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sabraeal · 2 years

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Thy Body Under My Command, Chapter 2

[Read on AO3]

It’s not that there’s a rule. There isn’t, not at all.

There can’t be, because if there was, they would have to discuss it. In detail. How she knelt in front of him and put her mouth on his. How simply kissing him had not been enough-- could never be enough. How he’d touched her, his hands gripping her so hard they left fingerprints on her hips, five to a side, still there when she looks in the mirror, slowly fading even if the memory never will. They would have to describe the way he felt inside her, like a puzzle finding its last, delicious piece, and how her climax had fed into his, leaving them both gasping and spent.

If they were anyone else, this would be fine, merely a mortifying step toward something more. But this hadn’t been two people falling in on each other, crashing together like two orbiting stars giving into their own gravity. No, this had been a Master maintaining their Servant, a mage fulfilling their end of the contract. Fixing him the only way Shirayuki knew how: the manual way. The old one, because her father hadn’t bothered to stick around to teacher her the proper way to do anything.

And they can’t talk about that either. They can’t, because if they did, she would have to agree it could never happen again, and that’s-- that’s the one thing she can’t do.

Not that she wants it to. She’d only approached him because he was injured after all, not because she’d thought of him like-- like that. Like someone who had a real, physical body beneath his battle suit, no matter how many times she’d sat in her cramped little bathroom and stitched his scrapes together. But now she knows that he’s as human as the heroic record can make from memory alone, and she-- she can’t seem to forget.

An issue since it’s his shoulders she she’s seated behind all day, caged in the academy’s gakuran. The color should be unflattering-- no one, Zen always complained, tugging at his collar, is meant to look good in taupe-- but on Obi it’s...fine. She prefers him out of it, but--

Ah, in his regular clothes, she means. Not...anything else. But now that she’s let herself think it, she can’t just unthink it either. It’s there in her head, lodged tight enough that not even the end bell’s chime knocks it loose. He wasn’t fully, um, without that night, but she’d seen his chest fine enough, definition more stark in the moonlight, she-- she really shouldn’t be thinking about that.

At least, not now. Not when he’s right in front of her, uniform stretching taut across his shoulder blades as he scoops up his bag. Not when she can imagine how the seam would just tear, right down the middle, fabric shredding from his back like paper from a present. How he’d just stand there, all that bronze skin on display, and she could-- she’d have to--

Her hands clap to her cheeks, hot beneath her palms. This has to be a side effect, some strange symptom of the mana exchange. It’s not anything compulsive, after all, she’s just...more aware of him. Even more than she was in the dojo, his body an electric presence just at the edge of her vision no matter where she turns. It can’t last forever.

She hurries to keep pace with him-- the last thing she needs is him asking if she’s all right, or what’s keeping her-- but it’s not fast enough to keep him from noticing. He catches her at the stairs, watching her scurry with a grin slanted across his mouth, and oh, it’s so silly how her stomach flips. “Something on your mind, ojou-san?”

It’s his usual lilt, nothing special, and certainly nothing seductive, just...Obi. And yet, a shiver shudders across her skin, settling right between her legs, and it’s inconvenient. Especially when it only makes him lean closer, the scent of his sweat and the vanilla of her shampoo-- the thief-- washing over her. “Are you all right?”

Kiki would know what’s happening. She’s the one who has experience in things like this. Magic things. Because this is a mage problem, not a-- a people one.

Right. That’s what she needs to do. Just go right up Kiki and ask her if all this is just some sort of...mana hangover, and Kiki would tell her--

She grimaces. Ah, maybe she’ll just wait it out instead. Surely in a couple days, everything will simply...fade back to the way it always was.

“Ojou-san?” He stops three steps in front of her-- below her really, and when he bends down-- no, bends in, oh, he is much, much too close.

“I’m f-fine!” she yelps, eyes clenching shut. “Just-- thinking.”

“Is that so?” She hears rather than sees his mouth curl, too pleased. “About me, I hope.”

A squeak slips from her, her hands clapping her mouth far too late. He’s heard, and when she opens her eyes, his grin is there waiting for her. “My my, ojou-san, what could you be thinking of?”

