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light-yaers · 3 years

Text

No Saints: Chapter Six

This content is explicit and is 18+

Warnings: Graphic sexual content, violence, implied effects of PTSD, death and explicit language.

Read on Ao3 here | Fic Masterpost

Word Count - 6.1k

Chapter Six

It was approaching a week later, when someone unexpected entered the shop. You stopped polishing a blaster, looking up at him and trying to keep your cool.

“Karga,” You said plainly. You forced on a small smile. “What brings you here?”

Karga strode around your shop curiously, taking in the décor, the storage boxes, and you. He still made your skin crawl whenever you thought back to saving Mando’s skin. Stars, it meant he thought of you in that way—vulnerable, tearful, a pitiful little girl, cowering in fear next to the Mandalorian.

“Miss, good day to you,” He said in greeting. “I... bring conversation,”

Conversation. That was just another way of saying he was about to threaten you.

But about what? You didn’t know.

“Now, I’m sure you know that Nevarro is small. Operations here are left to a select few, and members of the Guild are trusted,”

“Of course. The Guild code remains law,” You agreed, unsure of where he was going with this. You tried to stand your ground, while also adopting that same character you’d played in the bar. You couldn’t immediately change your personality; it would simply hint at how it had been a plan.

“Yes, indeed,” He approached your work desk, raising his hands to his hips. “Which is why, I make it my job to make sure no one steps out of line,”

Out of line... what did he know?

“A noble position, Karga,” You said, rising yourself up to meet him face to face, as much as it made you nauseous.

“And one I take seriously,” He sent you a knowing look. You kept your stare as plain as possible, trying to convey that you had done nothing wrong, nothing to betray him or the Guild. You weren’t even a Guild member, but respecting their rules is what kept you safe on this planet; it was suicide to go against the hunters here.

Karga moved his hand to his blaster slowly. You could see it in your peripheral, sensing a rising anxiety and adrenaline coursing through your gut. If he wanted a fight, you’d win. But if you won?

You’d have to leave. You’d be a wanted woman, once again.

“There’s been word that the Mandalorian comes in here often,” Oh, stars. You stopped yourself from swallowing down your nerves, dropping your face into something resembling fear as quick as you could.

“Yes, he does,” You said honestly. There was no use in lying if he’d got a tip. “That man—so many damaged weapons, all covered in blood and dirt,” You looked at your hands, as if in thought of how disgusting it was. “I’m thankful for his business in these trying times, but stars, he scares me half to death,”

If Mando were here, he would have scoffed. What a blatant lie, from a woman who had kissed his lips five days prior. His actual lips.

“It’s taken the Guild time to trust in him again,” Karga replied, taking his hand away from his blaster. It worked—stars, it fucking worked. He believed every word your lying mouth said. “He had a lapse of judgement a while back, but without him, quarries simply wouldn’t get collected as quickly or efficiently,”

You nodded severely, coating your gaze with a subtle sadness and trying desperately not to break. You hated acting like this—weak, spineless, like you didn’t know the ways of the Guild or hunters or killers, but sometimes it was the only thing that kept you safe.

“So, I was wondering, since times are tough,” Karga continued, moving his hand to his pocket slyly. “If you and I could strike a deal?”

He laid out five hundred credits on the work desk, letting you look at them, before looking back up to him. Fuck. Not another deal.

“Information on the Mandalorian, in exchange for Guild gratitude, and some credits to make these times easier to manage,” This was a fucking sham. You knew Guild contacts weren’t allowed to keep tabs on their members like this; it was heavily frowned upon and betrayed the initial trust.

But Karga had always been a snake. He was worse than the hunters, in some aspect. He expected honesty, respect, decorum; yet he often didn’t return the favour. He’d underpay his hunters, shoot them on site for being late without hearing their story, and evidently, spy on them behind their backs.

Oh, you would certainly be telling Mando about this.

“Karga, that’s so kind of you,” You began, shooting him a graceful smile and trying not to imagine what your fist round his jaw would look like. “But I’m afraid I have nothing to give. The Mandalorian doesn’t say two words to me when he comes in. He hands me a weapon, pays me, and waits in silence while I repair it,” Lies. All lies. He did more than sit there, and he certainly didn’t stay silent.

Stars, not now.

“Well—why don’t you try—,”

“Talking to him?” You interrupted. “Tried it, he never replies. It’s like I’m just talking to myself, most of the time. Stars, he’s a scary man,”

Karga’s face dropped into a frown.

“I’m grateful for the proposition, Karga,” You said, before silently pushing his credits back towards him on the desk. “But I think it would simply be a waste of your credits,”

Karga regraded you slyly, squinting slightly at the innocent expression you were plastering all over your face. “Well,” He sighed, taking back his credits. “That you for the honesty, Miss,” He nodded at you and you nodded back. “Good day to you,”

You held your breath as he walked out of the shop, not moving until you were sure he was around the corner of the street outside. And then you exhaled heavily, clutching your heart as the waves of anxiety and adrenaline finally caused you grief. That snake; that fucking snake.

You had no way of contacting Mando before he arrived back, so you’d simply have to hope that your lies would hold up during his next visit. If Karga was wary about this enough to ask you to strike a deal with him, then this wouldn’t go away quickly—

He was after something; something to incriminate Mando in the Guild.

You kept your communicator charged and strapped to your wrist at all times, just waiting for his modulated drawl to come through over the next few days. The man was on your mind at all times; while you worked, when you ate, shot, showered and before you went to sleep. His kiss had seeped into your very being, often reappearing in your mind randomly and making you jump. Your fingers brushed your lips whenever you thought of him. Soft, prickling pecks littered your entire body in anticipation of when he’d kiss you all over—

Your skin, your chest, your collarbones and between your thighs. Stars, you’d give up every part of yourself for him—not that you’d ever admit that to the bastard; it would only serve to fuel his ego and his over-the-top confidence when he finally broke you down, made you blush, made you whimper.

A week after waking in his ship, you turned your light out and crawled into bed. He was due back tomorrow and as much as you craved his touch and his voice, you were afraid of what Karga was plotting. You’d have to tell him immediately, to at least try and halt something from happening to him without his prior knowledge.

Eventually, you fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of sweet things. Blurs of greys and browns met you behind your eyelids, mimicking the subtle reflections of the moonlight off of Mando’s Beskar helmet. In your dream, he stood over you in your room, visor peering down at your sleeping body as he quietly began taking off portions of his armour and laying them on the floor in a neat pile.

He started with his shoulder pads, moving to his chest plate and pulling it from his front and back. His leg plates came off the easiest, with subtle tugs one by one until he wore only his under clothes and helmet. It was dark, but you smiled up at where you sensed his body to be, mumbling greetings at him before he moved round to other side of the bed.

Only when he slipped off his shoes and lifted the covers, did you realise you weren’t fucking dreaming—

Stars, you were awake, barely, and Mando was slipping into bed next to you. He’d picked the lock on the door, slotted off his Beskar and crawled in right next to you, all under the cover of Nevarro darkness and with no hesitation at all.

He rested his head on the pillow next to your own, softly wrapping his arms around you as you fought against the deep sleep weighing you down. You were incoherent, utterly confused but also blisteringly hot at what was going on. Inside, a voice screamed at you to wake up, to focus on what was happening, to tell him about Karga; but the other was simply letting out pleased moans and mumbles, hooking yourself into his embrace and feeling the immediate comfort of his warm body next to yours.

You would kick yourself for this in the morning, but as you fell asleep in each other’s arms, you almost didn’t care.

Almost.

Mando stirred awake first, but he didn’t move from your side. You felt his movements as he stretched his muscles and his joints under the duvet next to you, only to shove himself back into your embrace while he moaned sleepily. You fluttered your eyes open, feeling his beating heart on your back as he hugged you from behind.

“You picked my lock again,” You croaked out, sleep still present within your voice.

A small, modulated chuckle trickled over you. “Didn’t want to wake you,” He spoke, his voice just as raw and utterly delicious as it had been waking up to him last week.

You fluttered your fingers over his own, wrapped around your torso and dangling comfortably in front of your face. His hands twitched when you first touched them, but as he got used to the sensation, he squeezed your fingers back, swiping his thumb over your knuckles rhythmically.

“I have some news,” You let out gravely, swallowing down a sudden bout of nerves. Karga—you had to tell him about Karga. You shuffled in bed, rolling over to face him head on. That didn’t stop him from repositioning himself, allowing you to lay upon his forearm. “Karga came in here two days ago, asking about you,”

You half expected Mando to tense, to sit up immediately, to go straight into hunter mode, but he didn’t. He stayed put, almost mesmerised by your face looking directly at his own. Slowly, gently, he raised a hand to your cheek, rubbing his thumb over the morning blush that they possessed. He swiped his fingers over your jaw, slotting some stray hairs behind your ear and utterly ignoring the fact that you definitely had bed hair.

Exhaling, you closed your eyes. His fingers never lost their touch, never lost their softness. You happily melted whenever he touched you, igniting your senses while simultaneously making you feel as safe as he possibly could. You wondered if your touches, your stares, your movements, made him feel the same way?

You swallowed, forcing yourself to drift back to reality, opening up your eyes. “This is serious, Mando,” You persisted. “He offered me a deal. I had to make up an excuse to deny him. Someone’s spotted you coming here and they’re suspicious,” Mando continued traversing his fingers over your face.

“Did they see you leaving the Razor Crest?” He asked gently.

“If they did, Karga didn’t mention it,”

Mando was silent for a beat, indulging in you. Then he nodded once, sternly, seeming content with that answer.

“Good. Karga believed you?”

“He took back his credits and walked out. There were no threats, so that’s a win in my book,”

“Good,”

Good. You ignored the way your heart swelled at his words. He was worried about you in this situation, not about himself. You expected Mando had been through his fair share of hiccups with the Guild, especially after he told you about the shit with the kid. His ability to brush these things off frustrated you though; maybe he was careless, or maybe he was just used to it. Either way, you still had anxiety in your gut about the encounter.

“Do you want some caf?” You asked in a whisper, still relishing in the way his fingers were floating over your skin.

“Wait,” He said in reply, which prompted you to go completely still. His fingers wound up your forehead, touching you so lightly that you could barely feel them skimming your skin. You let out a pent-up breath, relaxing ever so slightly into his grasp and sinking further into his arm. You closed your eyes once more, trying to expel the stress you felt about Karga, the constant fears of messing up these meetings with Mando, and the incessant urge to kiss every portion of his bare skin until he whimpered.

This intimacy; you craved it. Him; you missed him.

As much as it pained you, you couldn’t stop the internal clock within you from counting down every second you were with him, knowing that eventually it would run out and he’d have to leave again. With every week that passed, you missed him more, and with every time he arrived at your doorstep, you wanted him to stay for longer and longer each time.

Stars. You’d become a wetwipe over a man whose face you’d never seen.

“You made yourself very comfortable here last night,” You said, keeping your eyes closed but shooting him an amused smile. You loved that he felt at home here, loved that after so many months he finally felt open to be this soft, this gentle. There was always another side to people, and with Mando it was something you’d never expected—

He was a hunter, a killer, so ingrained in his work that it was all he did between these brief visits of comfort and affection. Maybe you were helping; helping him to return to himself after tracking and capturing quarries. It made you feel worth something, for once in your life, without that worth being down to the amount of blood you spilled in your prior life.

“It’s easy to, when you fit perfectly in my grasp,” He uttered coarsely. You perked an eyebrow at him, which he tentatively fluttered his fingers over.

“Are you saying I’m small?” You joked.

“I’m saying, you’re more cooperative when you’re half asleep,” He joked back, letting out a breathy chuckle. Stars, what you’d do to feel his breath when he did that. The subtlety of his breath hitting your skin was another craving that you’d never known you’d wanted, until the prospect of falling for a man in a helmet arose.

You shot your eyes open, slowly bringing a hand up to his neck. You wrapped your fingers around his throat gently, slowly, relishing in the touch of his warm skin. His neck was something you’d agonised over. It was so long, so tempting to bite into that you’d had to stop yourself from doing so, when you’d plastered kisses all over his chest before. His Adam’s apple protruded attractively, bobbing up and down when he spoke to you ruggedly.

You applied a slight pressure against this blood vessels, avoiding pressing into his throat.

“Are you saying I’m uncooperative?” You spoke sensually, allowing your words to trickle all over him, until you’d got what you’d wanted; the feeling of his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath your hand—as he gulped.

Bingo.

At light speed, Mando grabbed your wrist, moving his body in the same motion to peer over you. He straddled you elegantly, pushing your wrist down into the pillow above your head. Stars, he looked good like this, and the feeling was even better. A warmth spiralled from your gut, spreading through your body as arousal began to take over all of your senses.

You squirmed slightly, prompting Mando to grab your other wrist and place it up top with your other hand, using only one of his to hold you in place. His hands were huge compared to yours, yet he was so skilful with the way he moved them. They weren’t clunky; they were stealthy, they were soft, but you also didn’t doubt his ability to snap you in two at any given moment, if he wanted to.

“Smart mouth, when will you learn to keep it shut?” He growled slowly, using his knees to pry open your legs, while he dug his free hand into your upper thigh. You obeyed, wrapping your legs around his hips and trying not to completely unfold at the feeling of your bare legs upon his clothes. Night clothes weren’t the sexist of attire to wear in a situation like this, but Mando didn’t fucking care—he had you right where he wanted you.

“I was raised never to be belittled by a man,” You replied, beginning to fight back against his grasp on your hands. Mando grunted, pressing on your wrists with increased ferocity.

“I was raised never to break a promise,” Mando let out, coming in closer, closer, closer, until his hips were pressed agonisingly between your legs. It was different this time, without the confines of cargo trousers keeping him separate from you, only a pair of thin shorts lay between you and his blissfully throbbing crotch. “The wound is healed,”

Oh, fuck. Stars, he—he didn’t mean—

Before you could widen your eyes, he was already jumping off the bed. You scrambled up to sitting, watching the intense way he strode to the blinds on your window and blacked them out completely. He scanned your floor quickly, bending down and picking up the closest item of clothing he could find, before standing over you, coiling the fabric in his hands anxiously.

You knew what he wanted; he wanted assurance that you wouldn’t see his face, not while his helmet was off and on your floor. Stars, off and on your floor. Your expression softened as you shuffled towards him, draping your legs off the bed and leaning back to look up at him.

Mando wasted no time tying the shirt over your eyes. He was gentle when he tightened it, making sure not to make it uncomfortable for you. He was sweet like that, but what he did next, was the furthest thing from sweet.

Before you could react, an arm had hooked around your back, the other under your legs, as Mando all but threw you back upon the bed. Your head hit the pillow, sprawling you out in front of him while you struggled against the pitch blackness of your vision. You let out a whimper as you sensed him over you, as his hands started trailing over every part of your body; your legs, your arms, teasing his fingers up and under your night shirt and fiddling temptingly at the waistband of your shorts.

Stars, you ceased to breath.

When he stopped, it was only to take off his helmet. You heard the way it ruffled his hair beneath as he tugged it off with a grunt. That voice; you couldn’t wait to hear his voice. Without the modulator, without the immediate lowering of his tone and monotonous ways Mando spoke while he wore it.

You were practically shaking in anticipation, not being able to see where he was, or know when he’d appear between your legs. You squirmed, letting out an incredibly nervous whimper, and Mando folded—he chuckled to himself, floating his delicious voice over the room, before you felt fingers curl around your waist snuggly.

He crawled his fingers up your shirt slowly, making sure to touch as much of you as he could. Electricity wound its way up your arms, your legs, your torso, heightening your remaining senses and making everything utterly blissful—you were in heaven, stars, you knew that he was going to be good. There was no doubting it, not after the display of his skills previously.

Mando curled the fabric of your shirt up and over your tender breasts, taking his time as he slalomed his fingers between them, circling back round to skim your nipples, causing the breath to hitch in the back of your throat—

“Smart mouth,” Mando growled. His face, his bare face, was just above you, relishing in the look of you utterly helpless, melting at his touches upon new areas of your body. You bit down on your bottom lip, loving the nickname he’d adopted for you—but fuck—that’s when he let out the most painful of moans. “Fuck—,” He forced out, and in an instant, his lips were upon yours—

You wasted no time wrapping your arms around his shoulders, overwhelmed by the pure feeling of him being this close once more. You could barely talk after he’d kissed you last, and you didn’t doubt the same thing would fucking happen this time, but stars, you didn’t care. If it gave Mando the confidence to go further, to touch you all over, to know that he made you weak, then that’s all you cared about.

Fuck your dignity. Fuck your blush. If Mando wanted it, you’d just about give him anything.

His tongue fell into your mouth, deliciously inhaling you and enjoying every second of being this close. He nipped at your lower lip, groaning into your mouth with strained pleasure, while his hands slowly—delicately, agonisingly—made their way further and further down your body, finding your waistband once more.

Without warning, Mando separated from you, breathing out heavily as you still felt him upon your lips—but his breath, you felt it. You felt him breathing, felt his puffs of air as he tried desperately to quench his thirst for you. Stars—it was fucking hot. You squirmed in pleasure as Mando’s hand trickled beneath your waistband, skimming the skin just before your warmth and making you blush brighter than ever before.

“You want me to stop?” He growled. He was hungry. And you’d be lying if you didn’t love it when he spoke to you like this. You shook your head feverishly, as Mando slowly began to pull down your shorts.

He started slow, making you whimper as the anticipation became too much, before ripping them off of you. You raised your legs to the sky as he pulled the fabric from each foot and threw them behind him, the same way he’d done with those tight trousers. You gasped when he stopped momentarily though, as his fingers brushed over the scarred skin on your right ankle—

You began to get up, to reach out and find his hand to stop him from looking at the mark, but all you got in return was Mando spreading your legs as wide as they could go. You collapsed back onto the bed, trying to stop your upper thighs from trembling, but it was far too late.

“You’re already drenched,” Mando breathed out, looking at your pussy head on; relishing in the way it glistened just for him. You whimpered, feeling the vulnerabilities of him staring at your slit and trying to close your legs as a reflex, but stars—Mando didn’t like that.

He didn’t like that one bit.

His fingers dug into your thighs as he opened your legs sternly, grunting in effort at the small fight you were putting up. “Don’t you dare,” He growled sternly, and stars, you all but froze in place. “Don’t hide,” He continued, softening his voice slightly as you continued to fucking die as the mere image of him descending upon your aching pussy. “Not from me, ever,”

Ever—when he said it, you flinched all over. Because you could feel his breath; you could feel it on your pussy. Right over your throbbing clit, right over your blistering warmth. Mando was biding his time, making you cry, making you whimper and whine, and he was loving it. The bastard, the fucking bastard.

“Mando—,” You stuttered out, but all too soon his mouth latched onto your pussy. You let out the longest groan you’d ever released as all of your muscles tensed at once. Your entire body was on fire, lit up from the subtle movements of Mando’s tongue slowly licking up and down over your sensitive slit.

His hands gripped your thighs hungrily, pulling you closer to his mouth with every breath and shudder that ran through your body. “Fuck—fuck—,” Was the only thing you could actually manage to get out, as his tongue began drawing circles around your clit, missing it intentionally as he riled you up intensely first.

There it was, that warmth—the warmth that signified the fucking want to burst was rising up faster than ever before while Mando ate you out sublimely, mixing up his movements to be both soft and incredibly fast. His tongue was perfection, his mouth was parted just for you, as his stubble caught on your lips and added to the pleasure tenfold.

You let out a moan when he came up for air, breathing shallowly while his hands settled upon your belly, pulling you closer than ever before. “You tell me when you’re close, and I won’t ever stop,” His voice was deep, slick, his lips covered in you and only you.

Before you could reply, he buried his face between your thighs. You fucking yelled, grabbing onto the closest thing you could for stability, which happened to be his hair. His hair, it was soft, matted, but just long enough for you to pull between your flinching fingers. Mando’s ferocity only increased as you scratched your nails over his scalp, making him moan into your opening and hazard a small nip upon your clit between his teeth—

You yelped, jumping up involuntarily at his reply to your hand placement. Mando pushed you back down by your belly, diving deep between your slit to continue those agonising circles, lapping up every last drop of you that he could. His speed was increasing slowly, agonisingly, as your gut continued to coil at the feel of his mouth upon your most sensitive area—an area that you’d dreamed he’d one day explore. Stars, he was fucking relentless, showing no mercy while you were on the brink of tears.

Oh, stars—you were going to cum.

You shuddered, going utterly silent while Mando continued lapping you up. You moved your hands to his face, placing them on either side of his cheeks and digging your fingers into his neck slightly. “M-Mando—,” You stuttered out, feeling the way your gut was contracting and knowing that it wouldn’t be long.

“Cum,” Was all he said in reply. “I can feel you. Let go,” He spoke into your slit, not removing himself from your pussy while you whimpered in pleasure, heartrate accelerating, breath hitching in the back of your throat constantly.

Stars, it was going to happen, you were so close—but that’s when Mando removed himself from your clit, pushing himself up quickly until you knew he was peering down at you, face to face. He got in close to your face, bringing a hand to gently curl around your neck. You whined intensely, smacking your hands on his chest in protest.

“Please—why the fuck did you—,” Mando cut you off by pressing his blistering lips against your own. That shut you up perfectly, as you tasted yourself upon his soft lips.

“Always so rude,” He moaned into your mouth. You bit his bottom lip suddenly, making him jump away from your face.

“Says the man who just edged me to oblivion,” You growled at him, letting out a snarl as you squirmed beneath him. Mando only chuckled, and stars, it just fucking turned on you more. You were still riding the coattails of almost coming into his mouth, but you had no idea what he was playing at by leaving your aching pussy to get lonely.

“I’m not finished yet,” He said slowly, gritting his teeth in pain. “So impatient—,” He stopped talking when you grabbed him by the neck and shoved his mouth onto your own once more. He pulled back after kissing you feverishly, tightening his grip on your neck slightly as you moaned in a new type of pleasure. “I wanted to see that blush, so I can notice the difference after you cum in my mouth,”

As fast as he’d stopped, Mando shoved his face into your slit once more, and stars—you had to stop yourself from screaming. His hand stayed plastered around your throat, relishing in the way he could feel every time the breath caught in the back of your throat at his movements. If he’d been somewhat gentle before, he’d now thrown all of that out of the fucking window, adopting a delicious, up-pace rhythm as you squirmed beneath him.

The feeling in your gut came back tenfold as you fought against the rising yells in your throat. Your entire body was buzzing with pleasure, as the tension in your muscles were begging for relief, for release, for Mando to tip you over the edge.

You fumbled as you wrapped your fingers around his arm, still holding your neck firmly and pressing down heavenly upon your blood vessels. With every subtle press, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, causing a new sensation to rise within you and only increase your overall pleasure. Stars, you knew he was going to be good—

But this good? This man must have learned this from somewhere, and stars, you wanted to fucking know what else he could do; how else he could make you unwind effortlessly.

You swallowed painfully, feeling a clear acceleration beneath your chest. You felt your hairs stand on end, as sweat started to pool on your chest and other parts of your bare skin. “I’m—,” You began, but had to stop and let out a back-arching moan, as Mando only sped up the motions of his tongue upon your quivering clit. “Gonna— cum,” You forced out sternly.

Mando kept to his promise—when you said the word, he didn’t fucking stop. He only kept going, increasing his speed, tightening his grip on your belly and your neck and making you see stars behind your eyelids. You squirmed, breathing shallowly, as if in panic, when in reality you were fucking seconds away from coming into the Mandalorian’s open mouth.

You let out a few static fucks, arching your back further and further, while Mando stayed latched onto you like a fucking leech, sucking you dry, making you moan and groan and sweat and ache, and then—in a wave of pleasure, you came.

You came hard, releasing a screaming groan hybrid and collapsing your legs to fall on Mando’s head. He didn’t mind though; he kept his lips glued to your pussy, occasionally licking along your slit to lap everything up neatly. He missed your clit though, not wanting you to feel overstimulated after orgasming the hardest you ever had in your life.

You tensed every few seconds, feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm while Mando slowly, delicately, unlatched himself from you. He let out a small chuckle in approval, no doubt admiring his work, before he crawled back up to your face. He placed pecks on your neon red cheeks, bringing his mouth down to press upon your own softly, gently, directly juxtaposing to the way he’d eaten you out just moments before.

