, lesbians

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This one is a big deal, Panther. Don't fuck it up.

The quote comes from your supervisor, a man who you only know as Glass. The words ricochet in your head as you step through the gate into the terminal, echoing off the walls of your skull. Your only carry-on is a simple tan bag, and you tug it farther up on your shoulder as you take off through the airport, long legs allowing you to clear as much territory as possible. Your height makes you feel like Moses at times, the way shorter crowds split like the waves of the Red Sea. People subtly part for you, pulling their suitcases (that you know from all of your travel experience are too large to serve as carry-ons) out of the way.

You're in too much of a rush to even bother trying to translate the French wording on the signs like you usually would in an attempt at practice. You instead follow the English guiding you to baggage claim, heels clicking like heartbeats on the floor.

The carousel seems to be moving even slower than usually, and you tap your foot impatiently as you wait for the contraption to spit out your suitcase. Your heartbeat feels loud in your head, and even though you've been doing this for five years now, the adrenaline rush still makes you feel a little bit sick, a acidic tang in the back of your throat.

After what feels like maybe three and a half eternities, you see your bag, a small and sleek and unsuspicious black thing. Your hand wraps around the handle, and in a graceful motion, you pull the handle the same second it touches the ground, and you're walking like there are lions breathing down the back of your neck.

You're about to walk outside and catch a cab when another woman slams into you hard enough it rattles your ribs. Your suitcase skitters away from your grip and your purse falls off your shoulder with a hard thunk. You're about to swallow a mouthful of irritation when you realize the other woman has dropped her bag as well, and it perfectly matches yours.

Her bangs tumble over the cliff of her forehead, mostly hiding her fast, and her voice is quiet, "I really need to get some glasses."

She enunciates the last word, and that's all that needs to be said. Immediately your brain shifts into a physical maelstrom and whirls in your head so hard you feel dizzy. But you straighten your spine and your smile. You grip her bag, and she takes yours.

You walk out the door and catch a cab with a wave of your hand. As you slip inside, you open the purse, find a business card, and read the address of a hotel off to the driver.

Then you place it neatly back in the pocket you found it.

Right next to the loaded Glock 19.

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The Four Seasons Hotel George V is perhaps the nicest hotel you've ever been in, with walls splattered with Renaissance style artwork and freckles of marble statues. You walk up to the front desk and slide the ID that you found in the bag across the desk. The woman's accent is heavily French, sort of deep in her throat and nasally all at once, "Room 314. The other guest has already checked in."