Her hands drop from her mouth, knotting in her skirt. They’re not supposed to talk about it, yet Obi is always doing this. Leaning so close, letting the negative space between his words imply that he remembers, as if somehow she’s forgot. As if she had not been the one to climb on top of him, pushing him to the ground before she forced her mana into him.

“I thought we talked about this already?” she murmurs, staring at the step between them. “You should call me Shirayuki.”

“Ojou-san--”

“Obi.” Her eyes raise to meet his, winking like two gleaming coins in the afternoon’s dying light. “Call me Shirayuki.”

They can’t be the only ones left in the school right now, but it certainly feels like it in this stairwell, the air still and silent around them. It’s so quiet she can hear the way Obi’s breath saws out of him, struck harder than Rider ever could. But it’s not pain he’s feeling; no, what echoes through their bond is something else entirely.

He steps closer, only a single stair between them. Close enough so that she can look straight into his eyes and see how they’ve blow out, black eclipsing gold.

“Shira...” His jaw works, mouth trying to fit around the sound. It’s soft, so utterly soft, and she can’t help but lean in “Shirayu--”

Slow, steady footsteps echo in the stairwell, swallowing up its space until its only them that can be heard, a cacophony of feet in round. Obi reaches for her, but stops short of touching, his arm hovering protectively across her.

Quite suddenly, it stops.

“Well well,” an unwelcome voice drawls into the ringing silence. “Look who’s still standing.”

It’s strange to see Rider out of his battle suit; in the red and gold he is ageless, truly half a god and full of mischievous menace. But standing here in the academy’s uniform, gakuran hanging open over his undershirt, he could be any student in a sea of hundreds. Certainly not the ancient hero who nearly broke Obi in half.

His grin says he knows it. “Looks like Red has more to her than some half-baked bloodline, eh?”

Shirayuki blinks, but that’s all the time Obi needs. One moment he’s beside her, and the next he’s got Rider against the wall, fingers bone white around his throat. “Give me one good reason to kill you.”

“Funny,” Rider gasps, the whites of the eyes giving the lie to his grin. “Usually people ask the other way around.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Obi might smile, but his muscles strain against the stiff fabric of his uniform, all coiled violence. “Ojou-san doesn’t approve of torture, no matter how much some people deserve it. But keep talking, monkey, you might change her mind.”

Rider’s smile thins, and it’s to her he looks next, somehow both impatient and imperious. “Is this any way to have a conversation, Shirayuki-chan?”

Her skin crawls watching him speak her name, but she shakes her head. “You can put him down now.”

Obi tosses her an incredulous look. “Ojou-san--”

With gentle steel, she repeats, “Put him down, Obi. Please.”

There’s no pleasure in her command now, only the sting. With only a grunt to mark his decision, his hand opens, unceremoniously dropping Rider down the wall. It’s only skill that sees Rider on his feet, barely a stumble as he sets his collar to rights.

“See you got the shoulder fixed.” With a calculated leer, he adds, “Too bad a little time on your back didn’t do anything for your personality.”

Obi stiffens, and though she can’t see his face, the skin of his neck flushes a shade darker. Mitsuhide had noticed his arm earlier, and the ease of which he moved, but Shirayuki hadn’t thought it would be so obvious why.

“What is it you want, Mihaya?” Shirayuki asks, stern, hoping that the heat she feels hasn’t shown on her face. By Rider’s grin, her hopes are in vain.

“Now, now, Mage,” he hums, waggling a finger. “That’s not a very friendly way to talk.”

“We’re not friends.” A month ago she would have flinched being so cruel, so final, but right now, staring into Rider’s laughing eyes, it’s simply fact. “So you’ll have to settle for civil.”

He sighs, his whole body sagging with weariness. “Oh fine, be that way. You’re both so boring.”

One hand reaches into his pocket-- Obi starts, muscles coiled to pounce, and Rider clucks, “Heel, Assassin. It’s just paper.”

He hands it over, head slightly inclined, almost formal. “My master would like you to have this.”