Mando was many things; terrifying, mysterious, silent. But he also had a different side; funny, soft, warming and incredibly gentle. Whichever side you got, you always felt blessed. Especially here, t-shirt tied around your eyes to stop you from seeing his face, naked from your breasts down and limbs utterly exhausted and unable to move—

You were in bliss.

Because he was next to you.

And because he’d just made you cum really fucking hard.

“Look at this,” He whispered, placing another peck upon your exhausted lips. “She’s finally lost for words,”

Stars, you would have punched him in the gut if you had the strength, but all of it was being sucked up from the colossal release you were still feeling. You simply kept silent, eyes closed behind the makeshift blindfold, relishing this feeling. Mando reached down to grab his helmet, and all too soon it was slotted back over his head. You frowned when he gently took your mask off, revealing his chrome visor that you knew so well.

You smiled at him smally as he straddled your waist softly, reaching up to place a hand against the cold Beskar of his helmet. There was something about looking at him when you did this, which of course you couldn’t do when he had his mask off. As much as you loved feeling the lines of his face, his facial hair, his lips—you loved looking at him like this.

Exposed, vulnerable, trying to show him everything that you wanted to scream at his face, but couldn’t because of the way you were inherently afraid of weakness. Was liking someone a weakness? Was wanting to be around them, make them feel good, miss them when they were gone, weak?

Or was it a strength?

Mando curled his fingers around your wrist gently, just holding them there while you kept an unwavering stare on his visor. “I can make some caf,” He said quietly, his voice utterly different to the way he’d spoken when he was face deep in your cunt.

You couldn’t help it—you let out a scoff, draping an arm over your blushing face to cover yourself up from even more humiliation. “You just ate my pussy, made me cum, and now you’re going to make me caf?” You let out, stuttering out some involuntary chuckles after speaking.

Stars, you knew he was grinning beneath that fucking helmet, just from the way he was silently looking at you. “Yeah,” He replied simply, before getting up and heading to the small kitchenette of the shop.

Mando stayed for coffee, though he didn’t have any, obviously. He did lie next to you as you drank your own, watching the way you went over your schedule and agenda for the working day, noting things down with a tiny, over-sharpened pencil in a notepad and sipping at your caf throughout.

He didn’t say much, just light conversation about the kid, about his upcoming meeting with Karga later that morning, about the way you needed to brush your hair, before he was combing his fingers through your scalp without being asked to. Mando, you realised, had a love language; something to show his affection, his desires, to show his care. It wasn’t speaking, he was a man of little to no words. It was touching—

However small. A hand on your back, fingers combing through your hair, thumb swiping over your lips. That was him saying “I’m here. I’m here right now, with you.”

When it was time for him to leave, you tried not to pout. He slotted his Beskar back on, mumbling to himself about checking on the kid before heading to the bar, and then he was slinging his satchel over his shoulder and following you to the door. You hugged your arms coldly, patting bare feet upon the shop floor before you unlocked the front door and creaked it open.

Mando lingered in the doorway. “Meet me at the Razor Crest tonight,” He stated. You widened your eyes in surprise.

“Why?” You questioned. His visor didn’t meet your eyes.

“I need to ask you something,” He said finally. You nodded slowly, despite him not looking towards you. That’s when he left. No “See you next week”, no flirtatious banter that both of you had become accustomed to over the past few months. No nothing.

You felt slightly anxious when you shut the door, trying not to overthink his incredibly blunt nature, after such a comfortable night and intense morning together. Mando was many things; a hunter, a killer, and you knew he was dangerous. But that didn’t stop you from feeling these things. It didn’t stop you from second guessing every silent stare, every absent touch, every blunt reply.

Stars—men.

Nevertheless, you had work to do. You readied yourself for the day, all too aware of the ticking clock, counting down to when you’d next see your Mandalorian—

To when you’d get to kiss those lips once more.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #star wars #star wars fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #x reader #reader insert #no saints #no saints fic #smut and angst #smut and fluff #hurt and comfort #fanfiction #wattpad #ao3 #updat

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aadmelioraa · 3 years

Note

CAN I ASK FOR BOTH 1 AND 2 WITH ALDFLAED PLS IM BEGGING

YES YOU CAN!! 1 + 2 being: a conversation you wish had happened in canon + expression of love.

This turned into a whole thing, whoops.

Read below, or on ao3.

Hope (Aethelflaed x Aldhelm, rated T, 1.5k)

When finally she sees Aldhelm again it does her heart good. Despite her insistence to the contrary, the thought that he may have succumbed to his injury crosses Aethelflaed’s mind more than once in the weeks that pass between their meetings.

He’s speaking with one of the guard at the other side of the courtyard and when his eyes flick towards her briefly a restrained smile flits across his face.

She walks towards him at a leisurely pace, waiting for the other man to take his leave before she approaches too close.

He greets her with a bow of his head, bending at the waist by force of habit and grimacing slightly as he does.

“Please do not trouble yourself,” she says, laying a hand on his arm without thinking. He stands as if turned to stone, and she pulls her hand away, heart racing. Despite their exposure, something about this encounter feels even more intimate than their last. She had not expected that.

“Lady. Your victory was well-told.” Aldhelm’s voice is warm, though his eyes remain as shrewd as ever.

“You are looking nearly healed,” she says, no interest in discussing matters of war for now. “I am glad of it.”

His eyes are fixed on her as he replies, “I have recovered, thanks to you.”

“I could not very well have let you bleed to death on my floor,” she chides gently. “If you had wanted to meet your end, you ought to have gone elsewhere.”

He huffs a laugh, followed by another painful grimace, but this time she refrains from reaching out.

“Your husband is within,” he says, glancing towards the palace.

Aethelflaed frowns. “Why have you returned, Aldhelm? Do you not fear he may strike again?”

And as he meets her eyes, she knows the answer, and it sends a familiar quiver through her the way his confession had those weeks ago.

He’s returned for her. Out of duty to her, and to Mercia—they are one and the same to him. It is equal parts calculated and reckless to slink back to the side of the man who’d tried to kill him—who’d tried to kill them both. But she was here, and so was he, and their reasons were not so dissimilar.

“I will happily leave if you have an errand for me,” he says, a hint of levity entering his tone. “But otherwise, my place is here.”

“I have no errand for you,” she replies, narrowing her eyes as she shakes her head. “My only orders were to stay alive, and so far you have not failed me.”

A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth again, this time he barely fights it. “If you are pleased, then so am I.”

She sweeps by him with one last glance as she says, “I must greet my husband. I am sure he will be as happy to see me alive as he was to see you.”

And though his face is gone from view, she can see his gentle smile deepen clearly in her mind’s eye.

***

Aldhelm retires that evening well after the rest of the household has gone to bed. He had hoped to catch one more glance of Aethelflaed as he sat by the fire, but she had vanished some time ago.

When he reaches his room something stays his hand at the door. It is closed, as he’d left it, but his years of soldiering had made him attuned to any small changes in his surroundings, and it has saved his life too many times for him to second-guess his instincts.

He draws his weapon and pushes the door open gingerly. He had been right. The room is not empty.

Aethelflaed sits on the edge of his bed mending a tunic—his tunic—and looking so at ease he nearly questions whether by some trick he’d arrived in her room instead of his own.

“You do not sleep, Aldhelm?” she asks easily, glancing up from her work just long enough to cause the color to rise in his face.

He returns his knife to his belt and closes the door behind him, not sure he should, but certain it cannot remain open. “I found myself lost in thought. But you, Lady, are also awake. Do you not sleep either?”

Aldhelm steps closer, heart pounding, and sees the garment she’s mending is the robe he’d been wearing that fateful night in Winchester. The bloodstain, by some miracle, had disappeared after vigorous scrubbing with ash and cold water, but the jagged rift in the fabric had remained, Aldhelm finding himself strangely averse to repairing it. The gash was an echo of the scar on his own body which served as a warning that might reinforce his better judgement should he find himself again at odds with Aethelred. A warning which now has been turned into a message with quite a different tone. Wounds will heal, rifts will be repaired, and his heart will continue beating for a singular purpose—he can no longer deny it does. He had admitted it to her, those weeks ago, now he has admitted it to himself.

“You needn’t trouble yourself.” Objection is futile for many reasons, not least of which is the mesmerizing effect that her elegant and efficient needlework has on him.

“It’s no trouble,” she replies. “And I’m nearly done.” Indeed, as she speaks she pulls the final stitch and inspects her work. “There. You can hardly tell.”

When she offers him the garment he accepts, and it feels somehow heavier than he remembers. Her hands linger near his, fingers buried in the folds of the fabric.

“My lady, you endanger yourself by being here.” He cannot help but remind her.

She lifts an eyebrow in that authoritative way of hers. “You ought to worry for yourself more than you do me, Aldhelm.” And as she traces along the line of her stitches her fingers brush his.

He’s struck suddenly by a memory from several years ago: Aethelflaed in profile, sitting atop her horse as she commands the Mercian fyrd. Something about her expression now makes it impossible for him not to recall that moment. He wonders if perhaps that was the moment when his heart had begun to turn towards her. He cannot be sure, for he had found himself ambushed by sentiment before he’d even realized that his affections had been capable of attaching themselves to such an object.

“I should let you rest.” That thoughtful line he has come to love so well has appeared between her brows.

“I am honored to have been visited by such a careful seamstress,” he says, taking a step back to allow her aside.

She smiles slightly. “I was told as a child to make my stitches neat, or they would not hold.”

“Precision is a strong suit of yours, I have noticed,” he remarks, awed that still she does not leave.

“Not, however, of my husband’s,” she replies, her tone darkly humorous. “And thank God for that.”

“Why are you here, Lady?” The question is as blunt as it is inevitable. It is late, and he is tired, and she is too exceptional not to be aware the effect she has on him.

Her expression turns sober, and he curses himself for his candor. “My apologies, I did not mean—“

She shakes her head. “Do not apologize. You are right, I should not be here."

“You do not intend to tell me why you’ve broached propriety for such a small task?” Aldhelm asks, folding the length of the garment in half and setting it aside.

“It is not a small task,” she replies, and lays a hand on his chest.

He places his hand atop hers as if to confirm he had not imagined it her touch.

“I should let you rest,” she repeats, but instead of moving away, she moves closer.

“You should rest as well,” he replies. “But only after you reveal your true purpose.”

Her eyes crease with a smile. “Do you suspect me of duplicity?”

“If you no longer suspect me, I feel compelled to maintain the balance myself.”

She breathes a laugh, but her grave look returns.

“If I were a more hopeful man,” he brushes his thumb along the curve of her cheek, “I’d invent some foolish reason for your presence.”

“Perhaps, Aldhelm,” she says, and his heart leaps at the sound of his name on her tongue, “Perhaps you may allow yourself a little foolishness, on this occasion only.”

He gently lifts her chin towards him. Her eyes are bright and clear, no trace of uncertainty in her face.

“I am afraid I shall play the fool too well,” he murmurs.

She rises on her toes to kiss him. “I have no doubt you will regain your reason, before long.”

And he wraps his arms around her and gives in to hope, at least for a night.

#the last kingdom #aethelflaed x aldhelm #aethelflaed #aldhelm #tlk fic #marv-llous #the expression of love is not quite overt but i hope this fits the bill!#kat writes

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a-pirate-my-hearties · 3 years

Text

Hurts too good (Tavington x female reader smut)

So I told you I was planning a smutty little one-shot about our gorgeous Colonel Tavington? Here it is, I’m not sure if it’s what most of you expected, but this fantasy has been living in my head rent free for the past couple of days, so this is what you get, enjoy ;)

Also Tavington is a sadist, yes, and he’s a bit of a sadist in this too, but he knows what consent is ;)

The theme song of the fic is Hurts too good by Ruelle (hence the title, it was just, well, TOO GOOD not to use ;) )

Warnings: Smut, angry sex/make-up sex? who knows, swearing, mild violence, BDSM themes, D/s, spanking/whipping, knife play

Y/n was finally able to rest with a book on her chaise longue. That last mission cost her quite a lot of stress and determination and the men she was working with were not cooperating later on. She let out a sigh of frustration. Being a woman could be such an inconvinience at times. At least to them, it seemed.

It wasn’t long until Colonel Tavington stormed into her room without knocking, riding crop still in his hand. He was obviously furious about something. Y/n got up instantly, eyebrows furrowed at the rude interruption.

‘Colonel! What is this?’

Tavington scoffed. ‘I thought I have made myself rather clear when I told you not to meddle with my affairs!’

Y/n’s jaw dropped. ‘But what are you talking about? I did exactly what you’ve asked of me!’

Tavington approached her slowly, like a predator would approach his pray. ‘No, you did not, and you know it.’ His gaze was steel, just like was his voice.

Y/n threw her hands in the air and then put them on her hips, disgust written all over her face. Tavington was a great leader but she despised him. ‘Well, am I not to make any independent decissions in mission then? You know very well that...’

Tavington cut the distance between them short and suddenly she was pinned to the wall by his firm frame, his fist slammed into the wall inches from her face.

‘You are to obey my orders without a question, you foolish wench.’

Y/n gasped. That was enough. She looked him straight in the eye. ‘You know what, Tavington? Fuck you. You know very well that without my information you would be nowhere near where you are now in mission. You know it very well.’ - she almost spat the last words like an insult.

And then slapped him.

Tavington gasped. He touched his face and his eyes glinted dangerously for a moment. He quickly clasped both her wrists into his hand, the other one went into her hair, tugging forcefully to make Y/n look into his eyes.

‘You insolent, little...’

Y/n whimpered, her body was obviously betraying her. She felt heat building up in her core. Tavington’s eyes were unbereably blue, now darkening with desire, a delicious, sardonic smirk forming on his lips. His closeness was almost painful, and she could feel his hardness already growing. Their eyes met and then...

‘I see you like to play rough.’

Suddenly Tavington’s warm mouth was on hers, kissing her violently, passionately, and she responded with equal fervor. He maneuvered them towards her bed, pushing her down and not just undressing her, but tearing her dress down and trying to undress himself, Y/n trying to help (damn all those buttons!), it was all a mess but finally they succeeded – and then his lips and hands were all over her, on her neck, her exposed breasts, devouring her hungrily. Y/n was dazed and breathless, but trying to pull him even closer to her, she needed him inside her so badly.

‘Tavington, for God’s sake, please – ‘

He smirked and cocked an eyebrow at her. People begged him for life all the time, he was used to it. But this – this was his favourite kind of begging.

‘Please what?’ – he wasn’t going to make it easy for Y/n.

‘Oh just fuck me, you bastard, will you?’

He simply chuckled and looked at her with fire in his eyes before entering her in one swift movement. Both let out sounds of relief and pleasure, and soon Tavington picked up a rough and quick pace, holding onto Y/n’s thigh so hard she was sure she’ll bruise later but she didn’t care. She dug her nails into his firm back, putting her legs around his hips, moaning loudly. Y/n was starting to feel her pleasure building up with each hard thrust, but then suddenly he started slowing down and she let out a moan of dissapoitment, quite involuntarily.

Y/n felt Tavington’s hot breath in her ear when he whispered: ‘Don’t think I’m already done with you. On all fours, now. And wait for me.’, then he bit her earlobe and pulled out of her.

Y/n was waiting, all aroused and excited. It was only a moment before he came back, finding in his scattered belongings what he was looking for. She did as he ordered, so she was back to him and couldn’t see what was his plan.

She felt his rough fingers caressing her back and she arched under his touch.

‘Beautiful’, he murmured, his voice coarse with desire. Then she felt something other, something thin and leathery with a wider flat end, being moved down from her right shoulder blade and towards her buttocks. She recognized his riding crop. And then yet something else, cold hard metal, that made her shiver. A dagger. Tavington pulled her closer for a moment and said:

‘All I need from you now is one simple word.’

There was a moment of silence. Y/n should probably be afraid but she wasn’t, her judgement was clouded by desire. Tavington wasn’t going to hurt her, at least not like that. So she gave him a shaky, barely audible ‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

He pushed her down to her previous position, enjoying the view in front of him. She was beautiful when she was feisty and she was gorgeous obeying him like that. Tavington caressed her buttock softly before giving it a rather harsh whip with his crop. Y/n cried out and it was music to his ears. He gave her another whip and another before caressing the spot that was already bright red. Y/n’s breathing was heavy and her legs felt weak. She was soaking wet and awaiting impatiently for Tavington to fill her again. But this, oh, this – she wanted more.

Y/n felt his soft caress on her left buttock before he gave it the same treatment as the right one. The mixture of sounds – the riding crop against Y/n’s flesh and her moans – were enough to make Tavington crazy and he was inside her again that very moment. He entered her with a low grunt, his moves slow, deep and sensual this time, one of his hands caressing her breasts.

Y/n took him all in with a loud moan. He felt so good deep inside her she never wanted him to leave. But she wanted more of this sweet torture. She wanted him to hurt her, she realised.

‘Tavington – ‘

‘Yes?’

‘I want more. I want you to hurt me. Crop, dagger, I don’t care.’

‘Oh you don’t want me to hurt you, believe me.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Of course I know, my sweet hussy.’

Y/n whimpered when she heard him and felt him kiss her back, as he picked up the dagger while still inside her. She braced herself for the cold touch of metal on her body. Then she felt a sharp sensation between her shoulder blades which made her arch her back and shudder. Tavington stopped moving, still inside her, focusing on teasing and scratching her sensitive skin with the blade. It was enough to made the skin red but not enough to draw blood. He was experienced. He knew.

Soon whole her back was red from the scratches and Tavington decided it was enough. He moved his attention to her clit, circling it with his dexterous fingers and by Y/n’s moans he knew she was close. He smiled, caressing her scratched back and ordered her to lay down and face him.

She flinched a bit when she did, but her eyes were dark from desire as she was close to coming and that mixture of pain and rapture was what Tavington needed to see right now.

He entered her once more and his fingers focused again on her clit, more intensely this time, his eyes never leaving hers, her nails digging into his shoulder.

Parted lips.

Flushed cheeks.

Piercing blue eyes.

‘Oh – Oh, oh my god, William!’ – she came with a cry, clenching around him and that familiarity of his own name on her lips surprised him so, and it was so intoxicating he came right after, spilling deep inside her.

Breathing heavily, Tavington stayed in Y/n just for a moment longer before pulling out and rolling over beside her. They were as surprised as they were exhausted. Y/n looked at Tavington, a sculpture of a man, hair all disheveled out of his usual neat queue, sweat glistening on his broad torso, and thought him very beautiful in this state. When Tavington looked at Y/n, he thought she was exquisite. And when Y/n moved a lock of stray hair away from Tavington’s forehead and met his softer than usual glance, she though that maybe she doesn’t despise him that much.

@wisp-of-a-spook @foggynemo @xbowe87x @resplendentgoldenwings @bela-leerox @rosesandglitter @thebeautyofdisorder @jason-isaacs-fans @woman-with-no-name (I hope it’s ok I tagged you guys, please tell me if it’s not!!!)

If anyone else wants to get tagged in any future fics of mine related to Jason Isaacs’ characters - feel free to hit me up ;)

#colonel tavington #william tavington #tavington x reader #tavington x female reader #smut #tavington smut #jason isaacs #the patriot #fanfiction #the patriot fanfiction #hurts too good #lemon #n.s.f.w.

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starstruck-thirst · 4 years

Text

Crimson Dance Card

Illumi Zoldyck: Part 3 ‘Insidious Quickstep’

Previous- Part 2 ‘Dangerous Foxtrot’

Next- Part 4 TBA

Warnings: Slow manipulation, slow building story

~~~~~~

“The wedding is canceled,” he had said, voice as stern as it had always been. But there was an exhaustion under that familiar layer. Something that made the flesh on the back of your neck stand up. So many questions poured into your mind all at once that you couldn’t focus on any one to actually put a voice to it. But your father was looking directly into your eyes, awaiting your response.

“What happened? Was it something I did?” you finally asked, voice steady but uncertain in confusion. You couldn’t help but to think of all the times you denied Tibor. Had he finally decided your refusing his advances was enough to call everything off? “Will this harm the company?”

A pause. Then he took a deep breath that did nothing to relax his posture. “It doesn’t seem that the Tibor family will be pulling out of our contract, so nothing will change going forward with the partnership. As previously decided tomorrow we will be pairing with the Tibor company for the assigned supplies at a reduced cost.”

That was too neat. Why would they continue to partner with your family with so little gain? Sure, the pharmaceutical company your family ran would still generate a good revenue for the Tibor family, but originally they had been getting a partial share of the company when their son married you. So this was still a loss for them comparatively. “But what-” you were cut off as your father’s phone ringtone pierced the still air.

With a quick look at the phone screen he stood, putting a hand up to you indicating for you to wait for his return as he left for his office. “Yes? ...I’m taking care of it right now.” That was all you caught before the office door shut.

It had all happened so quickly and yet also in slow motion. Your father had stayed in his room so long that the morning passed in an anxious haze. You showered- though it wasn’t satisfying-, helped your younger siblings get ready for school, and even after all of that he still had not left his office again.

The only thing you could think to do with all of the anxious energy you felt welling up inside of your stomach was the obvious. Wedding preparations would have to be canceled, and it was only proper to do so in person. Anything to save face that ahead of time, since you weren’t sure just how much of it you were set to lose.

In the car it plagued you, and you ran the day before through your head again and again. Yes you had shied away from his kiss, but you had done so a million times before. Truth be told you figured Tibor didn’t really have much love for you, but was ready to have the business end and a pretty wife.

So what had changed?

By lunchtime you still weren’t certain. But you were hungry and your father hadn’t made any attempt to contact you just yet.

You had previously arranged a lunch at a nice cafe for you and Tibor, and it did seem a shame to waste it now. Especially a high end cafe on the pier. To be able to get in you had to have connections, and a place like that called for a certain level of social decorum. Including not canceling unless the reason was something very serious.

The inside was cool, both in temperature and color. Tasteful cool, gray wallpaper helped the seating area feel comfortable even on the most warm of days. Large windows looked out into the water, giving just a little taste at the life of comfort and lazing about that one could have when you had enough money. It was one of the few perks that your social standing had that you didn’t hate. A little slice of quiet and clean that not just anyone could touch.

“Are you here for your reservation, Miss. [last name]?” the host had asked when you arrived. Was there an air of judgement? Were you being paranoid?

“Yes. I’ll be alone today. I am sure that won’t be too much of a problem?”

He gave the briefest shake of his head and bowed, putting his arm out towards the dining room in a universal sign of granted entry. With a slight bow you left the desk to find your table with the help of a waiter that appeared immediately to usher you to your waiting table.

It felt so normal, and with how you had been feeling all day normal wasn’t good or comforting. It was just strange. Like you were watching from another body as you daintily navigated the tables covered in fine white cloth, full of your colleagues and their loved ones. The polite smile on your lips that you didn’t even have to think about any more was plastered on and it felt like a scab wanting to be scraped off.

By the time the waiter pushed you into your seat you almost felt a touch feint from how strangely you were feeling. Both alive and not.

“Would you like today’s chef’s special miss?” the waiter asked, filling your water glass, almost startling you.

Not feeling enough like yourself to even look over a menu, you nodded. “That would be, lovely. Thank you.”

The waiter dipped his head once and collected the spare place setting before going. It was somehow more odd when you were sitting at a table that had been previously set for two. When had you last eaten alone? Had you ever?

This was a lot of internal reflection that you hadn’t been prepared for.

Quietly you slipped your phone from your pocket to check your messages again, but disappointingly you had none.

Fortunately you had reserved a seat by the windows that looked out over the nearby bay. Previously it had been by design to have something to look at while Tibor prattled on about whatever it was he wanted to drone about today. Now it served as your only company as you waited with your hands in your lap, feeling like a child lost at sea.

“What fortune.”

It took a moment to realize the voice was directed at you since you were so lost in your own loneliness. But something in the familiarity is what finally commanded your attention, and to say you were completely shocked would have been an understatement. Illumi stood next to your table, just a few steps away in fact, looking right at you. The small smile you had come to look for any time the assassin graced your presence was detectable, but almost impossible to see if one wasn’t looking for it.

But you were.

“Oh! Mr. Z-.... Illumi,” you corrected. While it seemed more polite to use his last name, it was a rare occasion that it felt more proper to not use it. No one in the world had that last name that wasn’t part of a notorious assassin family. You hadn’t felt encumbered with it before, since you had been privately wandering the gardens, but now it seemed a sin.

“Illumi is fine,” he assured you. “Did you say… what fortune?” You tried to keep the girlish excitement out of your voice that welled up so quickly upon seeing him

“Yes. I was hoping to run into you again. I didn’t think it would be so soon. I admit the timing isn’t preferable.”

“Oh!” You looked around the room that you could see without moving your head, wondering if he was here on a job. “Are you… here for business?”

A very soft chuckle responded, “In a sense.” “Would… would joining me be of assistance or just a distraction? I do have this whole table to myself after all. Though I am sure you have a table already…”

Illumi looked to consider this. “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” you exclaimed a bit too loudly. You realized immediately and gave a bashful, apologetic look. “I apologize for my energy, I was just thinking some company might be nice is all.”

He raised a hand, making a waiter appear immediately. “I would like my meal sent to this table instead. That will be all.” Promptly he waved the man away who left with haste as Illumi sat down. “Simple enough to arrange.”

Your previously fake smile was genuine now. The excitement you felt bubbling inside of your stomach at seeing Illumi again was hard to repress and pretend to not exist.

“I’m glad you seem to be better today,” Illumi said, resting one arm on the table top. You must have seemed confused so he continued, “When I saw you yesterday afternoon you looked quite pale.”

“Oh that. Thank you I’m fine now. I guess it must have been warmer than I thought, though I can’t recall the last time the sun made me feel quite that faint.”

“I am surprised you are eating alone. No fiancé today it seems.”

You frowned. The feeling of the day you had been living creeping back into your emotions at the edges. Blurry and cold it felt, encroaching on the fresh and clear feelings you had just gotten back. “No. No fiancé at all. The arrangement was broken off.”

“Are you displeased?”

Even though you liked looking at Illumi, your eyes were drawn to the view outside once more for a moment before looking back to his face. His eyes were striking and it felt like they saw entirely through you. “No.” It was the first time you had thought so plainly of it. The worries about what had happened and what would happen going forward were entirely washed away in that moment and only the truth was laid bare inside of you. “He wasn’t worthy of my attention.”

Illumi seemed surprised by your brazien statement and you almost worried you had over stepped. “No. I don’t think he was.”

The waiter brought salad and for a time you two ate in silence. Mostly you didn’t want to bother Illumi when he was possibly working, watching a potential target. Yet it would be a lie that you also didn’t want to annoy him into leaving as you were enjoying his company so very much.

You didn’t turn your head to look about the room- even though it was very tempting- when Illumi’s eyes strayed from the table.

Some part of you wondered what it would be like to watch him actually kill someone.

“Do you have plans already this weekend, Miss. [last name]?”

Illumi’s question brought you back to immediate reality, salad fork half raised to your mouth. “I don’t believe so. A lot of my plans for this weekend are probably going to be very suddenly canceled,” you confessed. So much of your life was about being a socialite that now with all the calls and appearances on Tibor’s arm stricken from your planner you were temporarily left with ample time. “Why do you ask?”

Silently he put the fork on the salad plate to symbolize he was finished with it. “I have to attend another party and I would like to have a dance partner that knows how to move around the floor.”

You swallowed and put the fork down as quietly as you could, a mixture of excitement and nervousness washing over you like a tidal wave. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”

“I believe that is supposed to be my line,” Illumi replied with a smile as he leaned on his arm. The movement was so casual, like some icy wall of formality was dripping a bit and you could see through it to the man on the other side for a moment.

Illumi’s eyes were so dark that it almost seemed as if no light could hope to warm them, and yet they themselves held a certain heat. They were focused on you and only you and it was exhilarating.

“I suppose there is no rule written that it cannot be both.”

He chuckled at your response. “Don’t let your food grow cold,” he said sitting back up with perfect posture once more. As his eyes lowered away from your face it felt as if you could breathe again.

Without your notice the salad plate had been taken and a fresh plate of warm food had taken its place. How had you missed that?

Lunch passed pleasantly. He asked about your siblings again- their ages and hobbies- and allowed a question about his own family in exchange. Revealing that essentially everyone in the family was part of the business. You tried to imagine what it must have been like to be a trained assassin from birth. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t easily pictured.

The check came all too soon for your liking, and surprisingly it was set in front of Illumi. “Let me pay. I asked you to sit here after all and I took up so much of your time. I worry you didn’t even have time to work properly.”

But Illumi hadn’t even listened to your entire plea before pulling cash out and placing it with the bill and handing it back to a waiter. “I got plenty done.”

Even if it was customary that the gentleman pay, it still made that girlish rush come back again. Now it felt a bit like a date. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. May I walk you out to your car again?”

You nodded and started to move to stand but he motioned for you to remain where you were. Doing as you were instructed you waited as Illumi came around the table and pulled your chair out for you making it easier to stand gracefully.

He was so natural in everything he did. It was a marvel to watch as he offered his arm out again for you to take. This time you didn’t have a sun hat to hide the pink that spread across your cheeks, and all you could do was hope that Illumi wouldn’t think little of you for it.

Walking back out of the cafe was nothing like going in. You felt so very much a part of your body that you were overly aware of it. All the natural grace that had been bred into you didn’t seem enough as you walked next to someone so gorgeous.

“I enjoyed lunch today,” he said as the two of you waited for your car to come around and pick you up.

A hot, foaming warmth filled your entire body, and finally you figured out what that bubbly feeling was. It was hope. Hope that just maybe this handsome killer found you interesting and attractive. And it was scary. “I did also. I’m glad we ran into each other,” you admitted, hand still on his forearm.

“I will send along details about the party this weekend to your home.” The black car slid up, stopping right in front of the two of you. Illumi opened the door and guided you into it easily. “I look forward to dancing with you again, Miss. [last name].” As a parting gesture he took your hand into his and laid the softest kiss upon your knuckles.

“I look forward to it as well,” you whispered, placing your hand reluctantly into your lap before Illumi shut the car door and your driver pulled away from the cafe. You were grateful for the darkened car windows, knowing Illumi wouldn’t be able to see as you turned around to look at him one last time while he watched your car go, touching the knuckles he had kissed with your fingertips as you did so.

The entire thing was too good to be true. And for the first time the process of canceling all the wedding plans wasn’t painful, blurry, and distant. Now it was enjoyable. That was until a few hours later when a horrible feeling of sickness came over you again.

You had to return home early due to the feeling, a cold sweat starting to come over you once more. The possibility that you were sick occurred to you as you passed your father’s closed office door.

And for the next several days you were home bound, tossing in your sleep from whatever illness had taken you and praying that it would alleviate by the weekend.

Each day you lived just for the hope of the weekend and the handsome assassin that waited for you.

#hunter x hunter//#illumi zoldyck//#slow mental manipulation #star fic #star fic series #crimson dance card

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glitterslag · 5 years

Text

Strip Tease.

So this was on my mind for a few days and until I cracked and did blurbs for everyone! I’m super into Warren lately, and I haven’t done anything for Ben in a while so that’s what imma do

summary: Warren the master mixologist, sad, divorced Roger and Ben on a stag-do straight out of The Inbetweeners. And you, a stripper.

warnings: strip club, divorce, cheating, alcoholism, difficult sexual themes. References to sex and some light smut at the end.

word count: hella

A/N: This came out as more of a character study than anything else. Also, I’m seeing a lot of fuckboi ben HCs on my dash lately so I needed to remedy because i can’t handle the cold truth. So I wrote 2k words of lovely conscientious ben walking you home safe x

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Thanks for nearly 1k followers!! I’m celebrating by writing a ton of blurbs, headcanons and oneshots! Y’all are keeping me busy with the requests so far, but if you did want to suggest something, feel free! I hope I’ll get round to it

Warren.

The bar staff were nearly always female.

Recruit a pretty young girl to work 8 hours on her feet for minimum wage, while dancers make hundreds a night more than her wearing only a little less - you can pretty much guarantee the rest. She’ll be dancing in no time.

That was the idea, anyway. They would hire you to wait tables, but what they were really after was another stripper. A cash grab. In fact, that’s how most of them start. Turns out, customers aren’t really that bothered about the standard of the drinks they’re being served - not when they’re already drunk and distracted by everything else that’s… going on.

It does, however, mean you’re left with a high turnover rate, and a distinct lack of male bodies on the staff. It could be useful, your manager muses, to have someone there other than the bouncers, standing at the back of the room, keeping an eye on the floor. Looking after the girls a bit. Making sure nothing untoward was going on.

Plus, the boy’s a professional. He’s worked in bars before - high end ones - and he’s got a trick or two up his sleeve. It might be nice to bring a sense of class about the place, everyone agrees. Bring in a real mixologist. Maybe it would increase sales.

Warren used to be an alcoholic until he started working in bars.

It might seem contradictory, but really it makes perfect sense. It was only being around other drunkards 40 hours a week that made him realise how much he didn’t want to be one anymore.

Now he rarely drinks at all. Just mixes the cocktails. He’s really fucking good at it, too. Watching him skilfully tossing the bottles around - fingers so dexterous as he juggles with ingredients like it’s easy. It’s really sexy.

He causes a bit of a fuss when he first starts. People wonder whether he isn’t a stripper himself, wandered into the wrong club by accident. He’s certainly got the physique for it. Or is he going to be a bouncer, with that fearsome set of wings and his hard, hard expression?

Rumours swirl about him leaving his last job because he broke up with one (or, depending on who you talk to, several) of the waitresses. He was sleeping with one of your coworkers by the end of the second week.

That’s how it had started with you, too. A one night stand quickly escalated into twice, three, then four times. And then the next thing you knew it was A Thing.

They tell you not to date someone from the club when you start. If you guys fight, you’ll be bringing that into work. If you guys break up… well. The next few shifts are going to be awkward for everyone involved.It’s hard to resist each other, though, and perhaps against both of your better judgements, you fall in love.

Casual hookups with girls from the scene are Warren’s bread and butter, but getting into a relationship with one is a different thing all together. He’s crazy possessive, and the thought of being forced to watch you, having fun with other guys night in, night out - he had thought it would be torture.

Actually, it’s not like that at all. It only reinforces that this is only a job, it’s only money. You don’t like kissing the men, or letting them grope you. Some girls do it, and you have done in the past, too, but you had decided not long into the relationship that it wasn’t worth the extra tips.

Customers will often ask you if you have a boyfriend, and sometimes, if you’re feeling really cheeky, you’ll nod towards Warren behind the bar. It’s always a satisfying experience for both of you to watch a man’s eyes flicker to the back of the room, turn pale as chalk and take his hands off you quick-sharp.

He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t hard not to get distracted by you during a shift. Yes, he’s one of the only men in the world who are unfazed by sex workers, spending six days a week surrounded by semi naked women. But he’s only a man, and watching you up there, working the pole in nothing but a thong and six inch heels, your eyes always fixed on him at the back of the room - let’s just say he’s thankful the bar is at waist height.

An underrated perk of the relationship is working the same hours. You’ve never had that in a boyfriend before, and it’s so nice to be able to spend time with each other in the day. To leave for work and come home at the same time, sometimes even driving in together. Some couples would find it smothering, spending so much time together like that, but you two don’t much care for other people anyway. You only need each other.

Underneath the dark and edgy exterior, Warren is a big softie. He’s a vegetarian who loves animals, and is the owner of one blue eyed husky named Shadow. When not at work he can be found in the gym, or curled up on the sofa with you, his pup, and something good to watch on netflix.

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Roger.

The first night he comes in and you’re all over him like a rash.

You’ve been doing this a couple of years now, and you’ve learnt to tell the different types of customer by sight. You dance near him to get a closer look - yep. Just what you suspected:

Recently divorced. Lonely. Rich.

How do you know?

No wedding ring, for a start. There’s a tan line there, though, on his fourth finger, indicating it was taken off recently. He hasn’t just shoved it in his back pocket to come here, though. He’s not unfaithful. Or at least, he isn’t being right now. He’s lonely. He’s been dumped.

There’s a five o’clock shadow on his neck that he doesn’t normally let grow. It doesn’t match the colour of his bleach blonde foils. He’s in his mid thirties, and his clothes look expensive. He orders a whiskey, neat. A sad man’s drink.

You watch him dig for his wallet, a cigarette hanging from between his lips. He slaps it onto the table. Roger isn’t a particularly tall man, but if he sat on his wallet, maybe.

You watch Katelyn swaying towards him, offering him a lap-dance which he politely declines. It could be that he’s just here to watch. That happens, sometimes, with divorcees. The younger, more excitable men are kids in a sweet shop, just wanting to touch everything they see. But men his age - men who should be home with their wives on Tuesday nights instead of nursing a whiskey in this seedy establishment, they sometimes won’t buy anything at all.

The other alternative is that he’s waiting for you.

You decide to hedge your bets.

You walk over to his table, praying no-one on the way catches your eye, and you manage to make it uninterrupted. You give him a sweeping look, pausing just a moment while he makes his decision, and sure enough he’s pulling out a twenty. He tucks it into your bra as you take a seat on his lap, and you get to work.

There’s a no contact rule here, but sometimes you let them touch you, especially if they look anything like him. You take hold of his hands and place them on your waist as you roll your hips against him in time to the song, dropping down in between his legs a moment before wiggling back up, hands gripping his thighs for support. You sink down onto his lap again and you hear him groan just a little, breath tickling your bare shoulder. You grind down onto him harder, gyrating around lazily until you feel him stuffing more bills into your knickers.

You grab them discreetly, rolling them up and tucking them into your garter instead. It’s more secure in there.

You decide to up the ante.

You get up momentarily to shimmy in front of him, before spinning around and straddling his lap again, facing him this time. You loop your arms around his neck, swaying your hips against him as you look into his eyes. Making him feel like he’s the only man in the room.

“Where’s your wife?” You lean forward and murmur into his ear in a smokey voice, playing with the fingers on his wedding hand.

“Haven’t got one.” He says in a strained tone, groaning again as you slide over his hardening bulge.

“Girlfriend?”

“No,” He forces out.

“Poor baby.”

You don’t break eye contact with him as you lift his hand up to your lips and suck his index finger into your mouth. He curses under his breath. The song finishes, and it’s probably a good job, because you wager he’s about to make a mess of his jeans.

He doesn’t pay for another one. But he does call you over again later that night and you just talk. He’s really nice, not to mention easy on the eyes, and for the first time in a while, you can honestly say you’re having a good time. You’re almost a little sad when it’s time for him to leave, and not just because the cash stops coming.

“Come back, won’t you?” You whisper into his ear, lips trailing over the skin ever so slightly. He just laughs.

He does come back, though. A little over a week later. And again, a week after that. You learn his name is Roger, he’s got two kids, and he’s been divorced a month, though his relationship broke over a year ago. He never tells you what it is he does that makes him so rich.

Most of the time, you just sit on his lap and talk. He’ll hand you pound notes every once in a while, or stuff them into your garter belt - large, warm hands running tantalisingly up your thigh.

He wants to know if you let the other men touch you like he does.

“Only you, Rog.” You whisper, and he almost seems taken in by it, just for a second, and then he laughs.

“Christ I’m an old fool.” He says, shaking his head with a sad chuckle. “I bet that’s what you say to them all.”

–

As the weeks pass, he becomes a regular face. He always politely declines the other women’s advances, preferring to wait until you’re available to come and sit on his lap, stealing a drag of his cigarette before looping your arms around his neck and gazing into his eyes to listen to him talk. Tell you about his day.

You always look forward to the nights he comes in, but you’re not sure when exactly it had stopped being about the money for you. Probably about the time you’d started letting him kiss you. You’d never let a customer do that before.

You start giving him private dances. They’re timed sessions off in a side room, where a bouncer will stand outside the door and knock at intervals to tell you how much time you have remaining. So not exactly private. But it’s still you and him, alone. Getting heated.

“We could have this in real life, you know.” You whisper to him one night, head flung back and voice breathy as he sucks at one of your nipples.

Roger laughs. He’s always doing that.

“And what would you want with an old creep like me, hm?” He murmurs, lips trailing up the valley between your breasts to land at your throat.

“I’m serious, Rog.”

The bouncer knocks on the door.

“Five minutes remaining.”

You sigh.

You feel Roger slipping more notes into your thong and for once, you halt stop his hand.

“Don’t.” You reproach, and he blinks up at you in surprise. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?” He asks in disbelief. “Pay you for doing your job?”

“Remind me that this can’t be real.”

Your voice is small.

“Remind me that you don’t seem to want me. Not outside of here, anyway.”

To Roger’s utter dismay, you’re welling up. He can’t believe his eyes. He’d never once considered that any of this could be real for you, never dared to believe that you might want him the way he wants you. Longs for you. That you cared about anything more than taking his money.

His voice is soft and contrite when he reaches up to cup your cheek in his hand, thumbing away at your tears.

“Darling, I- I had no idea-”

The bouncer knocks again and you both breathe out a shaky laugh, foreheads coming to rest together.

When he asks Roger if he wants to extend the time, needless to say there’s only one answer he can give.

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Ben.

Ben’s designated driver for a stag-do.

You decide it’s a stag do, and not a “taking our friend, who just got dumped, out on the piss” do, even if it is a rather sad one.

It’s the first weekend back after New Year, and you’ve been expecting the turnout to be dismally poor, and to be fair, it is. Other than the fat old man on his own in the corner who’s here most nights, they’re almost the only ones here. It’s 2 o’clock in the morning, and you’re not sure if originally there had been more of them, but by the time they walk in, the party has dwindled down to about five.

Girls are getting sent home left and right because the place is so dead, and you’re gutted to be one of the few left on the floor. In fact you’d nearly taken the night off, knowing nobody ever has money to spend in January, never mind throw around on strippers.

You sigh and wait for them to hand over their phones and get their drinks from the bar.

Ben looks uncomfortable. He’s never been to a strip club before, it’s written all over his face. Probably doesn’t agree with the principle. Just begrudgingly here to do lifts, and make sure nobody chokes on their own vomit, or anything.

He’s attractive, too. You’re quite tempted to make a bee-line for him, watch his fair cheeks flush red under the fluoro lights as you make him an offer he can’t refuse. Given the choice between a group of lairy stags and their visibly uncomfortable, decidedly more attractive sober driver, you’d rather have the latter. Honestly, you can get a really good conversation out of the sober ones sometimes, especially when it’s quiet. Plus, you love the nervous ones.

But you’re also painfully aware of how slow it’s been, so you sigh and mark out the pathetic one and go and sell a lap dance to him instead, taking his money while you watch your co-worker smirk and shimmy over to Ben out of the corner of your eye. And you don’t know why, but it gives you a very small but very there sense of satisfaction when you see that he’s not into it.

Some girls will let any handsome face become a distraction, and it’s exactly what you’ve been told not to do but he’s gorgeous; so very out of his depth, politely clapping and nodding his head along with the music while he nervously sips his diet coke. And it’s not like he’s the only sober driver ever to walk in, neither is he the first person who’s been uncomfortable. But it’s so obviously his first time and there’s just something so reassuring about that. Working there can make you lose a little faith in humanity if you aren’t careful.