To call it paper is an understatement. It’s thick card stock, like the kind she’s only seen for weddings, artfully frayed on the side to appear to be made by hand rather than machine. At the top is the Shenezard crest, embossed and in full, painstaking color, and beneath it, a wax seal.

“An invitation?” she murmurs, the wax crumbling away as she pulls it open. “To his home?”

“Ancestral home.” Rider smiles, not kindly. “Don’t be late, Red.”

They’ve been allies for a month now, maybe more, but still, Zen still looks out of place at her table. He’s stiff on his cushion, face pinched, too unused to kneeling and too proper to fold into crossed legs the way Obi does, scooping rice into his mouth like there isn’t a table at all. His fingers are parchment pale, drumming out a relentless beat against the wood.

It’s Kiki she expects silence from, Kiki who thinks first before speaking, but Zen, Zen-- he’s quiet. Too quiet. And when he speaks, only his brother comes out. “You can’t possibly be thinking of going.”

It’s one thing for high-handedness to come from Izana; he’s circulated through both boardrooms and mage circles too long to know how to do anything but condescend. But Zen-- Zen should know better.

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” She forces her voice to be light, inquisitive, but by the way Obi coughs into his dinner, she doesn’t quite mask the belligerence either.

Zen’s eyes bulge, incredulous. “You have to be kidding me. This is his ancestral home, Shirayuki. His place of power. Rider already beat Obi bad enough to break his circuitry on neutral ground, let alone some place his family’s been storing mana for decades.”

In the kitchen, Shirayuki pauses, her cloth stilling on the counter. “I thought he was from Germany.”

“German on his mother’s side.” Kiki sips at her tea with the sort of ease that says she could kneel all day, if it was required of her. She still looks out of place too, like a porcelain doll on a Hinamatsuri display. “Persian on his father’s.”

“Still,” she presses. “This is the first time he’s ever even been here. His father was only here for the last Grail War. He can’t possibly have an ancestral home here, can he?”

Kiki shrugs, an elegant lift of her shoulders that doesn’t disturb a drop in her cup. “By that logic, neither can Zen and I.”

“It’s not the same,” she insists. “You both live here, you grew up here, Raj--”

“It doesn’t matter.” Kiki settles her cup on the table, hands falling to her lap, the very picture of a demure young woman. “In the past two hundred years, this town has played host to four grail wars, not including this own. All the major houses are interested in keeping a presence here-- no one wants to be caught without a place of power during the ritual. Or a seat at the table.”

Shirayuki frowns at the stove, scrubbing a little harder at a stubborn spot. There’s something wrong with this, with how this town has been carved up between these families for centuries, all in the name of claiming the grail. Every fifty years, like clockwork, they all descend upon it, leaving only destruction in their wake.

And it’s been her family that has seen to cleaning it up. A weight she’s felt heaped on her shoulders with each park Archer leaves holes in, and every street Berserker rips up. This will be her mess to clean, the last mage of her line, and she’s-- she’s not even a real one.

That’s too big a thought to say, at least into a room of people who believe in this cycle whole-heartedly. And who think she believes in it as well, just because of who her father is. They will finish this war, finish their year, and go back to make marriages among the mage families in the West, trying to keep their bloodlines pure and crests intact. And it’ll be their children who return, to repeat this all again.

Unless someone stops it.

“It’s a trap.”

Shirayuki startles, heart racing in her chest, but Zen doesn’t notice, not when he’s too busy picking at his curry, telling her, “You can’t possibly think you can walk in there while Obi’s circuits are damaged and make it back out too.”

“Oh, well, that won’t be a problem, Master,” Obi hums, mouth already bent toward mischief. “My mage already fixed me all up.”

Zen’s jaw drops. “Really? How did she do that? I thought you couldn’t...ah...”

His skin is so porcelain pale that when he flushes, there’s no way of hiding it. Every inch of skin above his collar goes a bright, painful red, and Shirayuki knows hers must look the same, since the temperature in this kitchen has gone up a full two degrees.

It was one thing for Kiki to know-- she told her how to heal him, quite enthusiastically, liberally sprinkled with insinuations as to the best ways for it to be done-- but for Zen, Zen who had been so determined to keep it from her--

“The hard way,” Obi tells him, delighted. “Or in my opinion, the easy way. Though I suppose I was--”

“The old way,” Kiki corrects mildly, even though a smile haunts the corners of her eyes. “Though I have to admit, it’s certainly more...edifying.”

Zen gags, a terrible sound. “Not you too!”

“In any case.” The words are far too loud for this room, but Shirayuki pretends not to notice, bustling in with a new pot of tea. “Mihaya surprised Obi the last time. That won’t happen again, not when we know we’re going to meet Raj.”

“And besides,” Kiki drawls, letting her refill her cup. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind repairing him again if Rider manages to get the drop on him.”

“Kiki--”

“I think it’s worth hearing him out,” Shirayuki says, settling down on her cushion, hoping that if she ignores her flushed cheeks, everyone else will. By Obi’s self-satisfied expression, it’s a hope too far. “There’s so much we don’t know. Lancer’s master, for one, even if he’s been helpful. Or how someone’s managed to summon another Assassin, let alone where Caster is--”

“Shirayuki.” Zen’s hand catches hers, his grip gentle but unyielding. His gaze is the same when she meets it, filled with the certainty of someone used to having his words heard, if not obeyed. He would have been a natural Master, if she hadn’t tripped into his spot. “This is serious. Promise me you aren’t going to go there. Not without thinking it through.”

Her breath catches, but she squeezes back, smiling as she says. “Don’t worry, Zen. I promise.”

The speaker at the gate fizzles, emitting a loud whine that’s as shrill as a scream, echoing down the empty street. Shirayuki doesn’t have enough experience with conspicuous wealth to know if that’s a feature of these things, or if the sheets of rain have done the thing in. “Name and purpose?”

“S-shirayuki.” The rain makes a waterfall of the edge of her umbrella, splattering her shoes. She shuffles back, hoping they still hear as she calls out, “I was, er, invited.”

There’s a short silence, a pause that has her glancing back at Obi, knees shivering beneath her skirt. He’s not looking at her, not at first; instead his eyes are narrowed at the box, a grimace stretched tight over his teeth. One hand holds the umbrella steady, the way it has the whole walk here, but the other drops, falling from where he’d had it clapped over his ear.

Servants could come from any era-- Kiki had told her that, after she’d asked if Obi was supposed to be from Camelot too, just like Mitsuhide-- but moments like this make her wonder which one is his. A malfunctioning speaker is ordinary to her, but to him it could be as fantastical as a failed spell--

Ah, well, at least, as fantastical as it would have been a few months ago. Before she learned about magical cabals and grail wars and young men in spandex suits who called her master.

The speaker fuzzes in again, demanding her attention.

“Just a moment,” it says, as if they haven’t already been left waiting, but it’s only a blink before the gate buzzes, slowing dragging open before them.

“Well,” she huffs, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders. “I guess that means we can come in.”

Her shoe scuffs over the property line, and she feels it, that weird elastic sensation of walking through a barrier. By Obi’s hiss, he feels it too.

“Ojou-san,” he lilts tightly. “I thought you promised not to come here.”

“I said I wouldn’t go without thinking it through,” she informs him, watching him slow his pace to match hers. “And I did. This is the right decision.”

I think, she doesn’t say.

A long breath hisses out from between his teeth, like he heard it anyway. “I sure hope you’re right, ojou-san. Much as I’d like to show that monkey what I think of him...”

His mouth twist, wry, as his hand sweeps out from underneath their umbrella, collecting a cupful of rain before letting it splash to the ground. “I’d rather better weather for it.”

“Ah...I suppose it might be better if he didn’t already have clouds to choose from.” Though the last time they’d fought, it hadn’t seemed like proximity mattered much to that particular power. Shirayuki had a sneaking suspicious that it wasn’t so much cloud calling as cloud creating. “At least Raj seems to be keeping him close. If he was out here, I’m sure he’d have approached us by now.”