It’s not as if all customers are rude, but the reality is a lot of them are. You get asked out multiple times a shift, see married men every day who insist that they love their wives one minute and are taking off their wedding rings and begging you for a private dance the next. It’s refreshing to see someone like Ben in here every once in a while.

Your manager says you can go home at some point before the close up, so you go through the back to get changed and wait for your lift. It’s always a bit warm in there after you’ve put your sweater and leggings back on, so you go and wait in the bus shelter outside. It’s a well-lit street, and when you’re back in your trackies you feel relatively safe to wait there.

After a while, your brother hasn’t come to get you (yes, your family know what you do and no, they haven’t disowned you) so you ring him. He doesn’t answer.

You see Ben and co drive past and you smile to yourself, wondering if they’d even recognise you now, with your makeup off and your clothes on. He sees you standing there, sheltering from the drizzle in the plastic bus stop, and he reverses the car back past you and rolls the window down.

“You got a lift, love?” He enquires politely.

You can hear his drunken mates heckling from inside the car.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Want me to call you a taxi?” He presses.

“No thanks.” You say. “They should be along soon.”

He looks at you hard.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes.”

Just then, one of them has to get out of the car to be sick all over the pavement and you recoil, taking it as your chance to escape. You walk 50 or so metres down the road until you’re out of earshot of the retching, but you can still hear the rest of them hooting and hollering and slapping him on the back, egging him on.

Ben isn’t pushy, though.

“Look,” he says. ”I’m going to drop these idiots off and then I’ll loop back afterwards just to check you’ve been picked up, ok?”

“Look you really don’t have to-”

“It’s for my own peace of mind,” he cuts in. “And if you’re still here, then I'm.more than happy to see you into a taxi.”

You want to protest again, but his friends are shouting “Give it up, Ben”, mocking him. His neck is turning red and you’ve been annoyed with them all night and so you say yes. Ok. You thank him and then he drives off into the night, the car full of drunks cheering and yelling as they recede.

You don’t like getting in taxis at this hour, or getting on the tube. It’s late and it’s London, plus you don’t want a lift driver seeing you near to the club and figuring out what you do and thinking they can just…

Anyway.

Your brother still isn’t answering. He works late shifts as a hospital porter, and this sometimes happens. You sometimes get a lift with one of the other girls, but with there being hardly anyone in tonight, you’re rather stuck. You go back inside and try to scrounge a lift. It’s annoying, the couple who are still on shift live far out of your way or get public transport. Your manager says he’s happy to give you a lift, but only after he cashes up and closes up. It could take ages, but you’re content to wait inside while you wait for your brother to answer. You stand by the window, interested to see if Ben really will come back.

And he does.

You wander outside to speak to him, more out of boredom than anything else.

“Want me to wait with you until your boyfriend arrives?” He asks, and you’re a little touched at how considerate he’s being, so you tell him ok.

You don’t bother to correct him about the boyfriend – perhaps if he thinks you’re taken it’ll make you safer. You’ve got this deep feeling that he isn’t dangerous, but it would be insanity to get into a car with him nevertheless – he’s a complete stranger. Still, you’re bored and you want to chat to the nice man, because it might be the first charming, intelligent conversation you’ve had all week. Was that so bad?

So you make him switch the engine off and take the keys out and put the keys where you can see them, and then you get in the car but keep the car doors firmly open so you can escape if he tries anything. He’s a little bemused, but he understands your justifiable caution.

You chat and he’s really kind, and doesn’t ask you the normal dumb stripper questions (“aren’t your family ashamed of you?” “Are you doing this to fund a crack habit?” “How do you not get turned on on the job?”). He’s genuinely interested in you. Like, outside of work you. And yes, naturally he is a little curious about the job, but it’s quite cute watching him struggle to phrase the questions in a way that isn’t rude, and you do your best to answer truthfully. He seems satisfied with the answers, if a little thoughtful.

After about 20 minutes you get a call from your brother, apologising that he has to stay later at work. He tells you he’s happy to put you into a taxi. You roll your eyes and tell him no thanks.

“Ok,” Ben says as you get off the phone. “What’s the plan? How do we get you home safe?”

You think about it for a little while and then ask him if he’d mind accompanying you home. You could take the tube halfway and then it was a 20 minute walk to yours. You feel rude asking for all that but he just says sure, of course, no problem. I’ll just come back for my car later.

The more you’re with him the safer you feel. He carries your heavy bag all the way home and he doesn’t flirt. And you really, really appreciate that. And even though you wouldn’t even mind if he did - in fact, you kind of really wish he would - he doesn’t.

“Aren’t you tired?” You wonder when you’re getting near the house. “No.”

You get home and you both stand awkwardly on the doorstep, and when it becomes clear he’s not going to invite himself inside you give him a kiss on the cheek and thank him and shut the door. You stand with your back up against it for a while, heart pounding, until you just bite the bullet and fling it open again, charging back out. You run after him and grab his wrist and he spins around in shock, shoulders softening when he sees it’s just you.

“Are you ok-” He starts at the same time as you ask him whether he wants to come inside. He tries to hide the fact that he can’t quite believe his luck.

You take him in and sit him down and ask if he wants a drink.

“I could do with a shot, if I’m honest.” He says, a little shakily.

You search the cupboards and pour him out some tequila, and a beer from the fridge as well. You watch how quickly he slams the liquor, and realise he’s nervous.

You explain that you need to have your tea.

“Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks.”

You reheat some rice and come and perch on the arm of the sofa with your feet on him as you chat. The TV is on in the background, and because it’s three in the morning, American sport is on. He seems to get quite into it, so you excuse yourself to get ready for bed and leave him there.

You have a shower and brush your teeth, the hot water a tonic for your sore muscles as you scrub the sweat and grime of the club off your skin. You pass the kitchen on the way back to your room, and peep in. Ben’s texting frantically, and you have to stifle a giggle, imagining what he’s telling his friends. You wonder whether they’ll even believe him.

You materialise in the kitchen doorway a minute later, hanging around the edge of the door with a little smirk on your face.

Wet hair and pink Primark pajamas. it’s a stark contrast to the way you looked in your heels.

Ben turns the off the TV. He sits back to look at you. It’s silent.

“Why didn’t you give me a lapdance?” He asks suddenly. “Before?”

Barefoot, you pad across the wooden kitchen floor until you’re standing between his legs. He’s leaning back against the sofa to look up at you, half finished bottle of beer still in one hand.

“Do you want one now?” You whisper. Your voice is hoarse.

He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.

“Just kiss me.” He whispers.

Not two hours ago he was looking at you nearly naked, watching you twirl and gyrate on strange men for money. You don’t know why it’s now that you’re suddenly nervous.

You plop down gently in his lap. His hand grabs for your waist automatically. Your eyes flutter closed, and you lean in minisculely until his lips are grazing yours.

You grab the beer bottle out of his hand and set it down on the floor without breaking the kiss, and then, grabbing the material of his shirt in your fists, you push him backwards onto the sofa until he’s horizontal.

–

“Ben.” You manage as he pushes into you for the first time, your voice coming out as no more than a breathy moan.

You’ve migrated from the sofa to your bedroom, and he’s got you lying on your tummy underneath him, one foot hooked around the back of his calf, encouraging him to go deeper. Harder.

Perhaps the best thing about sleeping with men who know you’re a stripper is how hard they always try to please you. It’s as if they think your job is synonymous with getting tons of action, that they’re competing with the orgies they imagine you attend every night and honestly, you’re not complaining.

Ben’s already made you come twice at this point - once with his mouth, once with his fingers, and by the time he enters you there’s little you can do but moan and whimper into the pillow.

“I don’t have a condom.” He’d warned as you took his hand and led him towards your bedroom, switching all the lights off on the way, the house getting darker and darker each time.

“That’s alright.” You’d said as you’d laced your fingers through his, turning to face him on the threshold of your bedroom doorway. “I’ve got plenty.”

He’d laughed.

Now, after he’s nudged your legs apart with his knees in order to slam into you deeper, you’re approaching your third orgasm of the night. He’s getting close too, hips starting to stutter against you as his breaths grow heavy and ragged.

His arms pack in at some point, shaking on either side of you as he seems not to be able to hold himself above you any longer. His elbows tremble and collapse under him, and he lays out on top of you instead, doing his best not to squash you into the mattress.

“Sorry.”

He murmurs a breathy giggle into your ear. You shivered.

“Are you close?” You reply, no more than a whisper in the dark. You turn your head to rest in the crook of your elbow so you can look at him. You find his face close to yours.

“Y-Yeah.” He says with some effort. He sounds it.

The feeling of his body weight on top of you, being covered by him - your high is coming now whether you want it too or not.

“M’gonna..” You trail off at the same time as he says, “Me too-” and you feel the throb of him inside you.

Ben lets out a long groan, resting his sweaty forehead against the back of your neck as he comes, and you reach around to to cradle the back of his head.

You don’t even make a sound as you hit your peak - you’re already cried out. Only able to silently clench your teeth and your fists and your toes as you convulse around him.

“Stay.” You tell him, after.

“What?”

“Stay.”

It’s four in the morning, and you’ve suddenly remembered his car is still parked outside of the club. And plus, you’re not quite ready to let go of him yet.

“Okay.” He says quietly, tentatively reaching out to stroke your bare arm in the dark.

—

You woke late the following morning, and since neither of you had work the next day, (obviously), you decided to go to the gym together as a date. You had asked Ben if he wanted to go to a restaurant, but he can’t right now because he’s in heavy training for a shoot next week.

Skip to a few months later and you two are happily dating, and his favourite game to play is to come in to the club on random nights and surprise you, blending in with the other customers while he patiently waits until you’re free for a lap dance. It’s amazing, but by the time the song ends he’s got you aching to finish up and come home.

He still picks you up from work (another great perk of having a boyfriend without a 9-5), and by now he’s a familiar face among the rest of the staff. Needless to say they’re all in love with him. Sometimes, he’ll come down a bit early and come in for a drink while he waits for you to get finished up. It’s not uncommon to come out of the changing rooms to find him sat on the bar stool, but you can rest assured he’s never watching the naked girls – he’s usually chatting football with the bar tender.

#ben hardy #roger taylor #Warren Worthington III #ben hardy x reader #roger taylor x reader #warren worthington imagine #warren worthington x reader #ben hardy blurb #ben hardy fanfic #ben hardy!roger x reader #roger taylor imagine #roger taylor headcanons #queen band #queen imagines #Queen #BoRhap #bohemian rhapsody #borhap boys #borhap imagines

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catte-bard · 4 years

Note

Survivor's guilt

Prompt: Survivor's Guilt

(Hoo boy, this prompt took me an embarrassing amount of time to get done. But inspiration was being stubborn for this one. And eventually I got an idea from one of the Tales from Shadow stories. Hope you can forgive the late, late reply ;A;)

Why?

It was a thought that must have run through his head a thousand times.

Cid Garlond sat at his desk, stewing in silence. He stared in contemplation at the cup in his hand. Empty, he needed more drink…

Bleary-eyed, the man reached over to grab the bottle from his desk to pour himself more wine.

It had been weeks since Black Rose hit. Weeks since it had wreak its havoc across the land. Hundreds and thousands had died that day. Many of them friend…

He had been away in Othard and thus spared the weapon’s deadly touch. Many survivors considered themselves blessed not to have met such a terrible end. Cid however just felt confused...and angry.

Why had he been spared? Why had he been one of the “lucky” few to see the horrible aftermath of the empire’s weapon?

The day Black Rose had been unleashed had been a dark one. Casualties could not even be retrieved, as people were worried the gas would linger. The area of effect was so large, extending all across Gyr Abania and even into some parts of Gridania.

He had not heard anything from the Scions since the brutal attack. The account was that the Scions had taken to the field just before the Empire had unleashed Black Rose. It was as if the imperials had been waiting for that very moment to strike.

Days had passed and the man had soon received confirmation of his worst fears. How desperately he wanted it to be a dream...or even some sick joke. But nay, he was wide awake to experience the nightmare the Empire had ushered onto Eorzea.

He still remembered that beaming smile Bellona had given him before they parted ways.

“We’ll be fine, Cid. You all just go take care of business in Othard. Maybe by the time you get back we’ll be celebrating another victory?” She had said with such confidence. Her face glowing with a cheeky grin.

And he had happily left it in their hands. Feeling just as confident that all would be well upon his return.

Bellona had been so sure. They had beat back the Empire before and they would do so again. But of course...not even Eorzea’s dear Warrior of Light could stand a chance against an imperial bio-weapon...

Looking back at it now, it felt almost like a mocking memory. His grieving mind teasing him.

Many times he had found himself regretting ever leaving that day. Wishing he could have remained. Perhaps, he could have done something? Helped them somehow?

It tortured him. He felt like he needed to do something. Somehow make up for not being there.

And it left him restless most days and frustrated. Sent him pacing around his study like an agitated coeurl. Angry at himself and angry at the state of the world.

What? What could he do?

The brilliant Cid nan Garlond was left feeling so utterly helpless.

So many times he wished he could somehow go back in time and stop it all from happening. Warned them somehow or better yet—stopped it. Wish and wish, even though he knew it was foolish to do so...

There were some days he wished Black Rose had taken him as well. It would have been better than being left behind to feel helpless and pitiful.

“What would you have me do, my friend?” The tired engineer sighed as he leaned back in his chair. Shaking his head, he takes another long drink from his cup.

What would you have done were our positions switched?

Well certainly not mope around for starters...

But ever since the incident with Black Rose, the world seemed to be falling apart. All hope had died that day with the realm’s greatest heroes. The void they had left was startling.

Why had he been one of the few left to pick up the pieces of this shattered realm?

He was no adventurer—no hero.

With a groan, the man rubs his face. He was frustrated...and so very, very tired.

“What a disappointing sight. Is this what you’ve been doing all day? Not a very chiefly sight to be honest.”

An irritatingly familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts and he looked up.

Nero stood at the door. His face wrinkled into one of disgust.

The last person he felt like dealing with right now. Cid sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. “And what do you want?”

Arms crossed, Nero arched a brow at the other’s tone. “I came to see if you’ve actually pulled yourself out of bed at a decent time. You do remember that you have important duties to fulfill?”

“I’m quite aware and I am tending to them. I don’t need you nagging me about it.”

“Well it certainly doesn’t look like you’re tending to those duties.”

Another glare was leveled at the man, but Nero seemed unaffected by it. Instead, continuing to peer around the room. The barely slept in bed, the messy desk covered in balled up paper, the bottles…

The engineer knew he had some very judgemental or snarky commentary to make.

“Just leave me be, Nero.” Cid groaned, rubbing his head.

Ah but Nero was never one to listen to him.

“Moping again?” He jabbed.

“Nero...please not now. Just leave me be for once.” Cid sighed and turned back to his desk. Maybe if he pretended to be engrossed in something important he’d leave?

However, the other Garlean remained stubborn as ever. Arms crossed as he leaned against the door frame. His gaze hidden behind his sunglasses he knew it to be judgmental.

“Just how long do you plan on doing this?” Nero asked.

Could the man be anymore insensitive?

“People died, Nero.” Cid snipped. “My friends died and I wasn’t there for them. So will have to forgive me if I mourn them.”

“Oh you always moan about that. ‘I should have been here’.” Nero mocked. “What? What do you think you could have possibly done? You would have died with the rest of them.

“But the great Cid nan Garlond might as well have died to Black Rose because I hardly recognize the sorry fool I see before me.” His words are biting and harsh and unrestrained. “I wonder what our dear, late, hero would think if she saw you like this?”

A spark of anger cut through his drunken haze. He could put up with any other mocking from the man. But that—that was low. That was a line crossed. He would not let him use his dead friend against him.

“Don’t.” He growled.

But Nero fearlessly met his gaze. Or what? His look seemed to say. You won’t do anything.

“Don’t what?” He shrugs. “Be honest?” A sneer curls his lip up. “I won’t be like the others and pretend this pathetic behaviour from you is okay. I expect better from you, Garlond. I have always expected better from you.”

“Nero.” He warned again.

Silence hung heavy in the air between them.

Nero sighed and removed the shades from his face. The look in his eyes one of disappointment. “You know, she once told me that she looked up to you. You hear that, Garlond? You’re the man the Warrior of Light looked up to.” He paused and let those words sink in. “So is this really how you’re going to treat that respect she had for you? Or are you going to be the man she fondly remembered?”

Shaking his head in disgust one final time, the ex-Tribunus left him to stew in his sorrow.

Cid looked after the man, stunned and indignant. His teeth clenched as he struggled with a reaction. Anger, annoyance, offended.

And the unpleasant, begrudging feeling that Nero had a point.

When had he let himself turn into this? This miserable man riddled with guilt and hopelessness?

Looking over his desk, his expression soured at the work he had scattered about. These days he had little inspiration for any of it. Whenever any came to him, he quickly grew frustrated with it and threw it aside.

He reached for one of the bottles upon his again, hesitated and then reached for the balled up pieces of paper instead. Most of the trashed ideas were half finished notes. Utter nonsense he’d scrawls while inebriated. Things he hadn’t even bothered to look at again when sober, knowing it to probably be something embarrassing or foolish.

He barely even read over his work as he unfurled note after note, setting them aside into a neat pile. His heart wasn’t truly in it, he didn’t even know why he was doing it. Perhaps to take his mind off his turmoil?

If I could just somehow go back and change this all.

And what do you think you possibly could have done?

Nero’s words echoed within his mind with the sound of his own voice.

Black Rose was a terrible and unstoppable weapon. He would have died along with the rest of them. But if he were being honest there were some darker days that he wished—

Something gave the engineer pause he sifted through his old notes. It was something no less incomprehensible than the others—he knew not what his state of mind had been when he had written it. Mostly stray thoughts scribbled all over the place. But one in particular stood out, and whatever had been on his mind at the time must have been mighty important for he had even gone through the trouble of underlining it.

Alexander

Cid sat in quiet as he recalled the strange being he Biggs, Wedge, and Bellona had dealt with. And he wondered what exactly had been on his mind to inspire this thought. However, something deep within him seemed to know for it sent his heart racing.

It was nothing more than a hunch of course. But Cid had a feeling that this might be able to help them.

#badthingshappenbingo #final fantasy xiv #ff14 #writing #chxsingthemoon

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marrella-splendens · 5 years

Text

some story bits

so I realized some of y’all really liked the writing snippets I had been sharing lately, so maybe against my better judgement I’m going to just share the most recent few chunks I have written, so that you have some delicious context for my gay alien adventure bullshit

---

it looked almost like somebody had taken a soup can the size of a small aircraft and kicked its guts out, smearing shattered slivers of cold metal across space, twinkling in the sunlight. she thought mostly that it looked very old. a cylinder? really? that was some old-school tech. and here it was, most definitely dead. she approached carefully, keeping a safe distance, trying to gauge the extent of the damage. whoever kicked the guts out of this particular soup can did a pretty good job; maybe only 40% of the exterior remained intact, or at the very least still connected together in what seemed like its original configuration. what remained was a neat array of solar panels and various antennae, but that was surface stuff. she wanted to get at that gooey center.

she thrusted her craft a bit closer, careful not to disturb the debris field too much. she prodded her fingers in the air, starting up a spectral scan to see what she was dealing with. it was a good first step, before you had to get too close and touch anything. by now she figured she had enough muscle memory to do it in her sleep. she hoped she’d never have to do that. it was against safety regulations.

there was a considerable amount of data to analyze. as the onboard computers hummed away, she herself had trouble parsing the mess in front of her. certain components were stripped off, dangling in space, tangled together and torn at odd angles, her ship’s lights casting odd shadows further down. this didn’t look like an ordinary impact, but just to be sure, she requested a schematic from hq. a few seconds later a holographic and decidedly intact version of the sat appeared on her display. she prodded at it to get the exploded diagram, and looked back and forth at the real deal in front of her. things were definitely not as they should be; that much was obvious.

the comms link crackled open. “hey scout, everything okay? just noticed you nabbed the specs for that old wreck.”

“yeah yeah, okay but weird,” she replied, cringing a little. she didn’t like having to use comms. “looks a little busted up but I wanna get a closer look, if that’s alright?”

a slight pause, then, “fair enough, just be sure to get a prognosis soon; we got a tight schedule to keep.”

“copy that,” she said. she wouldn’t need very long to get a proper report to send back to the scrappers. it certainly looked like it was gonna be scrapped, one way or another. her console let out a little chime, and she frowned. something in there had an unfamiliar spectrum. not entirely unheard of, but it was enough to make her start to sweat. something felt off, but this was too interesting to pass up. she wasn’t gonna send along an incomplete report.

slowly, almost daintily, she nudged her craft in the direction of the anomalous signal, using several grabber arms to push aside loose material in her way. several chunks of metal clunked against the hull, one even bouncing off the clear bubble surrounding her, making her jump. the signal, however, got clearer. it was getting darker; the only illumination now coming from her ship.

but even in that meager light, she could see it. something very dark, metallic, almost… slimy? was it a meteor? no, far too smooth to be a meteor. it was deep in there, hidden between various defunct components. she was certain that this was what had crashed into the sat, and why she was here. the spectral scans were still a bit confused. the pit in her stomach deepened but she had a job to do, and she dug her way in closer.

there didn’t seem to be a clear line of impact; no single path it could have taken to find itself in its current position. like it had wormed its way in there. like it was there on purpose. she got the distinct feeling that she was seeing something new, and that was terrifying. more terrifying was that she’d have to call this in. over comms. god dammit.

“hey uh,” she began, not a good start. “I’ve got something really weird here; could use a second opinion?” she started the necessary procedure to send her data back, but a smattering of red lights on her console stopped her in her tracks.

“no communication line available or open,” said a pleasant computerized voice, from somewhere beside her. “opening line of sight recommended.”

but she did have line of sight, behind her. she wasn’t that deep in; there would be comsats that could pick her up right here, surely. she had just used them, after all. but no, nothing. she’d have to back out; try again. she gently nudged on the thrusters to take her clear of this mess. she was just about done here anyway.

a puff of cold gas erupted from an rcs node, but stopped itself short with an alarming thunk, just as half her console lights turned red or completely off. her skiff started backwards, bumped into something outside her vision, and stopped. her heads-up display wasn’t functioning, but a couple remaining lights and that familiar electric humming told her that her main circuit wasn’t busted, and life support was still functional. unfortunately, nothing else appeared to be.

she tried desperately to remain calm, and remember her training. that didn’t really happen though, so she panicked, flicking toggle switches back and forth, hoping that maybe something would respond. she didn’t dare attempt a full reset of her power supply; there was no assurance that it would come back on if she turned it off. so she was stuck. it was just her in this bubble, until her air ran out. speaking of which, she eyed her helmet, strapped in next to her. she pulled it free, fidgeted with it a little. it wouldn’t necessarily save her from an explosive decompression event, but if her air ran out, her flight suit could keep her going a little longer. and it gave her an out. if she dared go out.

her eyes remained fixed on the object, in the center of her vision. she had been crying, she just noticed, and her tears detached and floated a little ways in front of her. she swatted at them, rubbed them into her flight harness before they caused any further unexpected fucking problems. she didn’t break eye contact with the object. at this point she was sure it was to blame here. “if this is aliens,” she said quietly to herself, “I’m gonna lose my entire shit.” no better theories came to mind.

her eyes were locked. before, it had seemed, she was focusing due to panic, and a lack of anything else to do. but she realized that even if she tried, she could not pull them away. she continued to cry, her eyes beginning to sting. almost without thinking, she pulled her flight helmet over her head, breaking eye contact for a painful fraction of a second. more tears welled up, as she fumbled with the latch, trying to find a seal, as more tears broke away and floated around her head annoyingly. she couldn’t do much about them at this point; barely noticed them.

she began to realize that she could feel them. eyes, not hers. directly ahead. keeping her steady and focused. burning into her. a pressure, like they were forced up against hers, but she couldn’t see them. nothing but that unchanging shiny black surface. but they were there, she knew. she could feel them. she couldn’t stop crying. she was so very very stuck.

her vision grew hazy. she never thought it would end quite like this, but isn’t that why she came up here? to die? or was it to live? she forgot. could barely think about anything but the pressure and pain, now pressing around her entire skull, squeezing the thought from her. did anybody back at hq know she was stuck? it would take them hours to make it here, if they knew to come. they would just think she was late, probably.

she saw them. oh god, she saw them. two eyes, like hers. against hers. black pupils, like awkward angular slits in deep red irises. nothing else. then something snapped and she was gone.

---