Taunted them through the gate, really, but that’s the sort of observation that’s liable to set Obi off before they make it through the doors. Rider’s hardly the first Servant to give Obi a run for his money in a direct battle-- if Kiki hadn’t called off Mitsuhide that first night, they’d both be sitting out this grail war in a far more permanent manner than Shirayuki’s comfortable with-- but Mihaya’s certainly the least gracious about it.

“No,” Obi grunts, eyes squinting into the trees above the path. “He’s here. He’s just keeping his distance.”

“Huh.” The sound escapes her before she can stifle it. “Maybe Raj really does want to talk.”

Obi’s bone white grin flashes in the dark as they step up to the front door. “He at least wants to hear the sound of his own voice, that’s for sure.”

“Obi--”

The door opens, and a wear man looks out. “Welcome,” he intones in the same deadpan cadence as voice through the speaker. “The young master is expecting you. Shall I take your coats?”

Despite Obi’s assertion out on the drive, when the man opens the door to the parlor, Rider stands at Raj’s shoulder, smug and dry as a match.

“Shirayuki!” Raj coos, gesturing to the cushion catty corner to his chair. “Please, sit. Make yourself comfortable. You are a guest here, after all.”

With marked reluctance, Shirayuki takes his offer, though she settles herself dead center on the sofa. Obi takes up his spot right behind her, and she doesn’t need to look to know he’s glaring at Rider where he stands.

“I see we’re feeling friendly this evening.” Raj smiles, as if her disobedience is amusing rather than insulting. “Shall I have Sakaki fetch some tea? You look positively drenched.”

“That won’t be--” Raj snaps, loud as a shot in the cavernous parlor-- enough to make her flinch-- “necessary.”

“Of course it is,” he says, waving the beleaguered man over from the door. “It’s what’s civilized. I’d have to be a monster to leave you there shivering. Now, Sakaki, if you would--”

Shirayuki likes to think of herself as level-headed; a rational thinker rather than a reactionary one. But Raj has a gift of making all her calm dry up like a well in summer. “You didn’t call us here just to have tea.”

He blinks, like somehow she is the one being ridiculous. “No, of course not. You’re looking thin too. Have you been sleeping well?”

Another snap, even though the man is right beside him, looking wearier by the second. “Sakaki, bring some cakes as well would you. Best to put some meat on those bones, especially if you mean to keep on with this whole--”

“I’m not here for cakes, Raj.” It’s only Obi’s hand, a gentle reminder on her shoulder, that keeps her in her seat. “You can’t possibly have asked us all the way out here to simply serve us tea.”

“Well, of course not. It’s hardly the right time for a proper tea,” he huffs, put-upon. “I was simply being polite, Shirayuki. But if you are going to insist on being all business and no pleasure...”

He settles back in his chair, the shadows falling over his face that in a way that is far more familiar to her than any of his harmless smiles. This is the boy who stood at the top of the stairwell and called her ‘mage.’ The very same one who sent his servant to chase her down in the forest. He can put as pretty a mask on as he likes, but it’s this boy who is Raj Shenezard, not the one who snaps his fingers for tea and cakes.

His fingers knit across his lap, every inch of him exuding a power that reminds her of Izana. And Kiki too, now that she thinks about it. The confidence that comes with wielding a century’s worth of mana at wave of a hand. Or perhaps the snap of a finger. “I wanted to talk to you about an alliance.”

Her eyebrows make a bid for her hairline. “You do?”

His head tilts, dangerous. “It’s not unheard of.”

“Well, I know that,” she blurts out. “But you said you didn’t believe in them!”

“If I recall correctly, ojou-san--” which with his perfect memory, Obi almost certainly did-- “he said, only a weak mage admits that he needs help from his betters.’“

Red floods Raj’s cheeks, his brows drawing like a storm over his nose. “Yes, well, the game has changed, hasn’t it? I would have to be a fool not let my strategy change with it.”

Her breath hisses through her teeth. “You mean Caster.”