the pressure was gone, the pain gone. but she couldn’t see a goddamned thing. she was still in her flight suit, which was a small comfort. she tried to move, to turn on her headlamp, but she couldn’t. oh well, perhaps that was wishful thinking. but yes, she definitely seemed to be restrained, somehow. she couldn’t feel any straps or bonds holding her, but she could wiggle her fingers, her toes. she could move herself a little bit, so she wasn’t paralyzed. she could even move her head around, but that did nothing, because she couldn’t see. she felt bizarrely calm, and rested. but disoriented, like waking up from an overly long nap. she took a few deep breaths.

she couldn’t hear much of anything. it was strangely silent here. there was a slight crinkling from her suit when she moved, but the sound was dulled, mostly coming from its interior. she felt something beneath her, some sort of surface. she tried to tap on it, but didn’t feel anything solid, only a sort of increasing resistance. a force field? oh god, it was aliens, wasn’t it. humans, at least no humans she knew of, possessed that level of technology, though she suspected they might be at the edge of it. nothing like this though.

she cleared her throat to speak, in a sudden burst of unexpected courage. “pardon me? hello?” she felt dumb, saying it. felt like somebody in a movie. she didn’t have any better ideas though.

for several minutes, nothing happened. she kept her breathing as steady as she could. she didn’t know how much air her suit had left, so she was going to assume it was something worth conserving. she wasn’t gone yet, at any rate. she would stick around as long as she could. suddenly, she could feel something else. she wasn’t entirely sure how she could feel it, besides she could. not unlike earlier, but not painful either.

regardless, she was certain she was no longer alone. she still couldn’t see anything though. she spoke again, almost surprising herself. “hello? I’m sorry, but I can’t see you. somebody is there, right?” she almost pleaded for mercy, but stopped herself. she didn’t want to make any assumptions.

there was a strange noise in front of her, the first time she heard anything besides herself this whole time, actually. it sounded, remarkably, like speech. not human speech. that probably should have alarmed her, but it didn’t. in fact, somewhere inside her, she could almost understand it. not the words, not exactly, but the meaning. something about light. a response, then.

slowly, very slowly, the pitch darkness around her began to abate, giving way to a still very dark greyness. but now she could see her. her? she wasn’t quite sure how she knew that, of all things. but there she was, outlined in the murkiness. a surprisingly humanoid figure; four arms, two legs. a halo of messy hair around her head, unbidden by gravity. what looked like extremely sharp teeth, glinting gently in the dark. and those eyes. those beautiful red eyes, no longer pressing into hers, painfully, but looking, just looking. maybe even concerned, but this was an alien, so how the hell was she supposed to tell. but she felt it, maybe. a hesitation.

the alien spoke again, clearer, louder this time. the words unfamiliar but fitting into her mind as speech, not random noise. “ûnnoth, ûtköghëd?” she asked, her voice raspy. I’m sorry, are you hurt?

at this point, she didn’t bother questioning her ability to understand. she was very far out of her depth. “no, I’m not hurt,” she began. reconsidered. maybe she didn’t really care how they could communicate like this, but she wanted to find out, anyway. she realized she might be in the middle of a first contact scenario - very likely was - and wanted to get more information if she could. if it mattered. “actually, though, I am curious how we can talk to each other like this. I’ve never, well.” she blushed, out of fear or embarrassment or something else, she wasn’t sure. “I’ve never spoken to somebody who was not a human before. so...” she trailed off. glad to know she was at the top of her conversational game right now.

well you see, she began, her words unfamiliar but ringing true in her mind regardless, we have some special tech for that. just so, she said, tapping the side of her head. implants. yes? also, and she turned to the side, slight trepidation radiating from her, I have studied what I can of your languages. to some extent.

“oh,” she asked, suddenly curious. “really? I wonder what that would sound like.” and after a second of consideration: “sorry, not to be mean or anything. I just want to know. I’m sure it’s fine!”

she turned back to face her, red eyes impenetrable. “ǔ sfîk ingliss, ës? aî khan sfîk litl ingliss, vot nat sô gud.” she pointed to her teeth. “thîdh get in vê. nat gud at lif saunds. hǔvans al lokhî, khan ǔs lifs thû sfîk vith.” she stopped, and caught her breath. her teeth did, in fact, get in the way. she wasn’t sure if that made her unlucky, though. just different.

admittedly, that was extremely cute, but she held back laughter in case it would be misinterpreted. “your english is just fine, don’t worry. but you can switch back if you’re more comfortable.”

yes, yes, I think that might be best. she made a head movement that might have been a nod, or something along those lines.

“so,” she began, worried about breaching a potentially uncomfortable subject, “I do not know where I am, and I cannot move. I don’t suppose you could… elaborate on that.”

oh! she said, with a sound that seemed like genuine surprise. yes, I am sorry, just basic precautions you understand. this is quite a situation. quite a situation! I’m afraid I cannot disclose many details to you, I’m sure you would understand. but you are safe, I have made sure of this. she looked at her intently. I’m sorry for detaining you like this. when your craft approached, I panicked. you see… she trailed off, reconsidered. I had to make sure you were not a threat. I can see now that you are, at the very least, not an obvious one. but I cannot be fully sure. I apologize in advance, but I may need to keep you here for some time.

she took a second to process this. “that makes sense, but as you might have noticed, I was in contact with my company just prior to…” no, she was not going to say “abduction.” even if that’s what it was. “prior to this lovely visit, and it would take them a while to realize I might be in danger, and hours more for them to send a crew here to rescue me, but they will come here eventually. I agree that this is, as you put it, quite a situation, and I worry it would become quite more of a situation if this-” she tried to gesture around but only wiggled, “was discovered.”

the alien backed away slightly, two of her arms grabbing on to unseen handholds behind her, and her head turning to look at something apparently only she could see, with her long hair lazily following. oh kind human, you have no reason to worry. I am not sure how much you gathered about my vessel when you first approached it, or if you even knew exactly what you were looking at, but you may have noticed that it is much larger in here than it is out there, so to speak. similarly, time is very much compressed. we are in no rush. in fact, you had been sleeping for some time; after I… gathered you from your craft, I, well. she turned back towards her, an unfamiliar expression on her face. I am sorry but I may have dosed you. just a little! I promise, it was not much, you just seemed terribly upset and I was concerned that could be a problem. you probably feel a bit calmer now, I imagine, yes? and the rest helped, I hope. it didn’t show on her face but the sensation was very apologetic. she was still getting used to that.

and drugs did make sense. she was indeed fairly calm, and in fact wanted to stay that way. she was still worried, though. but this was going a lot better than she originally thought it might. and she had time, apparently. this was good. even better was the fact that her eyes were starting to fully adjust to the light.

her surroundings were still fairly obscured; she imagined there wouldn’t be a lot to see even in full light within these soft dark curves, like velvet, with very few indications of functionality besides the occasional place to grab on to. her companion was, unsurprisingly, the most interesting thing (or person, in this case) in the room. she had noticed how large she was before, not in any sort of imposing way, but certainly more bulky than she was herself. now she could see the outlines of muscles on her arms, which formed unfamiliar configurations beneath her skin, which appeared to be made up of tiny dark blue scales. from the gaps between the scales grew fine black hairs, which were thickest around her head and back, and if she looked closely she could see patches that had been delicately braided with the help of dark purple crystalline beads.

the fact that she had four arms had been pretty obvious at first, but her hands each had six fingers, with a second opposing thumb on the other side. practical, she thought. the rest of her body was either out of view or hidden behind her clothing, which seemed to consist of a loose wrapping of dark fabric which waved gently at her slightest movements. her face was undeniably alien, with large red eyes with triangular pupils, and several rows of sharp protruding teeth underneath a large, flattish nose. somewhere in her tangle of hair were nubs of skin that might have been ears, but it was hard to tell.

maybe it was the drugs, but she had to admit, this alien babe was incredibly attractive. nah, that wasn’t the drugs. that was good taste. regardless, she felt a little overdressed. that is to say, claustrophobic. “hey so uh, can I take my helmet off? partly because I can’t move much at all and also I don’t know if it would be safe. would it be safe?”

oh, right! she replied, with a chittering noise that seemed to pass for laughter. I’m sorry, it had honestly slipped my mind. yes, it would be safe. we breathe basically the same stuff, and I scanned you for the usual bugs and immune problems either of us might have. at least breathing the same air should be safe, yes. I just didn’t want to remove your clothing without your permission; I was going to ask but I got all caught up playing interrogator. more laughter. sorry, that’s a bad joke. you can take your helmet off if you want.

suddenly she could feel the restraining fields around her arms weaken, and she moved to take her helmet off, fumbling with the latch. her ears popped a little as she pulled it off, but besides that, she was not in any immediate distress. she took in a tentative breath of air. hrm. it tasted smoky, and metallic. and somewhat minty. weird. “thank you,” she said, quite earnestly.

it is no trouble, kind human. in fact, there’s hardly any reason to keep you stuck there anymore, is there. I am sorry about that as well. she waved her hand vaguely in her direction, and the rest of the fields fell away.

ah, she could move again. she reached below her, felt the actual surface there, which was about as soft and spongy as she had imagined it to be. “I have to admit, you have a much nicer spaceship than me. by a long shot.” she reached up and pulled her hair tie out. “I’ve no use for this at the moment, to hell with it.” to hell with safety regulations, to be specific. but these were exceptional circumstances, she was sure.

more cute alien giggles. it would seem we are both bending the rules. she ran three hands through her considerable mane of hair. but it seems, we’re both quite in the thick of it now. she climbed her way across a nearby wall, settling in beside her at a comfortable distance. more personable now. less imposing. this is indeed an interesting situation. you see, by taking you here, by even having this conversation, I am almost definitely breaching at least one galactic treaty, and as you could probably imagine this puts me in quite the predicament. sort of a difficult situation. tell me, she said, fidgeting slightly, what is your name, kind human? I feel impolite at this point not knowing. I understand entirely if that is not something you are willing to divulge.

“it’s maria,” she said, wondering why she hadn’t thought to introduce herself earlier. she had been somewhat caught up in the whole alien thing. she was still somewhat caught up in it. “what about you, kind host?”

she slowly blinked. flower, she said. though, maria suspected, that was only the meaning of it, because of her implant. the word she had spoken was “adsun”. it was a pretty name.

“well, adsun,” the alien name rolling ungracefully off her tongue, “it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. if you were a human I would probably shake your hand, but I’m not quite sure what is appropriate here.”

adsun wiggled, obviously quite delighted. oh, oh I am familiar with this! we do not do it ourselves, no, but I admit I do have some human cultural knowledge, and, well, I have to say I have been wanting to try it, and now is just the perfect opportunity. it would be an honor, maria. she stuck out a hand, reconsidered, and offered her other hand on the same side, seemingly unsure which would work better.

“cool cool, hold on a sec.” she was going to shake hands with an alien. an alien girl, for that matter. she was very glad for the calming effect these drugs had on her. she would need to ask about those later. for now, she popped one of her flight suit gloves off, letting it dangle at the cuff, and wiped her gross sweaty palm on her leg before leaning in and giving adsun the best approximation of a human handshake her shy sheltered ass could possibly muster. which, based on her wiggly reaction, was probably a good one. she couldn’t help but notice how soft and fuzzy adsun’s snakelike skin was.

oh! exquisite. yes. thank you, maria. she let go, moved away slightly. considering. in her ship, with its time-bending effect on reality, she probably had plenty of time to sit and think. she couldn’t help but envy her for that. I don’t suppose… and you’ve really been so kind to me so far, very patient, and I appreciate that very much, but perhaps, if you would indulge me just a moment, we could, well. my version of a handshake, I suppose.

maria nodded. “absolutely, though I can’t say I’m coming into this with the sort of knowledge you do.”

she pointed to her forehead. we put our foreheads together. that’s basically it. but only if you want.

in lieu of a spoken answer, maria pulled herself up to adsun, placing her forehead against hers. it was… very warm. wow. she barely resisted the urge to touch her hair, but that wasn’t worth the risk right now.

adsun let out a rumble, like a low purr. oh maria, how you indulge me. thank you.

“no problem at all,” she said as they parted. “now we can get down to business. I feel like you might want to explain more about that whole, you know, galactic treaty thing. that you are probably breaking.”

oh, yes, of course. she shifted her position, fidgeted. well, you humans are, for now, though I cannot foresee what might happen in the near future because of this, but for now you are quite sheltered. you occupy a certain quasi-official status as a galactic civilization, but as you have been, well, mostly uncontacted, that status is provisional until you can join the rest of us at our level. she turned, scratched an itch on her back. I do not mean to imply, kind maria, that this “level” I speak of is a technological one. no, I simply am referring to whether or not you are active members of the galactic community. ideally, contact is made around the time a civilization is able to effectively travel or communicate with nearby civilizations. this is done in as careful a manner as possible. until such time as the community at large is willing to make ourselves known and contact you on an official level, you have a provisional protected status. no contact is to be made beyond the major official one. ideally.

as you can probably guess, what is occurring right now is technically a form of contact, and this puts me in a lot of trouble. you, however, are in no trouble at all. that does not necessarily make this easy for either of us, though. and I am sorry to have put you in this situation. she looked maria dead in the eyes, now. truly, I am. because I have to admit now, that this was all quite on purpose. I am sorry. she looked away. embarrassed. upset. you see, there are certain exceptions in the treaty, that allow… well. very one-sided affairs. for purely scientific purposes, you understand. most pre-contact species have a history of purported alien abductions or appearances, and you humans are no different, and while most of those cases for most of us can be explained away as the misinterpretation of the mundane, some, I must admit, are real. it is allowed, to a certain extent. as I said. for scientific purposes. this is, quite obviously, not that. I apologize. she backed away now, folded a pair of arms together. worried.

maria needed some time to process this. “so this isn’t for scientific purposes.”

no, no. these days we can study you from quite a distance, if we want. which we do. to keep tabs. we do our best not to pry into small details, to respect privacy, but it is in the interests of the galactic community to make sure you are safe from interference. and also. well. to make sure you are not a threat.

“so, do you think we are a threat?” she asked, trying not to let the worry bleed into her voice. probably not succeeding.

silence, for a minute. no, she began, slowly, but we are not sure. perhaps mostly, you are a threat to yourselves. I do not mean to insult you, kind maria. but humans have not been very kind to humans. we are torn, to some degree, between respecting our distance and letting you do your own thing, and also keeping you safe. the consensus, as it almost always tends to be, eventually fell towards stepping back. observing from a distance. waiting to see how you do. not interfering. she shook her head, seemingly upset. I do not subscribe to that particular mode of thought. I admit, I am fond of you humans. you have the potential to be strong friends. in the future. but you have been going through quite a rough patch. for quite some time. we are told to stay impartial, always impartial. I cannot remain so. I suppose I am at fault, for that. if one can be said to be at fault for caring. even so, I felt like I had to do something. so I came here.

“you came here, and you found me. of all people!” maria laughed. “why? I mean it seems clear you want to do something, and I certainly appreciate that. I absolutely agree that we are being unkind to ourselves. it is…” she tried to find the right words to say. she didn’t feel like having a political rant in front of an alien, not just yet anyway. “it is supremely unbalanced. and physically, the danger up here is considerable. my job, as you could probably have guessed, is to try to reduce that danger. I came to this busted satellite to assess its potential for scrap. either way, we need it out of orbit. we need so many things out of orbit. our work, as they say, is never truly finished.” she looked at adsun, searching for something in her stoic expression. she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. but something else clicked in her head, at that moment. “you wanted to find a scrapper, didn’t you? one of us?”

adsun made a hand gesture; agreement. just so. not you in particular, obviously. just the first person to come by. to see what had happened to this thing. suddenly, a wave of concern came off of her. oh, just to be clear, I did not destroy this satellite. I would not have made matters worse, I assure you. I just waited for one of sufficient size to get put out of commission. as you said yourself, the work is never truly finished, and I did not need to wait particularly long. I wiggled my ship in here the moment I noticed I had a way in. but I did take you on purpose. and I am sorry I had to restrain you like I did. I know my remark about interrogation was a joke, but, and she turned towards maria, closer now, I do in fact wish to ask you some questions. I think the proper word would be… an interview. yes. just so. up to you, of course.

“wait, so…” the pieces were starting to come together. somewhat. still many missing, but a pattern was becoming clear. “you aren’t here to do science. but you… you’re a…”

I am a journalist, adsun replied, finishing her sentence for her. just so. perhaps not what you were expecting, yes? I am here to make a case to my people. to the community, so to speak. a case for assistance, even if mild. perhaps an accelerated plan towards contact. an intervention. I am still not entirely sure what is to be done myself. but I figured sitting back and watching would not be entirely beneficial. I wanted to speak with one of you. and I have already learned so very much, kind maria. I understand this is so very much to ask of you, but it would be my utmost honor to use you as a source, to help build my case, such as it is.

“I uh. sure, yes.”

before you respond, I, oh. she had not expected such a sudden response. are you sure? this is not something to enter into lightly. I do not know if this would get you into trouble due to the treaty or not, and as for your own human laws, I am most certainly unsure. this is unfamiliar territory. she shifted slightly. fidgety again. nervous. also you should know that the dose I gave you has long worn off. I would not have asked of you something of such gravity unless your mind was as clear as possible, but if there is residual stress you can delay your answer. either way would be fine.

it did in fact come as a surprise to maria that she had been clearheaded for some time now, at least as far as her body was concerned. she was much more calm than usual, but perhaps the cozy dark silence of this craft was doing her some actual good. and sharing space with adsun was not as frightening as she might have thought. slight panic began to rise up within her, but she settled it down, took a few deep breaths.

this was, she knew, extremely dangerous. this whole situation was. but for the first time in a long long time, she felt something like hope. like something could change, like she could actually begin to help. it was worth the risk. and she felt a spark of bravery growing within her. one she had been trying to kindle for so very long. she reached over and gave adsun’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, hoping desperately that it would not be taken poorly. that soft purring noise seemed to imply she was in the clear. “kind adsun,” she said, “I’ll do it.”

ah, very good! potent waves of happiness washed over her. we have so much to discuss. let us begin.

#writing #gay aliens #I probably won't do this a lot because I had to fix all the formatting manually when I copied it over

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protctr · 5 years

Text

The letter.

She got it a long while back, you know.

It sits hidden in the depths of a wardrobe, placed carefully under folded clothes, the envelope that protects it tampered with once, the aged paper read over twice.

What sentimentality it holds within her is mixed at best, and sickening at worst. The penmanship is all too familiar to her. One she’s seen made first hand, passed around on documents she was too young to comprehend, and received for the usual permission she needed as a kid. With it, carries the kind of nostalgia that makes her eyes sting and her heart tear itself apart, only to stitch together and heal, time and time again.

But the script is nearly perfect. Neat Arabic as opposed to the rushed kind Fareeha once knew. The need to act as if time were of the essence is, how the signature of her name dances at the end of its passage and falters, burning in her a fallen name. Her eyes burn, a feeble smile trying to urge itself onto her face. --but that was after the first read through. The second yielded a bit more irritation, a bit more caution, as much as she hates to throw them at such heartfelt words. It yielded narrow eyes and a pensive look on her face. A look of minor judgement. The words were soft, sentimental, meaningful. Only her mother could have written it-- and yet, she felt numb. ‘I hope you understand’. Her soft plead for forgiveness, damn it. So why does her chest tighten? Why can her heart not grant her this moment of hope, of bliss, that her mother is alive and, from the sounds of it, well enough to keep on with a rambunctious spirit? Well, numbers, of course. She’s counted. Fareeha had counted. After she slipped the letter into its envelope and hid it, she counted the years. She counted the times she wished she had made her last words to her mother something that held value. She counted the numbers of those who’d came to her empty funeral, the sets of eyes that shed tears, and the only two that couldn’t until they allowed themselves to. The number of years she’d been ‘dead’, the number of years it took to ‘move on’, the number of times she forced herself to reconnect with her father, the number of times her mother had told her ‘no’--

She needed a day. A week. Two weeks, tops.

The letter. It hides, folded in a torn envelope, touched once, read twice. She’s alive, her heart weakly rejoices. Her ‘family’, how happy they’d be to hear. But a game of Telephone isn’t on her agenda. No, rather, this calls for an ensemble of words of her own. One with the sort of care she’d given, the sort of love, the rejection of her past vices. But pen can’t connect to paper as well as she wants it to. One word-- scrap it, it’s done. Into the trash. Another word-- scrap it, it’s done. Into the trash. Another word-- scrap it. Trash. Another-- Trash. Another-- Trash. Trash. Trash. Trash.

Words escape her, leaving her with bits of vice attached, with ignorance still lingering. Where would she send it? Should she? How can she write to a woman whose face, whose image escapes her? Whose voice she can barely hear?

Speech. She’d need to find her and talk. Correspondence over letter-- now where is the care in that? Perhaps that is the point, she wonders. Maybe they should keep themselves to their own business, shift their care if possible.

Another paper, void of writing this time, meets the trash. The small, metal bin overfills, and like a sign, she stops, and moves on. Moves on to empty her garbage, moves on and keeps looking forward like she had for years. But she won’t. She can’t.

The letter.

It reopened a wound, and until it presents to her the real deal, the proof, her kin herself, she just has to move on or die trying.

#| HCING. || Major.#long post . /

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ladymacbethsspot · 6 years

Text

Roots

A tattoo parlor wasn’t exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find Erwin Smith on a weekend. To be perfectly frank, it wasn’t the kind of place Erwin expected to be.

But a lot had happened in the past year and a half that he hadn’t expected.

Mike had recommended the place through a friend of a friend and had come with him to check it out. The small storefront emblazoned with double wings was tucked neatly up against the elevated tracks, in a neighborhood full of converted warehouse apartments. It didn’t look shabby or old, just tiny. When they walked in the place felt even more compact- there was barely room for the little front desk and a few chairs to wait. Bare brick walls were covered with large canvases- huge versions of designs that Erwin supposed the artists had made. He spotted intricate winding floral works, something that looked like a Mayan snake god, and occasionally the repeated motif of wings or feathers.

“Can I help you?” asked a bubbly petite redhead at the front desk with an off-shoulder top and an elaborate tattooed yoke of black roses around her neck.

“Oh, I’m here for a consultation appointment. Erwin Smith,” Erwin answered, walking over to the desk.

“Ah…” The woman trailed off, clicking around her computer. “Oh, yeah, I’ve got you here. Huh, I guess that does make sense…” She seemed distracted, looking at the reservation information.

“Is there a problem?”

“Not really. It’s just that you’re meeting with Levi.”

Erwin frowned in confusion. “Yes,” he responded, “when I spoke with someone on the phone that seemed like the best choice, and Mike recommended him as well.”

The girl looked up, flashing Erwin a big smile. “Oh, it’s a great choice, he’s amazing!” She reassured him, standing up and walking around to the edge of the half-wall separating them from the tattooing area. “He’s just… not exactly a morning person.” She turned with a flip of red hair and gave Erwin an apologetic smile before disappearing behind the wall, yelling “LEVI!” as she went.

Erwin and Mike exchanged uncertain glances and took up residence in the largest of the little chairs they could find.

A minute later the man named Levi appeared. He slouched around the half-wall glaring and Erwin got the very distinct impression that he was not, in fact, a morning person. Everything, from his scuffed sneakers, to his hoodie, to the hasty dark ponytail gathered above the hair shaved up above his ears screamed ‘screw you and your little dog too’. His flat grey eyes looked sunken, ringed in dark, and he clutched the rim of a steaming mug in one hand.

Erwin’s rational brain registered all of this.

Unfortunately, Erwin’s animal brain was far too distracted by Levi’s pectoral muscles above the top of a loose, low-cut tank. And his legs. Christ, Erwin didn’t think he’d ever seen a man pull off spandex running tights before.

Levi collapsed into a chair across from them with a sigh.

“What do you want?” He asked, voice flat and deeper than Erwin had expected.

“You,” Erwin breathed out, then stammered as Levi looked at him sharply and Mike’s mouth fell open, “ Y-y-ou to help me decide on a tattoo design!” Levi rolled his eyes. Erwin winced internally.

Somehow, he managed to make it through their consultation without putting his foot in his mouth again. The sketch he’d brought had impressed Levi, something the redhead at the front desk later told them was not easy to do. Levi had agreed to use it as a starting point for his design and do the tattoo over a few sessions.

The evening of his first session Erwin debated calling Mike. The place had looked fine, impeccably clean, they'd both agreed. Levi had been professional, if terse. The updated design he’d sent Erwin had been breathtaking- better than anything he’d envisioned. There were no outward signs that should have made Erwin worry. But he was worried. A gorgeous man was about to stick a needle in his skin. Repeatedly. It was exciting and terrifying at the same time.

He ended up going by himself, the potential benefits of alone time with Levi winning out over the comfort Mike would provide.

The appointment went well for the most part. Yes, he had ogled Levi’s pert ass in tight jeans. Of course, he’d stared plenty at the strong shoulders and upper arms covered in intricate feather designs. Sure, he may have blushed when Levi asked him to take off his shirt. And admittedly, the realization of just how small Levi really was when the chair had been lowered until he felt like he was almost sitting on the ground had made him more aroused than he'd like to admit. But it had gone well, and the black outline of winding branches up the side of his back that spread over one shoulder hadn't hurt nearly as much as he'd feared. Levi had been quiet, focused on his work, and Erwin was still too embarrassed by their first meeting to initiate any real conversation.

Erwin’s second appointment went more smoothly. By now he knew what to expect, the way Levi’s gloved hands held his skin taut, the strange scraping sensation on the skin, and the slow progress of the outlining- the tree’s trunk making its way down to roots that wound and spread over his lower back. It also felt more intimate, Levi’s hands travelling lower toward his belt, his touch sure and gentle.

By the third appointment they were talking more easily, and Erwin found himself distracted from the boredom and strange combined sensation of slight physical discomfort from both the tattooing process and his own embarrassing crush. The time passed with ease, and he was pleased with the progress of the tree’s detailing.

His final appointment arrived and Erwin almost felt a pang of regret. It was unlikely that he would see Levi again, at least for a while. But this was something he wanted to see through, had promised himself he would do. As he sat in the chair one final time, Levi’s deft fingers on his skin, he found himself opening up to the man. After all, it was his last chance, there was no harm in it now.

“So, why did you choose this?” Levi asked. He was shading and detailing the bark, fine lines and delicate gradients to create texture and depth.

“Does it look bad?”

Levi didn’t speak for a moment, and Erwin couldn’t tell if he was collecting his thoughts or just concentrating on the work.

“No. It looks great. It will look even better when we finish today.”

Erwin nodded absently. So, Levi wasn’t judging his originality, that was encouraging.

“But you didn’t answer my question. Something this large, I assume you’ve got a reason. Everyone does.”

“Oh,” Erwin replied, “Yes. I do. It’s to remind me.”

“Of?”

Erwin appreciated that Levi didn’t guess. That he could supply whatever information he was willing to. “Of my father.” His answer was soft. He opened his mouth to add more, but the words didn’t come, and Erwin felt the slight pressure and prick of something in his eyes. Even though he was finally doing this, it didn’t make it any easier.

“I’m sorry,” Levi murmured, “I hope it helps you,” as though he knew exactly what Erwin meant.

As Levi continued his work in silence, leaning close, Erwin swallowed. His throat felt heavy, constricted. But the repetitive motion of Levi’s touch, the sensation of the needle going over his skin lulled him away from the darker versions of thoughts he’d had many times before. There was no need to go over it again and again, no need to spill out every painful memory he’d collected. Maybe that was why he felt himself unwinding, telling Levi more than he’d intended.

“My father was a teacher.”

Offering no judgement, no opinions, Levi simply made noises of acknowledgement. Simply listened.

“And he taught me many things.”

“A good man?”

“Yes. Probably too good, I’ll always be in his shadow.”

“Hmm.”

“He held my family together. Not just my mother and sister, but all of it.”

The hypnotic sensation continued, the slow journey of the needle over his skin beginning to provide just enough bite to take the edge off his thoughts, to ground him in the present.

“When he passed away, it all fell apart. I did what I could to put it back together, but I worry that I forgot a lot of the things he taught me on the way. About how to be a man. That’s why I wanted this. To remind me.”

Levi hummed. Erwin wondered if he was just listening in a professional capacity. Just allowing Erwin to unburden himself. But when Levi spoke, he realized the man had been paying attention to more than just his words.

“So, you chose a tree. Knowledge, stability, life. Roots for connection and family, a trunk that’s weathered and worn, and branches reaching up to the sky towards the future.”

It was true.

All of it.

Levi had put into words things Erwin had only thought about vaguely, only felt instinctually when he decided on the design.

The rest of the session passed in silence. When Levi finished, he declared the tree done as well.

Erwin slipped his shirt back on carefully, taking one last look around the workspace that had grown familiar. This was his last chance, and after such an intimate discussion, he felt he had nothing to lose. He might as well bare his entire heart.

“Levi, would you like to get coffee sometime?”

Levi frowned slightly, and Erwin looked down, hiding any disappointment he felt at the rejection.

“I don’t like coffee. But I drink tea.”

Erwin looked up, and smiled when his eyes met Levi’s- grey and tired, but sincere. “Great,” he sighed, “I’ll call you?” Levi walked over to his neat desk, pulling out a business card and writing on the back.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” He slipped the card into Erwin’s hand as he shook it; the firm handshake felt more personal than any he could recall.

As he walked toward the front of the shop he heard Levi call after him.

“Erwin.” He turned. “That tree. I know it’s still winter now, but someday it won’t be. Someday it will leaf out.”

Erwin nodded.

And smiled.

Levi was right.

#eruri #levi ackerman #erwin smith #snk fanfiction #aot fanfiction #i messed up the tags the first time #whoops #also this was way more emotional than i intended #and theres and abrupt mood shift #a lot of whoops #drabble #my writing

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modernart2012 · 6 years

Text

Distant Places (All These Things I’ve Done)

@sumigakure Halloween Event 2017

Prompt 15: This Town Isn’t What it Seems

Prompt 12: Character finds out they’re a Supernatural Creature

Word Count: 15944

Rating: Mature

WARNING DESCRIPTION OF PANIC ATTACK

On AO3

“Here we are Kakashi.” Sakumo sets down the final box in the gekkan; the rest are stacked pathetically, clinically in neat rows across part of the length of the hall. His son looks around silently, moving ninja quiet around the room trailing Fluffy and Pakkun behind like mismatched lion dogs from the front of a temple made flesh. His heart constricts heavily in his chest, everything about the scene painfully wrong. The neat and orderly boxes, the pervasive ringing silence, the way his genius son was simply nonverbal and constantly huddled in his mother's oversized scarf. Chiasa should have been here, should be laughing and teasing and failing to parse out her own handwriting on the boxes even though the boxes were always mislabeled and it wouldn’t matter which one was opened first anyways.

He breathes in deep, slow and even like the military had taught him when he was in basic training, like the therapists taught him when the world was too overwhelming and threatening to drown him alive, and tries to let go. Chiasa had probably befriended all the dogs (or wolves, or foxes, or hyenas, or whatever canine she stumbled across) on her way through the Earth God’s Halls, leading a massive pack to the Lady of Death to await judgement and reincarnation. Four Almighty, she’d probably act as advocate for the dogs to be reincarnated into better lives, fight the Lady of Death herself. It wouldn’t help any to clutch desperately at her soul with his regrets; she deserved to go in peace after so long without, deserved better than to be tethered to this world to turn into a vengeful ghost instead of journeying on to the next life. He has things to focus on here and now, does not have time to dwell on the past and what is irreversible. Breathe in 4, breathe out 7, and turn to the future.

“Kakashi, would you like to light the flame?” The lamp had been the only item he had carried outside of a box, the thing he had Kakashi place first in the shrive alcove by the fireplace in the living room. It should have been the first thing done, the flame lit and the prayers of blessing sung while smudging incense and lavender through the house, but Sakumo hoped the Fire God would give them a pass. Funerals and mourning were in there on the list of the Interdictions, right, where allowances were made for not strictly following the ceremonies and rituals? Kakashi nods, and barely touches a finger to the clarified butter soaked wick before it sparks up and burns true. Sakumo takes out the jasmine incense Chiasa had loved, and lights a stick to place inside the incense holder, then passes the item to Kakashi. “Once round the house, in all the rooms, and round the garden too. You don’t have to say the prayers, thinking them is fine,” Sakumo is quick to add that last bit. The therapists said Kakashi would speak again when he wanted to, and to not add pressure of speaking before Kakashi was ready on his own. Three deaths so quickly, one right after the other, deaths of people they were both close to; it was a lot of grief to process no matter how long ago it happened, and it didn’t harm anyone to let his son work through it like this. Kakashi nods and goes off, still trailing Pakkun like a vigilant shadow. Fuzzy settles down in the hall with a quiet boof, and he softly pets her cloud white head before getting on with his tasks.

He’s just getting done with scrubbing down the still and sweep of the front door when Dai finally gets there. “Sakumo!” He’s enveloped in green and toned muscles before he can think about it. “I’ve missed you, my old friend.” Sakumo doesn’t answer, the words are unnecessary; he loosens the tension of his frame and hugs back. Clings to the solidness of Dai and the easy affection he offers, the warm port in the storm of his emotions churning like the wine-dark sea. Sakumo’s suffused with gratefulness; it was a good idea to move to the new Ranger station here with Dai, even if the job was technically to watch over some academic as they handled ... something .

It’s above his paygrade to worry about, anyways, since all he needs to know is that the government is very interested in making sure whatever the project is is kept quiet and delivered to the military upon completion. It’s a stable, relatively non-dangerous position that means he can stay with his son and process the most recent loss, that of his wife without worrying about being shot by the enemy. Especially since his senses have been going haywire recently. Sakumo can smell that Dai had an oat kale banana almond protein shake this morning, had hugged someone who smelled like him yet subtly different and someone not - Gai, most likely, then Hisako- and paused somewhere with a lot of minerals. It bothers his nose, and Sakumo has to pull away to sneeze several times in quick succession to clear out his sinuses. Dai, of the same school of thought as their late C.O., whacks him heartily on the back, “There, there, get it out of your system.” Because sneezes originated in the chest and needed to be gotten out like a cough, according to Old Butsuma Senju - he had treated his lung cancer the same way, and died of it, the crotchety old bastard. As if summoned, Kakashi materializes at the base of the stairs, gaze unwaveringly on Sakumo and shifting on his feet like he wants to drift closer but doesn’t know if he should, if he would be welcome. He'd begun hovering over Sakumo at the slightest indication of illness too, but Sakumo didn't mind. He knew he'd do the same, probably would with the chill of the fall setting in given Kakashi’s penchant for catching colds.

“Come on in Dai,” Sakumo offers, slowly making his way down the hall towards the kitchen, only pausing to ruffle Kakashi’s hair. Kakashi pushes up into the touch momentarily, then brushes by to retreat into the living room. Fuzzy turns her head just so, creating a depression where Pakkun can trip himself into, curl up snug and warm in her fur, and such that she can keep an eye on Kakashi. She’s never been trained in childcare, just picked up on it naturally, instinct running high when Kakashi was born and has kept up ever since. “I’m sorry, we don’t have much yet, I have yet to make it to the grocery store, but I can make tea?”

Dai waves him off, “Don’t worry about it; I’m here to help you unpack and settle in.” Dai pushes a slim emerald green box tied in black ribbon across the corners. It rattles ominously, probably amythest, a piece of amber, malachite, black jasper, and beryl - stones for healing, for strength, for emotional cleansing and stability. Good stones for mourning, good stones for the shrine, to remember by. “Hisako is going to bring Gai and groceries later today, so let’s try to get at least the ground floor cleaned and set up.” Of course Dai would bring a traditional gift, and of course he would make nothing of it. Wouldn't even repeat the ritual phrases because Dai knew Sakumo hadn't found any comfort in them the first time with his father, or the second with his mother-in-law, or the third with Chiasa. It was uncool to do something when you know it wouldn't help. Didn't go with his nice guy aesthetic. Sakumo swallows down a choked sob, inhales for a count of 4, exhales a count of 7, and focuses on the task of setting up a house.

“I was hoping to scrub down the floors and refinish them, at least while the floors are bare,” Sakumo offers in return. Dai will hear what he isn’t saying, that he’s restless and needs the physicality of labor to keep himself here. Dai’s not a stranger to Sakumo’s bouts of depression, of his techniques for self-care and processing emotions, been on the receiving end of his need to clean and organize many different times in their long friendship. Wallowing has never done anything for him, and right now he could use a distraction from the awful grasp of sadness rolling around his skull.

Dai nods after a moment of careful consideration. “We’ll need to put up an iron horseshoe over the door first - local custom - then we can go to the hardware store for scrubbers, wood stain, and wood wax. The Doctor’s lab is right there, so I can introduce you then as well.”

Sakumo hasn’t heard of the iron horseshoe superstition in anything but faerie tales, “You’ll have to appraise me of all the local customs, then.” It’s been years since he last heard one of those stories; Kakashi had quickly and effectively demonstrated his disdain for anything lacking in canine characters in stories as a child, and once he had figured out how to read, well, it was hard to lie about which characters were dogs when Kakashi could figure it out with a quick glance at the page. Dai strikes his signature ‘nice guy’ pose, and Sakumo hopes there’s a guide, if Dai is striking his pose of ‘working hard and showing results’. Maybe the locals are just really old-fashioned and uphold long-dead ancient traditions?

The hardware store has eclectic ‘home security’ and ‘home improvement’ sections, an anachronistic array of modern and old items that constitute some value of security or improvement from salt lamps and iron to seals and normal electronic security measures. Sakumo wisely doesn't comment, because he's here for the foreseeable future and making enemies with the hardware store is a slippery slope to having the whole town against you. Local business owners are the ones to be in good with, especially in small towns out in the forest. He's looking forward to a long continued relationship with them, and his life.

He leaves Kakashi, Pakkun, and Fuzzy on the porch of the Doctor's office, a repurposed house, because while he doesn’t want to leave his son with only canine care (as excellent as it is), taking his son into an active research lab is probably really low on the scale of Do’s and Don’t’s of parenting. Dai grins broadly, then raps loudly on the door. It’s scaled in iron, and the window boxes were full of primroses. An interesting choice of decor, but eccentric academic types were wont to be ... eccentric. Idly, Sakumo wonders about the forest that seems to mix so closely with the town, like the buildings were built in little pockets in between trunks and roots, almost something out of a high fantasy setting. Seriously, this looked like something out of the Lord of the Rings movies.

“Hello, Hunter. It’s been a while.” Someone somewhere has stomped all over Sakumo’s grave, given the shivers crawling over his spine. He knows that voice, and still has flashbacks to that time in Yu no Kuni, with the absolutely crazy people being chased by two known wanted hitmen trying to ransom them. Of course he would run into one of them, that was just his luck.”You’ve aged well. Very well.” Fuzzy is standing, hackles raised but not growling. Those piercing, assessing eyes that have only grown more alluring and more bright with time finish perusing Sakumo and flit over to the corner. “And Wolfy too. Hello, Wolfy. How are you?” Fuzzy whines, high and confused, but still poised to move. The Doctor makes no move to touch Fuzzy though, which Sakumo has to begrudgingly give him props for knowing better than to touch a conflicted and scared animal.

The pale, golden-eyed one leans languid in the doorway, long hair tied back into a high ponytail and there’s a smirk that screams mischief to Sakumo. His first thought is beautiful , second breathtaking , and third is oh no . He tenses, ready to move - ready to flee - because he distinctly recalls a decade ago as being a massive FUBAR SNAFU even for the Rangers. An International Incident, more wreckage than the World Wars, and sexual harassment by a minor. The only saving grace had been finding out their targets had been taken care of by some academic type via experimental seal.

Dai is either ignoring the awkward or exhibiting restraint - “So you’ve met Dr. Benzaiten before Sakumo! That’s great!” - or he’s oblivious. Sakumo sighs, and tries not facepalm. “This makes things so much easier!” Sometimes he has to wonder how Dai even made it into the Rangers, given the branch’s clandestine activities, but then he remembers that Dai is a hand-to-hand specialist who’s managed to take on people who were bullet- and magic-proof and win.

The good Doctor snickers. It’s not mean, or at least it’s not at haughty and demeaning, but honestly amused, “Doctor Orochimaru Benzaiten, PhD. You must be the new Ranger assigned here.”

Sakumo notes that the good Doctor doesn’t offer his hand to shake, or give any form of pleasantry. It might be hard to face someone you’ve perpetrated a crime against, he supposes, even if it’s a decade later. “Major Sakumo Hatake, Army Rangers. I am assigned here, yes, specifically to you.” It might be petty to restrain himself from minor pleasantries as well, but mirroring is a form of politeness. In like, Uzu no Kuni, or something.

The silence that stretches out after that is heavy, the Doctor eying him speculatively, Dai grinning and Kakashi doing his best to hunker down behind the still wary Fuzzy. A glittering purple head rises up from what Sakumo thought was the Doctor’s neckline - now he can tell the scaled bit isn’t a collar, it’s a live snake - and tastes the air. The Doctor strokes slowly over the viper-diamond head, contemplatively, like he’s listening closely to something no one else can hear. It stirs the air enough that Sakumo’s nose is hit with conflicting information: dust, chemicals, Dai, flower-scent, and the smell of dried scales. He sneezes twice rapidly, if only his damn sensitivity to smells would settle down already!

“Oh? Captain Maito, do see that Major Hatake is caught up on the local ...peculiarities. It will not do for a military man to be ... caught up in the local ongoings, after all. I’d hate to have something occur that can’t be fixed.” The Doctor slowly continues to stroke the snake’s head, sashaying his sharp purple eyeshadow and dangly iron earrings back through the door with a perfunctory snap shut. Sakumo tries to parse if that is a honest warning, or a subtle threat. It sounded like the Doctor is trying to say something important, but Sakumo’s missing most of the relevant puzzle pieces.

Dai smiles confidently, “I think Dr. Benzaiten likes you! He actually spoke to you instead of glaring, snarking, and/or trying to make you out to be incompetent.” Which might have something to do with their last encounter, where at least two out of the three things Dai just mentioned happened. Sakumo and Dai step off the porch, Fuzzy herding Kakashi and Pakkun along and bringing up the rear.

But, “Did he try that with you?” Sakumo’s willing to swallow his own reservations about the Doctor, especially because it’s his job to do so, but if the Doctor was mean to Dai for no reason, then he’s absolutely going to write back to Command and tell them about the Doctor’s nonsense. All of it. The previous incident was well documented, appropriately filed, and it’d just take a word to have the Doctor’s record black marked for sexual harassment.

Dai levels him a clear-eyed stare, the same one Sakumo had gotten before Dai had slapped sense into him when Sakumo had worked himself into a nervous wreck right before his wedding to Chiasa. “Sakumo, I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t handle a sarcastic child. There are worse things out there than a snarky academic, you and I both know it.” He has to accept the truth of it though, the time with the Daimyo’s daughter was in fact the worst , not even for the treachery and number of bodies she created unnecessarily. A pretty, snarky academic really is nothing in comparison to having to toss still warm bodies into a volcano to hide the evidence. “Besides, we still have a house to clean. Lucky it’s small, right?”

Small, while generous as a descriptor, still means there’s a lot of scrubbing and cleaning to do. The last layer of wax barely dries before Hisako and Gai arrive, and then Hisako informs them that the rooms need to be repainted and anti-pest sprayed before they can even begin to think about living there. Sakumo thinks there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the bare off-white walls, but Hisako is as much a force to be reckoned with as Dai when she’s set her mind on something, so off they go back to the hardware store for paint.

It’s dusk and the town looks completely different. There are figures who pass by like shadows, build up in the streets, that Sakumo only gets glimpses of in the gaslight. Perhaps they are people who work normal jobs, and only just now get to complete their chores for the day? Brigadier General Senju often complained of that, when she was single, and so did many other single coworkers. Balancing getting off work tiredness and the need for food and other household chores was always difficult.

There’s a small platform in the middle of the central town square, front and center of a series of benches.Some people are congregated at the benches, talking softly, milling out patiently and with expectation. “Dai, what’s going on here.” Sakumo tips his chin in their general direction, trying to be discreet. Some of the shadows Sakumo could half see in the corners of his eyes raised the prickling feeling he’s always gotten when danger is near. Sakumo doesn't know what to call it, but there's a tingle in his spine that says something is off.

Dai flicks his eyes to the groups, to the various forms about, some hooded, some veiled, and murmurs sotto voce , “We have a lot of people who live in the surroundings, and this is the only town in a 50 mile radius to have a paved road to get in goods. They come in once or twice a week, but usually on days the Headman has announcements or open forum.”

“Headman?” Maybe Dai should’ve taken Sakumo to meet the Headman instead of the Doctor today; if things were this small town mentality, then the Headman was the man to meet first. The military tended to be formal about things like that after all, especially with military researchers based in backwoods places.

“Dr. Benzaiten. He’s the main person who fixes things, after the last Mayor’s gristly death,” Dai mistakes Sakumo’s look of alarm, “Oh, that was a long time ago. Really, before our time, back when the Doctor first came here with his teacher to do some research. According to the locals, there were a bunch of lightning and thunder storms, and other weird happenstances, but the Mayor ended up dead.” Dai holds up two different paint color swatches. Why in the name of the Fire God Dai thinks Sakumo desires blood red walls or forest green walls is a mystery for the ages. Sakumo holds up a pale silver grey color and a toasted wheat bread tan swatch. Dai vetoes them immediately with neon pink.

The man at the counter leans over, his full beard both glorious and intimidating in its sheer size. The urge to throw the regulation handbook at him is fierce, but civilian and hardware store owner . “Good riddance to bad business, uh. That Four-damned sonovabitch was up to his neck in the Twelve Hells’ business; he didn’t get nothin’ that weren’t already comin’ to him.” He draws his right hand across his eyes in a clawing motion, ripping off the glamour evil places over sight so that the person can’t tell right from wrong. Air God follower, then. Unusual for a hardware shop owner, but Sakumo wasn’t one to judge, since for all that the family name was Hatake he was sheer shit at earth magic. Much to his training sergeant’s eternal horror.

Dai shrugs, “It was noted that it could have been murder, but the overwhelming consensus was ‘Act of God(s)’ and left at that.” Because nothing said Bad Idea like investigating God meted justice. He presses the first three fingers of his right hand to his chest clawed, and drags away. No one needs the God’s Eyes on them for good or ill; God attention never ended well for anyone involved.

The bearded shop owner eyes Sakumo, “You the one who moved in on Old Woman Kayano’s place, uh?” He blazes on, before Sakumo can answer, since it’s either stamped across his forehead or the small town rumor mill’s been busily at work within less than 24 hours, “Earth God Bless her soul, she didn’t have a lick of sense the Four gave sheep, wouldn’t listen an’ got herself got, uh. Tell you what, that place needs more than a lick an’ spit shine, real fixer upper, I’ll give you the discount.” He quickly selects a series of colors from the proffered swatches, and mixes them. “You’ll want salt an’ iron nails too, uh.” The man nods knowingly, like this is the most basic thing Sakumo will need in order to repaint his house. “Headman’ll be ‘round later in the week to set them up right an’ show you how, don’t think nothin’ of it.”

Sakumo’s head is spinning with the rapid-fire information dump, plus the idea of letting the Doctor into his house, a place for his family, “Ah. My tha -”

The man slaps a hand over his mouth faster than Sakumo can blink, their faces drawn together uncomfortably close, “Right, up and forgot you ain’t got the run down quite yet, uh. Don’t go throwin’ around the ‘ank-thay ou-yay’ phrase or the like, some folks ‘round these parts are quick to drag that into a life debt, so mind. You’ll be fleeced of everythin’ you hold dear, uh.” Dai nods enthusiastically, so it’s either just this one person’s quirk or it’s an actual thing. Given the circumstances and Sakumo’s luck, it’s probably an actual thing, which meant - nothing good, Holy Fire God’s Flame. The man lets go but doesn’t end the eye contact.

“Are these people that dangerous?” He can’t say his heart isn’t beating faster in alarm, since this is precisely the sort of thing that ought to have come on the mission parameter memo, and not a ‘local customs to be assimilated to’ bullet. Life debts haven’t been a thing for the last 400 years! And even then, they were usually invoked when someone actually saved your life, or someone near and/or dear to you.

The man stares deeply into Sakumo’s eyes. And very slowly, with great emphasis, nods. Just once. Then he deliberately hits the total key on the register, letting the ka-ching of it processing echo in the space. “That’ll be $60.46 ryo, uh.”

Sakumo pays, and stumbles out under the weight of the paint tins. Thank the Four for whomever invented paint and primer in one, for the amount of paint carrying they’ve saved him. They walk quickly, facing forward, idly discussing what color ought to be begun first - Sakumo thinks the pale Iron blue needs at least one coat today, since it’s the most pigmented, but Dai thinks they should finish the halls and powder room due to square footage. The town square is still busy, with more people flickering as shadows around the edges. Sakumo can see the Doctor speaking emphatically with someone in a deep emerald cloak, clearly annoyed but maintaining socially required politeness. They pass close enough to see the cloaked figure - surrounded by other figures tense with barely leashed energy - and hear her clear wind-chime voice snap with relentless wrath, “If you will not find and be rid of the whore-begotten mongrel I will have to do so myself .”

The Doctor’s voice is cyanide sweet, dripping with venom and danger, “Lady, there are a thousand things you need to do yourself, but I caution you that this is not one of those things you should consider within your purview to act upon.” There’s a veiled threat in there, one Sakumo can read in the Doctor’s face more than the words - one that promises a painful reckoning if the woman finds and - given context, probably murders - whomever she’s deemed a ‘whore-begotten mongrel’. “Furthermore, you yourself were quick to claim you had ended that ‘mulatto half-breed’s existence’; are you saying that you failed to accomplish your own deed? My, my, Lady, which is it?” For whatever reservations Sakumo has from a decade ago, he cannot fault Dr. Benzaiten’s approach to handling this woman, who he finds less and less pleasant with each passing moment.