Or rather, the mystery of Caster. According to the rules-- at least, as Haruka taught them-- their roles should be cast. There’s no room for another Servant, not with two Assassins on the board. And yet there’s no other explanation for the deaths in this city, no other reason for so many seats sit empty in homeroom.

“So you mean to say...” Shirayuki bites her lip, steeling herself. “You want to help us?”

Raj laughs, long and loud and grating to her ears. “You mean Kiki Seiran and Wisteria’s cast offs? Never.”

“Then--?”

“I want you to quit rubbing your shoulders with the losing team.” His smile unfurls just as his hand does, reaching out to her with a confidence only a crest can buy. “Work with me, Shirayuki. I have more resources than the both of them combined, and a Servant who knows how to get the job done, no matter how dirty the work.”

“Right,” Obi says, poorly hiding a snicker behind his hand. “You may have all your toys, but they actually use them.”

Raj finally looks at him, glowering. “Need I remind you who left you in pieces on the forest floor?”

“Yeah, Saber did it too.” Obi shrugs, an insolent grin sitting on his face. “You’re not special.”

“And Berserker.” Raj drops his gaze to her, both annoyance and desperation gleaming in equal measure. “Remember who took out Berserker.”

It’s hard to forget. That big shadow falling to its knees, crumbling away into the ether, and the small boy behind him, eyes so blue they glow in the moonlight.

“Even if we were trying to to remove mages from the game,” she manages, even, “that’s only one.”

“One more than you’ve managed.”

Her mouth purses, holding back a hundred replies. “Obi removed the other Assassin,” she informs him. “And that one stayed dead.”

Raj stares down at his hand, curling it into a fist. “Shirayuki,” he says, so calmly. “I hate to be vulgar, but fuck you.”

The air in the room goes sour, the chance of this alliance curdling before it can truly be served, but--

But a large crack resounds through the room, as all-encompassing as thunder rolling overhead. No, as if lightning had struck, and the whole manor rung with the sound.

That a tea cup has shattered hardly registers until Raj asks, “W-what was that?”

Rider’s eyes glitter, his whole body coiled for confrontation. “Someone’s testing the barrier.”

“What? How is that possible?” Raj glances at the door, as if the intruder might announce themselves formally first. “That ward has been maintained for decades, someone can’t just....”

His gaze slips, falling to where Shirayuki sits. All at once his worry vanishes, as if it never existed at all. “I mean, not that there is anything to worry over. The barrier will hold. Rider will see to it.”

He nods, and Rider looses like a dog from its leash, eager as he bounds out a window. The rain falls in sheets outside, deafening in the quiet, only muffled back to a reasonable volume when Rider slams the sash shut.

“Well,” Raj continues, as if they were still having a cordial bit of tea. “You may not be interested in my plans for an alliance, but I propose a truce. Just for tonight, you understand.”

Shirayuki blinks, mind churning through his words. “You mean...you want us to stay here? In your house.”

He shrugs, but it’s not as casual, as smooth as it should be. “It’s not as if you can go elsewhere. That Servant will never take down out defenses, but that won’t stop it from attacking you the moment you leave the property.”

Obi scoffs. “I think I can handle a single--”

“All right.” Raj has a point, as little as she likes it. “Just for the night.”

Obi blinks down at her, betrayed. “Ojou-san?”

“I’ll have Sakaki show you to your rooms.” He snaps, a satisfied smile settling on his face. “I trust they’ll be to your standards.”

Shirayuki rarely finds it a trial to be kind, but today it’s an effort verging on Herculean to keep the scowl from her face. “I’m sure we’ll be just fine. You’ll let us know if Rider need help, won’t you?”

Raj smile, cold. “I’m sure he won’t. But...of course. Anything to make you feel more...at home.”

#obiyukibingo22 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #fate/stay night au #ans #yeah okay i said i was only going to do a one shot and i meant it #but bingo always has its own plans #so here's plot i guess!!!!#i don't say it here but my thought is that mihaya's true 'identity' as a servant is Sun Wukong #aka the monkey king #just because i feel like him playing a once-hero-now-asshole character is the perfect fit #and what would give obi a better run for his money really #and mihaya being the actual monkey king

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