The woman snarls, “Watch yourself Headman,” but the rest of the confrontation is lost to Sakumo as he and Dai pass out of hearing range. Sakumo can still smell the group though, ash and smoke, fallen leaves, sunlight, moss and bark, and something acrid that burned. Something festering and fungal, waiting to lash out.

“Who was that?” He’s not looking for trouble, not really, but that was a clear and distinct threat and he’s got a sinking feeling that perhaps that is the sort of person the man at the hardware store was warning him about. He sneaks a look back, and the crowd has grown, the Doctor an unwavering pillar against their roiling, nearly unleashed rage, like a dark bulwark of light against the monsters in the shadows. He catches glimpses of fantastical outlines, antlers and twigs, and it must be something backwoods, small-society cultural to have such elaborate headdresses and accoutrements to their outfits.

Dai grimaces, “They live around somewhere, and show up sometimes. Usually to talk to Dr. Benzaiten, or make a bargain. I’ve never heard someone else give them a name, as a group, but they make everyone uneasy.” That Dai hasn’t discluded himself is a massive red flag - Dai did his best to get along with everyone, after all. “Now, to paint! Yosh!” He bounds up the front steps with vigor usually found in men half his age.

Sakumo sighs, and decides that he’d best concede the halls and powder room for painting if he wants any sort of sleep before going into work tomorrow.

Day two in town has it’s perks - namely, the coffee machine in Dr. Benzaiten’s lab, and the many tissue dispensers, because there are so many conflicting smells his sinuses ache - and the ability to ask questions. “Was there ever a reasonable resolution to the ... discussion last night?”

Dr. Benzaiten pauses in soldering electrical wires together, mouth hidden behind a sterile mask but his liquid gold eyes narrowed, evaluating, then widening. “Hold this.” He passes over a piece of quartz, milky white and occluded, gloves powdery still with nitrile. “You’re fire right? Or rather, lightning?”

Sakumo is taken aback.“Er, yes?” He’s not sure what his magical affinity has to do with anything, but Small Lords of Ash and Smoke, eccentric academics are eccentric and Sakumo has nothing to lose by indulging something so minor.

“Good, I need that charged. If you would.” His ponytail waves like a hypnotic onyx ribbon as he moves and maneuvers bits and pieces of electronics, wires, and various magical tools or various magical uses, and Sakumo idly wonders if it’s as soft and silk-like as it looks. “As to our... out of town friends, they are well aware that their previously overlooked ... activities are no longer so overlooked and have consequences.” Dr. Benzaiten’s eyes crinkle in what would be amusement if it weren’t for the dark satisfaction lurking in their depths. “Though that does remind me,” he fishes through a pile of papers offhandedly, before unearthing a pamphlet, “there is a guide to the general local quirks, especially in regards to our oh so friendly neighbors. Most of it boils down to ‘Don’t’; they have some ... antiquated ideas about equivalent exchange.”

Sakumo decides it’s not worth derailing the conversation to discuss if that’s a Fullmetal Alchemist reference. “Is that why everyone gives them a wide berth?” He hands over the softly glowing crystal, and watches the sinuous grace with which Dr.Benzaiten pops it into a device and pushes various buttons. The machine whirs to life, fan whirling and spinning buzz that Sakumo has to forcibly phase into white noise. Perhaps he should see a doctor again, his ears have started to become more sensitive as well.

Dr. Benzaiten tilts his head consideringly, assessing something of the readout, before shrugging elegantly, “Some people willingly interact, but their social norms are more strict than ours, and they often get themselves entangled in affairs well above their ability to handle.”

“And then you have to fish them out.” The man is a decorated academic and researcher with the best University in the Elemental Nations, he’s got little to no other reason to be a Headman of a sleepy - for a given value of sleepy, since apparently the neighborhood is full of people who consider murder fair play - hamlet in the backwoods - literally! Literature levels of murder in the wrong end of the Elemental Nations! - of Hi no Kuni.

“And then I fish them out because they are mine and our neighbors aren’t allowed to mess with what’s mine.” And the decorated academic is possessive. Good to note, as it raises questions about where Sakumo stands. Highly uncomfortable questions. “Do try not to get yourself involved though, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure and all.”

Sakumo isn’t going to argue the point - it’s true and he painfully knows from experience - and tucks the pamphlet into his uniform jacket for later perusal. How much could ‘Don’t’ cover anyways?

The door to the lab is knocked at rapidly, and then the assistant, Nawaki, sticks his head in. “Dr. Benzaiten, there’s been - ”

“Who was it this time, Nawaki? If it was Youko, please go tell her I refuse to -” Dr. Benzaiten doesn’t look up from where he’s returned to soldering connections on a breadboard.

“Noboru. It’s Noboru. Please, sir, it’s urgent.” His grey-green eyes don’t waver, even when Dr. Benzaiten bolts upright, eyes alight with anger and righteous indignation.

“Major, I won’t be back in the laboratory today, please take the rest of the day off.” It’s phrased like an order, like the ones Butsuma Senju used to give, that made everyone hurry to obey, and on instinct Sakumo nearly dos the same. It takes a moment to recognize that he’s heard wrong, and that checking that his sidearm is holstered is the wrong action to be taking, even though it’s perhaps more expedient given. The men are hurrying towards the door, and Sakumo hurries after them.

“This situation, are you sure you won’t need backup?” Sakumo’s a military man, always has been. He’s good at achieving the best outcomes, and he won’t leave someone in trouble when he’s capable of helping. Especially if it’s as urgent as this sounds.

“If I thought you impeccable aim and impressive ability to track would be of any use, Major, I would be telling you to come along. As it is, you aren’t versed in the protocols and you have a small child yourself. About the same age as Noboru. Go home to your son, Major, there’s nothing you can do here.” With that, the Doctor and his assistant rush out the door.

Unfortunately, Sakumo hasn’t gotten to where he is in life without a good bit of skullduggery, skulking, and snooping. And while he’s entirely sure he is completely able to follow Dr. Benzaiten and Nawaki without being spotted, noticed, or otherwise caught, there is one thing universities and the government are better at doing than the military - paperwork. And Dr. Benzaiten is a researcher in Experimental and Theoretical Magic, which means he must keep a detailed log of everything. Thank the Fire God and all the Small Lords for red tape.

Dr. Benzaiten is one who keeps everything in handwritten logs. Small blessings. It’s nothing to use the master key access he has for his own needs to access Dr. Benzaiten’s office, to find his logs. And while Dr. Benzaiten writes in a shorthand that’s as complex and near as impossible to read, almost worse than nearly-completely faded Ancient Scripts, Sakumo had minored in Ancient Scripts for a reason beyond its use in code breaking. There’s nothing better than writing a senior thesis on the regional and dialectic variants of the shorthand for certain elements in spell writing that ends up having uses later in life. Because Dr. Benzaiten is definitely using a southeastern Mizu no Kuni regionalization, the Marsh Witches High Cant. Last Sakumo had heard, that was a matrilineally passed language, and also long extinct. Out of academic interest, he copies a few pages, but keeps an ear trained on the noises in the office. He absolutely does not need to be caught.

It seems at least once a week there’s mention of ‘’thrs’ or ‘o’t’rs’ - Cant for outsiders, those who are not of or belonging to a Witch, with belonging originating in terms of vassals but here more likely to mean the regular townsfolk. Much mention of the ‘Peer High One’ - the leader of the neighbors, then, since the Witches failed to recognize male leaders unless they were vassals of another Witch - and her casual cruelty. No mention of what she’s been up to though, just that she rules with an indiscriminate iron fist - Dr. Benzaiten makes mention of the woman taking out her whims on her own vassals - and something . Fire God and all the Small Lords, Sakumo can’t tell if the word is smudged, miswritten, or something completely made up.

His senses sting, muscles freezing as his ears prick at the slight sound of footsteps limping forward on wood - there’s someone at the door. Sakumo can smell blooming blood, and the tangy-fizz of magic, and something wild . He reflexively calls up his magic, because Dr. Benzaiten wouldn’t end up here if he was covered in that much blood, so whomever has gotten themselves here is either a badly wounded friend or a blood covered foe. “Hello?”

There’s no answer for a moment, and that’s worrying in all the wrong ways, until, “Doctor? Are you here?” That voice is definitely neither Dr. Benzaiten’s nor Nawaki’s, but something akin to an older woman’s only more soft, more weathered yet clear and solid and nothing like the sharp shard sound of the leader of the people who live outside of town. Sakumo cautiously opens the door, and starts. A woman, his age, or not much older, pale and nearly blended into her dog’s grey-white fur.

“Ah, Doctor, Takao’s been - you’re not the Doctor.” Near instantaneously, he finds himself at the end of a blade and staring into grey-nearly-black eyes, the same as his and his son’s.

“I’m working with Dr. Benzaiten. You said your dog was injured?” He won’t begrudge the woman seeking aid for her dog. Not when he himself has needed help to care for Fuzzy when he has active combat duty and she’s been injured.

“Takao’s taken a nasty hex to the side, I’ve done my best to keep it from corrupting more of his flesh, but I’m no medic.” Together they both support the massive beast into the lab, the poor dog visibly flagging with the effort needed to limp along. “I didn’t know what else to do, the Lady is raging so, and none of the others would dare disobey her or undo her handiwork.”

“But you did?” She’s right, this is a nasty hex, something slowly leaching Takao of life and energy, destroying his muscles and ligaments. Sakumo’s seen similar though, in the bloody genocide in Mizu no Kuni a few years back - an awful, prolonged, painful way to die - but there’s a salve. One some Inuzuka with the 5th regiment had made up, that smelled like fresh shit combined with fermenting fish and rotting corpses but worked .

He’s fumbling around his belt pouches - he has several vials of the stuff, since it works on most hexes by dint of being every anti-hex ingredient in a paste - when she speaks measuredly, “I am both her most trusted lieutenant and the one she distrusts the most. For all my loyalty, she only sees daggers in the dark or what would amuse her best and pain me most.” As he applies a thick coating of the salve, she wrinkles her nose and gags, “Earth God’s fertile soil and its bounty, what is that?”

Sakumo is inclined to agree - somehow the smell is worse that he remembers - and has to breathe through his mouth to stop himself from puking. “Salve, good on hexes.” He accidentally inhales through his nose and has to fight the tumultuous roil of his stomach attempting to rebel. “I still need to channel magic through it to make sure it penetrates the tissue properly and removes all the contamination.” To Takao, who has been laying on his side patiently, panting and whimpering his pain but not moving, “You’re doing so good boy, I’m almost done, then you can rest okay?”

It takes a touch of magic only to activate the properties, fire, not water, to burn apart the bonds the hex uses to latch on to the body, uses in order to leach energy and life in order to feed its own. Water and it’s life won’t help here, no, fire needs to burn out the infection and that takes precision.The white-haired lady is hovering but motionless, and it prickles every instinct of his, to not bare the back of his neck to a stranger, to someone he does not recognize as his leader, and it’s easy enough to distract himself from such old intrusive thoughts, “Can you not depose her?”

She hisses startled, “Don’t even speak of such things! Even here the Lady has ears waiting to report back what was said and done!” She holds her elbows, arms crossed yet spine straight, a commander wearing her strength like armor, though a plate or two is clearly cracked and her vulnerability is showing through. “Is it done?”

Sakumo has removed as much as he could - the rest will burn out and off in the next few hours, but that will continue even after he stops running his magic through the salve. “It’s done. Let me wrap the area, and then you can be on your way.” He softly pets Takao’s head once more in silent praise, feeling vindicated when the dog pushes up gratefully into the press of his hand, then gets up to fetch the bandages from the first aid kit. Dr. Benzaiten could stand to lose a roll or two or linen gauze; he’s stocked for a small war.

When he gets back, Takao blearily opens his ice blue eyes and noses at his wrists, whining lowly. The woman cradles his large head and whispers in his ears as she runs her hand down his neck soothingly. He finally ties off the bandages. “Leave them on for a day, just to be sure that the salve has completely gotten rid of everything.”

The woman and dog rise, the dog listing and the woman obviously supporting him. “I will not forget your kindness, wolf-souled one. I owe you a life debt.”

The alarm bells in Sakumo’s head are ringing wildly, Dr. Benzaiten’s warnings running through his head. He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from telling her it was nothing, wracks his brain to think of something, anything to say. Finally he settles on, “Sakumo. My name. It’s Sakumo.”

The woman smiles and it is warm and softly sunlight, “Sayaka. And this one is called Takao. Well met, Sakumo the Wolfling.”

“Well met, Sayaka.” He wants to ask how he went from ‘wolf-souled’ to ‘Wolfling’ but decides it might have to do with social hierarchy the people who live around town use, and that’s probably not worth the headache.

She leaves into the orange-red twilight, and Sakumo can’t help but think that there’s something so much worse going on here than whatever the town believes, whatever that Dr. Benzaiten believes - has them believe?

There’s only one thing to do.

“A what? ” Dr. Benzaiten startles so hard the micropipette tip he’s been distractedly trying to jam onto the micropipette goes flying. Nawaki screeches quietly then rushes out dialing on his phone.

“A date.” Sakumo had talked it over extensively with Dai, with Hisako, and with Kakashi (and Gai, though Gai had cheered that dating was youthful, for which Sakumo would like to blame Dai preemptively before anything comes of that) and Fuzzy and Pakkun. The only one of those conversations that had gone well was with Kakashi, who had supportively suggested he get a guide on how to date since it had been literal years since he’d last gone on one. Dai and Hisako had exchanged glances, Dai wincing and Hisako gently mentioning that just because it had been nearly two years since- since - that he didn’t need to feel like he was rushing to pretend like he was done grieving. Really. Take his time and if Hisako needs to recommend a therapist, she’ll find one who’s willing to do appointments via Skype.

Things hadn’t gotten better on that end when he’d explained he wanted to mine Dr. Benzaiten for information, thus necessitating a situation where he (Sakumo) could liberally apply alcohol and loosen his (Dr. Benzaiten’s) tongue and find out what the Twelve Hells is going on in this town. Maybe he hadn’t explained things right, but Dai had told him it was uncool to use some pretty young thing like that - which while Dr. Benzaiten is pretty, and young, he is just as guilty of having ulterior motives and Sakumo knows it - and Hisako had winced and made dandan noodles for dinner to express her distaste for the idea.

It’s not his fault that Dr. Benzaiten is entirely too much to take on alone. “This isn’t a late retribution for the sexual harassment back then, is it?” His eyes are more purple eyeshadow than gold, suspicious and angry.

“What?! No!” Sakumo is quick to assure him it’s not that at all.

“Not a prank, or otherwise meanly meant?” At this one Sakumo has to internally wince, because he has ulterior motives but he isn’t pursuing it with malice intended.

Still he soldiers on. “No.”

Dr. Benzaiten unhooks his face mask to reveal pursed lips, flush high on his diamond cut cheekbones, “Are you attempting entrapment via relationship so I am forced to take you along on Headman duties so that you can reasonably discharge your duties as my overseeing officer for the Army?” A single emerald painted fingertip taps pointedly against the top of the lab bench.

He runs that through that sentence a few times, because it’s just convoluted enough to make sense, but not so convoluted there isn’t a right answer. “While that’d be a great way to do that, I’m pretty sure that’s morally wrong and for a different type of mission than this, also, no.” Sakumo smiles pleasantly, the one that crinkles his eyes just so, and pushes his hands into his pockets, relaxed. He can practically see the wheels turning in the doctor’s head. “Unless we’re doing International Incidents again?”

As if it’s reflexive, Dr. Benzaiten snaps, “That was entirely Kagami’s fault, and you know it Jiraiya!” There’s a moment of dead quiet, then Dr. Benzaiten’s eyes widen in horror.

Sakumo raises his eyebrows, notes both names for later research, but grins quicksilver mischief and says, “Not even one date and you’re calling me by another man’s name? That’s certainly fast, doctor.” At the wildfire flush running unchecked across pale skin, the sheer mortification made public, Sakumo eases, “If you’re actually that uncomfortable - “

“Tonight. 8pm. The izakaya off the main square. We’ll split the bill, so don’t get any funny ideas. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go wrangle a phone from my assistant and try to yell one of my best friends down from an aneurysm over the phone.” Flush still riding high, the doctor glides quickly out of the room, lab coat billowing like a flag in the wind.

Sakumo’s going to chalk that up as a win, even if that win is slightly questionable. Now to figure out the highest proof alcohol the izakaya sells, and make sure Kakashi knows to go to the Maito’s tonight. He’s not throwing away his shot.

Fuzzy insists upon joining him that evening, and Sakumo, not willing to risk being late by having to fight a 300+ pound apex predator trained by the military, gives in and resigns himself to her coming along. She follows close beside him, stopping to sniff fences and lampposts as well as thoroughly investigate the public fountain in the corner of the square, plus or minus some rather aggressive squirrels. They must give the squirrels steroids or the like, given the way they hiss - which, since when did squirrels hiss? - and flicker their tails irately. That is some power tail flicking.

All in all Fuzzy makes an utter nuisance of herself on the walk over, but settles down when they meet Dr. Benzaiten at the door to the izakaya. “Doctor. Good evening.” Sakumo slides open the door gallantly. Fuzzy slips past like a large white shadow and pants happily from just inside the door.

He’s met by a pointedly arched eyebrow, silently judgemental, “Orochimaru, please. I must insist.” Orochimaru glides past anyways entering the premises easily. He greets the hostess easily, and they immediately get lead to a private booth. “So tell me, why exactly should I inform my best friends that you do not deserve to be pummeled into a pate for even looking at me sideways?”

Sakumo accepts the bottle of shochu from the waitress - prearranged after much deliberation between classy low stakes alcohol, like shochu or sake versus hangover inducing soju -careful to nod his thanks rather than speak it. “I do hope I’ve not given the impression that I’m that much of an asshole so quickly. ”

Orochimaru’s lips twitch, “Fair enough. Now that I’ve gotten my required question out of the way, the crux of the matter, Why did you ask me out?” He accepts the proffered glass of shochu, and they both sip at the sweet white sweet potato shochu. It’s tasty, perhaps fish will pair well, but possibly green beans or yakitori.

Sakumo thinks it over before answering, “You’re intriguing, and pretty. Should there be more to it?” Perhaps he’s getting the hang of telling the truth while also hiding his real intent. A scary yet exciting thought. Maybe he could go full on James Bond, super spy. Except James Bond was Navy, the soggy-bottomed loser. Maybe a whole new type of super spy? One who’s not a functioning alcoholic, for one.

“Call me pretty and give me non watered down shochu,” Orochimaru toasts him over the rim of his glass, “You, sir, are playing dirty.”

“Then I shall continue playing dirty.” Sakumo tosses back the rest of the shochu and refills Orochimaru’s glass. “How did Noboru fare in the end?”

“Little Noboru was snatched out of his cradle by our dearest neighbors and their Lady has the gall to pretend like no one knows who did it and on whose orders.” Orochimaru runs a finger around the rim of his glass; Sakumo has no choice but to listen to it sing with his hearing acting as funky as it is. “Luckily Manda managed to help make the point clear that the Lady isn’t welcome to simply trapeze around like she’s the Queen of these parts anymore. Now you, what do you get up to when you’re not lounging around my laboratory?” Manda hopefully, stayed at home and isn’t anywhere near the establishment.

Sakumo smiles, “I usually spend time with my son.” He fishes for his phone and swipes through the photos until he finds his favorite, “Kakashi. He’s 7, and a little genius. That’s his puppy Pakkun.” The pug is curled up in Kakashi’s lap like a small furry ball, barely visible.

Orochimaru coos appropriately at the picture of Kakashi solving basic calculus equations, then freezes warily asks, “And your wife?”

Sakumo lets the wash of ice cold sadness pour over him then exhales, slow and even, “She passed.” He forces himself to shrug, “Modern medicine is a miracle, but even that can’t fix metastasized cancer in the magic pathways.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” It’s sincere, for what that’s worth. For all Orochimaru is clearly playing a dangerous game with the people who live around the town, at least he’s not a complete sociopath. A stiff silence falls, and Sakumo tries to think of how to get it back on topic. Fire God’s Eternal Flame, he wasn’t the best dater around and he knew it. Why was this the plan again?

The waitress comes around to take their orders, and once she’s left Sakumo tries again, “So what brought you out here initially?”

“To shorten a needlessly complex story, my teacher won a grant to do some work for the military, and since I was assisting, I came out here with him. When his work was successfully completed, he left but I had unusual results that wouldn’t or couldn’t be replicated elsewhere in the world, so I left and came back to set up my lab. And now I mainly do research plus some work for the military as they find projects they need my expertise on.”

“Fascinating. And the ... friendly folk who live outside of town? How long have they been a problem?” Sakumo tops up both their glasses, though he’s been carefully pretending to drink instead of actually drinking.

“Mmm, about the same length of time, though they are usually quickly dealt with.” Their food arrives, small plates meant for sharing. “I have better things to do than to deal with their nonsense.”

“Are they usually targeting those who live here or each other?”

Orochimaru’s face twists, “Whatever catches their eye and suits the flavor of their cruelty for the moment. The Lady will target those among her people, and it’s disgusting. She has favorites to target, and one of them reminds me of you. Hair color, eye color, massive dogs like the wolf in Princess Mononoke had puppies.” He twirls a piece of yakitori contemplatively, before pointing the skewer suddenly at Sakumo. “Kind, earnest, honest, humble, loyal to a fault.” Sakumo knows his surprise is coloring his face, at the description his commanding officers have used to describe him since time immemorable, and Orochimaru’s smirk is triumphant, “You didn’t expect me to do my own research on you?”

“There’s nothing particularly interesting to know about me,” Sakumo demures, because it’s true. He’s a single parent to a genius child who’s only doing his best to make sure his last living family member is healthy and happy.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire, Mr. Youngest-Highly-Decorated-Major-In-the-Special-Operations-Division. You’re also in the running to make Colonel soon.”

“And you have nearly as many patents as your teacher, the second most in the world.” Sakumo should’ve saved that as ammunition for later, but he can’t regret the faint pink spots that rise on Orochimaru’s pale face. He really is pretty, which is an unconventional descriptor for a male, but also intelligent and not shy about it. A little loose tongued under the effect of alcohol, but that’s to be expected when you have three un-watered glasses with no food to cushion the shock to the system. Sakumo feels the sinking stone of guilt in his lower abdomen, the heavy rocks of regret weighing down his tongue. Perhaps this really was a bad idea.

“I surmise that this is your first foray back into the dating pool, then?” Orochimaru’s eyes have sharpened and Sakumo wonders if perhaps he hasn’t stumbled into some sort of trap.

The only thing to do though, is be honest. He scratches his cheek abashed, “Ahhh, what gave me away?” Under the table, Fuzzy snuffles about, as if she smells something intriguing, but Sakumo disregards that in favor of watching Orochimaru and the phases his eyes change through eureka - satisfaction-regard-intrigue lightning fast.

They finally settle on a glimmer of laughter - still not mean, just teasing mischief meant without malice. “Beyond the fact we just had a conversation over drinks that can be primarily and summarily described as ‘business oriented’, your phone keeps getting texts from someone named Dai sending you dating tips.” And this is why Sakumo doesn’t keep his phone on silent, Fire God forsake it. He can feel the fire of his blush all the way to the roots of his hair. “Don’t worry, I’m flattered. It’s not everyday someone decides all your various patents and magical skills mean you’re safe enough to test the dating pool with again.”

“A certain International Incident, if I recall correctly, marks you as very dangerous.” A set of eyebrows rise, astonishment, interest, and smug pride conveyed with so little, and Sakumo hurries to continue before things get wildly out of hand, “But ‘dangerous’ ... is interesting. I like dangerous things.” He replays what he just said in his head, and wrestles with the mortification rising from the depths of his soul. Open mouth and insert foot. While it’s not untrue , even when applied to Orochimaru - he is pretty and lethal, considering what he may or may not have accomplished a decade ago against immortal hitmen - Sakumo suspects that a) he’s not supposed to come right right out and say it, and b) when did that become less than a total lie? Even as he turns it over and over in his head in the silence that follows, he can’t say it’s untrue - from what he knows about Orochimaru he’s prone to protectiveness, possessiveness, sharp wit, and carries himself with a lethal sort of grace. None of those are necessarily deal breaker things, nor is his penchant for trouble and being in the center of it - glass houses and those who live in them and such.

Orochimaru shakes himself free of his excellent mimicry of a deer in the headlights. “That’s quite - I must myself admit that I find dangerous things also attractive.” His face is pointedly facing away, and all Sakumo can see are the sinuous snake earrings dangling from Orochimaru’s loose waterfall of midnight hair.

“Ah.” Sakumo covers with a deep drink of his shochu. Mmmm distilled sweet potato alcohol. Refreshing and if Sakumo has enough of it, he won’t be able to recall any of this. Fuzzy sneezes thrice in quick succession and harrumphs before settling down. He’s not sure if that’s Fuzzy making fun of him or the situation or both.

The silence that falls is awkward. Sakumo clears his throat and opens, “Maybe it’s better to stick to work talk or small talk?”

“Agreed.” Orochimaru nods once. “How are you finding our sleepy little town?”

“Are you asking as Headman or...?” Sakumo pulls off a piece of chicken from the yakitori stick. This garners no response, so Sakumo hedges his bet and goes a fifty-fifty split. “The area is nice, really, like something out of a fantasy novel, but ‘sleepy’ isn’t how I would describe it.”

“You have nothing to fear of the kindly neighbors who like to kick up a fuss, truly; their Lady just likes trying to test the constraints of her power every now and again.” Orochimaru’s mouth thins and his nose wrinkles in distaste. Whether it’s at the woman called Lady refusing to recognize that Orochimaru is the new big dog in town after all this time, or at the pickled daikon - which is too pickled for Sakumo’s taste - but it’s clear the situation is a thorn in his side. How far he’ll go to deal with such a threat is an unknown, but Sakumo sincerely hopes it’s after his work here is done.

“Yet she orders children snatched and hurts her own people. Why hasn’t anyone usurped her yet?” Because Sayaka had admitted to having reservations about her leader, and Sayaka couldn’t be the only one.

“Power. She’s owed enough favors and promises that moving against her would be likely suicide. For them, her word is law and that’s all they’ve likely ever known.” Orochimaru shrugs one shoulder as if to say ‘what can you do?’

It’s a fair point. Power often dictated societal morals in Sakumo’s experience, and often those with power had no morals, or if they did they - either the person or the morals didn’t last long. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Perhaps it would be worth looking into having this Lady classified as a direct threat to the safety and wellbeing of the people of Hi no Kuni, so Sakumo could take her out and restore some peace of mind here. Something to ask the Major when he calls for his weekly report in. He’s got enough first-hand evidence of the direct threat she poses, and it wouldn’t be the worst thing he’s ever done.

“You know, I’ve always wondered - ,” Orochimaru breaks Salumo out of his plotting, but himself gets broken off by the trill of his phone. “Apologies, someone must have put in the override code.” He checks the caller id, then vigorously swipes the “End Call” button on a “Kagami” - the second time Sakumo has heard that name, now he’s curious. “Wondered - ,” the phone rings again, once again Kagami. Orochimaru bristles, then angrily swipes the ‘accept call’ button, “ What? ” If tone of voice could kill, this Kagami fellow would be dead 17 times over with just a word. Impressive.

Whatever this Kagami is saying, it’s sing-song and gleeful, but too muffled by static and speed of talking for Sakumo to clearly make out the words. He does catch an ‘I told you so,’ and virulent laughter, though what this Kagami told Orochimaru and how it’s come true Sakumo has no clue. Sakumo can see the steady throb of Orochimaru’s temple slowly gaining speed, though, and worries for this Kagami fellows life expectancy.

Sakumo grabs a napkin and slowly writes out, ‘Perhaps we should reschedule?’ Orochimaru takes a moment to read the note and then viciously shakes his head in denial.

“Kagami, if you must know I am very busy right now. Yes, on a date. I know you know that because Jiraiya probably blabbed at poker night, and I know you know that I know about that time with the centrifuge toast and the turducken in the autoclave incident. I think perhaps Dean Senju would be interested in learning about those, hnm?” Fire God’s eternal flame, that’s vicious. Yet, clearly blackmail has it’s uses. Sakumo is conflicted between disapproving and admiring the elegant solution.

Kagami is still speaking, but Orochimaru hangs up. “My sincerest apologies, Dr. Uchiha thought that was an emergency.” He glances at his phone when it rings again, and looks taken aback. “It’s far too late now. You have to pick up your child from Captain Maito’s correct?”

Sakumo checks the time himself, and winces at the 45 text messages from Dai. Small Lords and Heavenly Courts preserve him. “Yes. I do need to get Kakashi.” He had collected some of the information that he aimed for tonight, and some other ones more besides.

“It’ll be fastest if I take you. Come.” He pushes up from the booth with easy grace, signalling for the waitress to bring the check to the front.

Sakumo follows, trailing Fuzzy like a fluffy fluffy banner. “Er, did you have a motorbike I missed?”

Orochimaru glances at him, then the check before swiping his card. “No something better.” They step outside, Sakumo about to protest the fact that the bill is very certainly not split , when the world turns to a swirl of light streaks and colors.

Sakumo is glad it’s Saturday and that he can sleep off the combined hangover and migraine from the previous evening. Because apparently the migraine is a potential hazard of teleportation. Space-time compression. Something. Kakashi prods the bag of ice on Sakumo’s head to refreeze it, then nestles down again beside him. Sakumo warms with pride - or a hot flash, jury’s out on which - at the skill his son is already showing in magic. Fuzzy is curled around him on his bed, and Pakkun is somewhere in this tangle of fur and limbs. It’s a morning that would best be spent recalling the sheer excitement and delight on Kakashi’s face when he experienced the Teleportation spell for himself, or sleeping in, but all he can think about is the color of liquid gold by gas light and the Lady.

And with his senses on full blast, overheating and lacking the will to extract himself from the puppy pile thrown together on his bed, even thinking leaches him of his last bit of energy.

He goes in circles, until his thoughts are a well worn track anchoring him in the sensation overload that are his senses failing to remain at normal, until he falls into an exhausted sleep that is full of cruel laughter and blood coated in gold. Sakumo wakes to Dai shaking his shoulder, and can recall none of it but the unsettling feeling of being watched.

In deference to his still throbbing migraine, Dai opts to whisper as he delivers Hisako’s cure-all tomato soup. “Dr. Benzaiten showed you the Teleportation seal in action?!”

Sakumo can’t summon the energy to do more than tilt his head in question, and then mentally chide himself because now he knows exactly where Kakashi picked that up. “It’s only to be used in extreme cases, the doctor and his teacher found when they were developing it that it thinned the spaces between worlds. Or made reality fragile? Possibly caused one subject’s insides to become outsides, but that could have been something else.” Dai really isn’t helping. Thanks Dai.

He and Kakashi spend the rest of the day sleeping in, surfacing every once and again to shift around; Sakumo can swear he feels a gentle hand pet over his head more than once, but it has to be wishful thinking. There’s no one there, after all.

The following week passes quietly, Orochimaru makes no mention of Friday night or their discussion, but Sakumo can feel the weight of his gaze whenever Sakumo has reason to be at the lab. Which isn’t often enough, or even often at all. Sakumo dearly wishes he had more time at the lab, to weigh feelings against facts, to see if perhaps this researcher is someone he could find kinship and kindredness in, could date without pretense. His head says probably, his heart is wavering, and this mixed bag doesn’t help anything at all. That and the feeling there is someone watching him, watching his son. That might just be paranoia though.

Commands from the capital have him setting up a secure communications lines, and reporting on the handful of military families stationed out here. There’s discussion of having a training base set up out here, which would require he and Dai to scout out the terrain and the obstacles. Sakumo feels like Central won’t appreciate if he says ‘crazy people who live in the forest’ as an obstacle, no matter how serious he is on that count. Dai thinks they should put it down anyways, but Dai is also earnest and faithful and sometimes fails to consider the fact that perhaps they should have trainees chased by crazy people on the orders of a madwoman. If they sign the consent form, they’re fair game for whatever gets thrown at them.

That might just be Sakumo’s bitterness talking though; Colonel Shimura had spoken at length of peaceful military-civilian interactions, and that the Headman of the village would handle and continue to handle the situation and report to the government if necessary and that Sakumo was not to overstep his authority or tread on the toes of the locals by taking out the neighbor’s leader. Which is frankly idiotic since the Headman is a military scientist and protecting their asset and his work is his primary objective. If Sakumo ever becomes Colonel and Shimura gets ousted, he’s going to clean up the red tape and use common sense to lead, he swears it on the Fire God’s Eternal Flame. So mote it be lest his soul be consigned to eternal damnation in the Fire God’s Hells.

He’s so consumed by the massive dump of tasks the Colonel sends his way that he almost doesn’t notice how eerily quiet the town becomes. Like everyone is huddled indoors, away from windows or doors, just waiting for the danger to pass. His senses ratchet up and catch on every slightest noise, every pin drop. It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it’s been in the works too long and everything is a giant exposed nerve twisted up in knots and trembling with barely restrained potential energy, ready to explode.

The phone ringing in the midst of all that tension should have been his sign. His phone ringing has never ended well for Sakumo, that the ringtone was even audible in the first place ought to have given him pause.

He knows the voice on the other end of the line, “Major Hatake? This is Principal Takahashi -” His hands shake as he listens, and then his world bursts. He doesn’t know what to do - should he spring into action; should he wait for the authorities to arrive; should he scream and keep screaming?

The decision is taken out his hands when his heart starts racing uncontrollably, his hearing sharpening until all noise is shrill and shrieky, his nose catching every scent in the vicinity, his jaw aching with the strain of something Sakumo cannot put a name to. A stringent voice snaps out orders, the phone tugged free of his hand and a third voice speaking. He feels more than hears the distressed whine of Fuzzy, the fingers against the pulse in his wrist and then the firm, cold hands against his chest, cold hands pressing one of his hands to a thin chest to match his breathing to. It doesn’t help, doesn’t fix the screaming in his ears or the flood of information or the bone deep pain that blooms and blooms and blooms . More commands Something falls out of his mouth as he gasps for air, and he dimly realizes it’s one of his front canine teeth. First one, then another, then another, they tinker to the floor like something from a nightmare, and something sharper pushes out of his gums, filling his mouth with blood. Bones shift and move and sharpen, and if Sakumo thought he’d be able to draw breath he’d scream with the pain of it. Fuzzy pushes into his chest as if she can headbutt out the wrongness and circles him protectively, anxious and defensive.

Then one by one the pains fade, plateauing. Sakumo finds himself staring into sharp gold eyes as he shakily inhales, holds, and exhales, and he wants nothing more than to collapse against those deceptively thin shoulders and weep. What he gets instead is a hard slap across the face, and virulent cursing from Orochimaru as he cradles the hand he used to slap Sakumo. “Get yourself together Major!” A fuzzy iridescent green glow encases Orochimaru’s hand, and Sakumo can smell the way the hurt eases.

“What’s happened to me?” He wonders how he can even croak that much out when - when this is the ultimate nightmare scenario. The thing that haunts his dreams more than his first kill or the last rattling breath Chiasa breathed in that grey beige hospital room.

Orochimaru, clearly not a believer in sympathy for those having a life-changing paradigm shift in worldview, forces him to his feet, then into Fuzzy for support. “I believe our fair neighbors would call it manifesting. Come on, we can chat as we move. Time is of the essence.”

Nothing makes sense and everything is haywire. But it’s easy enough to fall in step with Orochimaru, who moves like a soldier headed into a standoff with a mission they aim to complete, no matter the cost. “Manifesting?”

“Coming into one’s ... inheritance? Power? Whatever it is that marks our fair friends as something other .”

“Other meaning what exactly, beyond someone not from in town?”

Orochimaru narrows his eyes dangerously. “We are later going to discuss the fact you can read Marsh Witch High Cant, Major, and the repercussions of going through my logs. For now, Other means the ones who have your son. Can you track him at all, Ranger?” Impatient, but now that Orochimaru mentions it, Sakumo can smell traces of his son, of wild-sunlight-sprint-mischief , and suddenly he’s moving.

First it’s a quick walk, then a faster trot, a jog, then it’s the most natural thing in the world to flat out run. He can catch traces of wild-sunlight-sprint-mischief that is Kakashi, and can track it by nose alone, on the fly, and it’s exhilarating. Fuzzy sprints beside him, keeping pace easily with her long loping stride, pausing only momentarily to sniff through the air currents of the forest as it grows more dense and tightly grown, but it’s nothing to duck and weave and course correct with his every sense singing. The only hitch comes when he hits something of a wall. It’s not a wall, per se, more alike to a convoluted piece of Ancient Script he hasn’t quite parsed the base of. But the scent of his son does go beyond it, that much he’s sure of.

Orochimaru catches up, breathless. “Oh, Air God and the Heavenly Winds, a trod . Of course, a trod .” His omnipresent crystal bead bangle clacks as Orochimaru begins forming handsigns, but Sakumo stops him.

“You punch through with magic the trod will ... collapse.” Sakumo hopes he’s reading the runes floating around correctly. It’s either collapse or destroy itself, but the result is still the same. There’d be no finding Kakashi. Something about the word trod itches at his brain, but Sakumo ignores it because his son . His son is in the hands of a monster, and he will rip her throat out with his teeth if he has to in order to get Kakashi back safe.

“The only other option is to go Underhill and confront the Lady directly, which will mean we can’t surprise her and steal your son back before she notices.” Pale strong arms cross defensively, and as much as Sakumo agrees, there’s nothing to be done. He doesn’t even know where to begin with this ... Veil without at least two different reference texts, which could take hours to translate, filter for junk, translate again, and undo. They just don’t have the time. Orochimaru must see something of this resolve, and sighs resigned before grinning darkly. “Underhill it is. Let’s go make an Incident shall we, my sweet?”

Sakumo bares his teeth in a parody of a grin, “Of course, let’s do what we do best.”

Perhaps Sakumo should have checked that they were on the same page about what constitutes an “Incident”, since his version is kicking down doors and subduing people (killing them if only necessary), and Orochimaru’s just disintegrated his fourth person. “Are you even trying for survivors, Beautiful?”

Orochimaru flexes his fingers testily, “First of all, never use “beautiful” as a pet name again. Second, letting anyone get away to raise the alarm at this juncture would be counterproductive as a scare tactic.” He whirls in a elegant movement to catch a leaping assailant - one with cat eyes and a tail and a truly horrific amount of serrated teeth - in the face. With a puff of magic, ink scrawls out across their face with a acidic hiss, then with a sickening scream they dissolve to so much ash and dust. Well, Sakumo can’t say he’s surprised, he’s long known Orochimaru is dangerous and not just superficially. Fuzzy rumbles low in her throat and licks some of the bright red blood off her well-coated muzzle.

“But wouldn’t the scream make any nominal attempt at stealth moot?” He moves with a surprising amount of speed and finesse for the way his body’s muscles react a touch too fast, catching a whirling white blade with his reinforced gloves and then collapsing magic paths and deadening nerves with precise hits. Sakumo catches the blade before it falls to the floor, and after a cursory inspection, straps it to his side. Useful weapons were few and far between after all. Fuzzy races ahead, engaging with enemies unseen before they can spring their traps.

Orochimaru had led them through an opening in a knotted series of branches and roots into a set of underground tunnels, but Sakumo had the disorienting feeling that the path they had taken was somehow bigger than the thicket had seemed from the outside. And things that had previously seemed obscure had finished unearthing themselves from Sakumo’s recollections. Still he’d like to wait for a little more confirmation -

Sakumo catches the soft twang of a bow and easily slices the arrow in half, lets Orochimaru fire off a cyclone of scalep sharp air blades and inferno hot flames over his head to the hidden archer as he parries a longsword that rose up from the ground like an assassin’s blade. Their steadily smoothing ability to work together like a well-oiled machine - or a danse macabre for two, considering the bodies littering their path - makes Sakumo’s Ranger missions look like toddlers learning to walk. It’s like playing a MMORPG as a rogue with an exceptionally skilled mage laying down cover fire; he can’t keep back a feral snarl of unadulterated pleasure, if these lackeys thought they could go and kidnap Kakashi and get away with it then they were surely learning otherwise. The hard way, as Sakumo bisects some twig-figure’s legs at the knee. A ripple up his spine; danger there, move now -

A blistering wave of lava rushes towards where they last were, Sakumo throwing them both bodily out of the way and into an antechamber clearly lit by sunlight. He ducks and rolls low as Orochimaru throws up a barrier with a fluid series of handsigns and follows it up with a harsh burst of wind to cool and harden the lava into an impassable door. It’s as simple as breathing to come up with his blade bared, Fuzzy growling, teeth exposed, ears high and fur bristling like a matched set.

“And so you’ve come for the halfbreed, Headman.” The woman he’d last seen at the forum is seated on what can only be a throne, lavish with gold and jewels and surrounded by women holding pitchers and platters of food. “And you bring a second one with you.” Her sneer is poisonous, her hatred noxious, and Sakumo bares his teeth at her.

“Halfbreed or not, you took one of my children, Lady, and we both know that is not something I will accept.” Orochimaru’s magic wreaths him like a second skin, a suit of armor made of scales. “Return him with no harm and I may be inclined to leniency.”

Sakumo finally accepts that this is his reality as the woman rises, unnaturally lithe but eyes fully black and hair thick twists of vine and bone and wood and fur and leaf and antler that shift arrangement as if of their own accord. “Your leniency is a falsehood, Snake-souled Orochimaru, for you know only calculation. Didn’t your tales tell you not to lie to a Fae? Or insult a Fae Queen? You are in my domain now, Headman and Wolf, not neutral ground. The very essence of Underhill obeys me .” As if to prove her point, vines thicker than a all-terrain vehicle shoot up out of nowhere and bind Sakumo tight to the walls, narrowly miss catching Orochimaru but tie Fuzzy to the floor. If he struggles, the vines tighten.

As if by design, the balconies and hidden galleries fill up with a vast assortment of strange and fantastic shapes and forms, more than Sakumo can count. Their noise fills his ears though, and their smells. Far too many of them smell of things Sakumo cannot name, does not want to face by smell alone.

As if it’s less than a mere though, Orochimaru torches the remaining vines, letting the woman’s shrieks pass over him. “While it’s true I’ve entered your land, and have come into your Mound, Lady, you’ve broken oath. What’s that they say about lying and oath breaking?” His smile is placid, but screams of being caught red handed.

“I have broken no oath, Headman. I have made no promise to you I have not kept.” Her snarl is rabid with rage, fury made real by the way flames gout and gutter up from thin air.

Orochimaru tilts his head like he’s indulging a child’s tantrum. “The man and his progeny are mine. You said you would not harm those I have claimed as my own. Yet, you’ve caused the man great distress, and probably the child as well. You have broken faith by causing harm to me and mine.”

The woman scoffs, “I have greater and first claim on their lives, they are of my people and thus mine to treat as I please. This is the truest truth I know, and you know it too.”

Sakumo knows that set of Orochimaru’s shoulders, that shift of weight from one leg to another, and is not disappointed. Orochimaru is out for blood, and this will be the start of the end. “Yet, Lady, this is not the only oath that I speak of. You yourself said you laid the halfbreed to eternal rest and that has been proven false, Lady.”

She starts. “What do you speak of, Headman?”

Orochimaru clears his throat, “Lady, once upon a time you said you had been betrayed by your closest handmaiden, who loved another more than you, and thus conceived a child. Among you and yours, children are rare, and much beloved as symbols of the depth and strength of the devotion between the parents. You, Lady, were so enraged that you plotted to have the child and it’s father slaughtered, to cast out your most trusted attendant in disgrace as punishment. But, when the time came, something went wrong, and the child never died. The man and his child escaped your clutches, but you bathed yourself in their scents and glamored blood upon yourself and came back in false triumph. You cast your attendant into the Wild Hunt as their leader as punishment and have used her as your whipping post since.”

“Wild conjecture.”

“Ah, but Lady, I have proof. You’ve managed to tie him up, but the man you call Wolf is that child. And since he lives, the oath your swore to your attendant that you killed her husband and child is a lie. That is the promise I speak of.”

Sayaka and Takao stumble out of one of the hidden alcoves, eyes wide and shining. A heavy hush has stilled even the most quiet of rustles from the crowd, like they are waiting for something. Now that she is away from the crowd, Sakumo can smell her most clearly. Wild-sunlight-sprint , heavily influenced by a deep seated grief and the iron tang of steel. He can tell the moment that she smells his scent, notes the similarities that Sakumo has long since figured out marks blood-kin. “Lady, why .” Sayaka tightens her grip on her tanto as if her resolve had hardened even as her voice broke with barely restrained emotion, and Takao falls still, waiting.

The Lady does not respond, merely shrieks banshee-like and throws massive fireballs across the room. Sayaka moves, her and Takao so synchronous in their movements it’s like watching a ballet of flashing blades and snapping jaws. Orochimaru appears by his side, a thin gust of wind cutting through the vines holding Sakumo tight. By his side, a large purple snake tastes the air, slowly growing before Sakumo’s very eyes. “Hurry, find Kakashi. I will stay here and aid Sayaka as I can.” Fuzzy whines conflicted, like she could stand to take a shot herself at the Lady, but also to see Kakashi and ensure he’s unhurt.

“Come on girl,” Sakumo asks, because he’s afraid. He’s afraid and angry and there are powers he cannot match at work here, given the way the earth and walls tremble and the air shivers. And, apparently, his mother. Who is very clearly not human, not with the way her teeth are wolf-sharp and her ears are delicately pointed, and not dead like he had always been lead to assume. With one last guilty whine, Fuzzy comes to heel by Sakumo as they resume trailing Kakashi. His stomach twists as the scent of his son gets stronger, as it floods with pain and fear and his subconscious howls in outrage, with the need to race back and take every ounce of this feeling out of the Lady, out of anyone who laid a hand on Kakashi.

It’s clear to see that the rest of Underhill has been deserted, or more rather only left guarded by small hunched figures that barely come up to Sakumo’s knees and skitter away in fear when Sakumo bares his teeth and growls in their direction. The only one who gathers up the guts to hurl a crude wooden spear gets that same spear through the skull in quick retribution and the rest of it’s gathered mob scatters into the dank hallways like so many cockroaches from the light.

Finally something breaks in Underhill, ripples and shifts and warps in some intrinsic manner Sakumo cannot place but that straightens the halls from their previous winds and wanders, lifts the deep pockets of dark in favor of something less gothic. More importantly, perhaps is the distinct muffled grunting Sakumo hasn’t heard in so long. “Kakashi!”

His hair is matted with sweat, his skin pallid, and his scarf in tatters. The urge to snarl and bite and tear flesh from bones is back, and Sakumo swallows it down in favor of ripping apart the chains hanging Kakashi’s thin wrists above his head, to pressing ice to the swollen and sore flesh revealed, and holding Kakashi close as his whimpers of pain slow. “Dad?”

It’s the first time Sakumo has heard his son’s voice in years, and it’s slightly slurred and hoarse. “Yeah, baby, it’s me.” Fuzzy noses around them, concern clear in her low tail and flat ears. “You’re safe now, I’ve got you.” Sakumo presses closer, nose near buried in Kakashi’s hair, and feels the tension coiling in his muscles ease as the distress bleeds out of Kakashi’s scent. Kakashi’s muddy and bruised and probably ought to see a medical doctor as soon as possible, but Sakumo wants more to just hold his son. “Fuzzy, lead us out of here.”

It’s easier now, to follow the neat slink of Fuzzy through the corridors. Sakumo can smell that there have been creatures of not insignificant power passing through the halls recently, catches glimpses of them, but they seem to be fleeing instead of confronting Sakumo. He still doesn’t put away the tanto he reappropriated, not until the arrive at the rubble and ruin of the chamber where Sakumo had left the Lady.

Orochimaru is covered in grime and dust, a little blood, but the color is high in his cheeks and his eyes are bright with excitement, and he’s perched on the head of a massive snake. Sayaka outright glitters with power, covered in blood, and is ripping chunks from the Lady’s corpse to stack into a what’s shaping up into a throne. As for the Lady, she’s ripped to shreds, eviscerated, face contorted in a rictus of pain and horror, her throat gaping open from what is clearly wolf teeth. Whether they were Sayaka or Takao is unclear, but Sakumo feels a grim pleasure at the sight. May she rot in the Lady of Death’s embrace for eternity.

Sayaka’s head lifts up as a fresh and clean breeze passes through the room. Takao rises from where he’s been hidden in the shadow of the throne, and their gazes together zeros in on Sakumo and Kakashi like a laser guided shot.

“Oh good, you’ve found the puppy. Hello puppy.” Orochimaru glides over, picking over the larger chunks of rubble like they’re minor annoyances. Kakashi wriggles out of Sakumo’s grip and to the floor, yet hovers close to Sakumo - not comfortable being coddled in front of strangers, however cool, but not yet sure to leave his father. Takao slinks over, eyes large and pleading and amusing in the way he tries to shrink several hundred pounds into something nonthreatening. Sayaka follows cautiously after.

Now that Sakumo is looking for it, he can see more than just eye color and hair color that they share. There are traces of smile lines that bracket her mouth, the mole on the hinge of her jaw that Sakumo and Chiasa had both wondered where that trait had come from in Kakashi, the wild hope in dark grey eyes that maybe she wasn’t so alone anymore.

They talk long through the day and well into the night, about the years they have missed and the lives unknown and the little things Sakumo had never heard before and aches to know he missed. The way Sayaka had tried to hunt him and his father down over and over and over but never could catch a trace of them, finally accepted that the Lady had told the truth and they were dead; the way Kakashi had woken one day with deep jaw pain and a mouthful of blood and found himself with wolf teeth instead of normal human ones; the soft story of how Sayaka had met his father and fallen in love. In some ways it is too much, in others too little.

Sakumo exhales into the chill pre-dawn air, awake and restless. There’s so much more to know, questions he wants to ask but doesn’t know how to phrase, doesn’t know how to deal with the awkwardness of having a parent that he has never known after going without for a lifetime. He’s consumed by his own thoughts when Orochimaru extracts himself from the guest bedroom and comes out through the window, Manda looped around his throat like a scarf, bundled tight in a guest blanket. This at least, Sakumo is confident in maneuvering.

They’re silent and watching the pitch black skies slowly lighten to dark Iron grey for a long bet. “How’d you know?” Sakumo doesn’t look over to Orochimaru, where he’s perch himself comfortably on the rail of the porch.

“The clues were all there if you had known what you were looking for. You’re both far too alike - and not just in looks. You magic is similar, an odd Lightning primary instead of Fire primary, though yours is colored by Earth - your father, I presume. And the Lady’s story had holes - why would she need to make a show of killing two defenseless people but not produce the bodies, not take a trophy? Though I can’t hold that particular piece of information against you; it’s not something I believe you were aware of previously.” Sakumo catches the edges of a slight head tilt and shrug.

“What am I?” Sakumo suspects, has a word bouncing around his skull, but he isn’t ready to apply that to himself quite yet.

“Have you still not figured it out? Even with Wolfy the way she is?”

“What does Fuzzy have to do with anything?” His dog?

Orochimaru counts off, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “Wolfy is entirely too large to be suffering from any kind of gigantism common to any species of wolf in the Elemental Nations. That notwithstanding, you’ve never wondered at her intelligence? Or the fact she’s lived so long without any visible health issues.”

Sakumo has to argue, because he’s seen enough vets who’ve marveled over the same thing. “Magic increases the lifespan in animals who are around a lot of it.”

“Only by a few years. A whole decade has passed and Wolfy is nearly exactly the same as when I last saw her. You too for that matter.” If Sakumo turned his head he knows he would see shining gold focused on him, studying him. They’ll be bright, even in this half light, glowing, and honest, because Sakumo has realized that Orochimaru doesn’t lie, no not outright. He’ll speak as if you know all the facts, as if you’re fully aware of all the shogi pieces moving around the board and all several hundred moves that may have come before, and then continue on. A perverse kind of honesty, but honesty just the same. Once again, with a quiet insistence, “Have you figured it out?”

Sakumo swallows hard, his throat dry and only getting drier, “Fae. I’m Fae.”

“Demi-Fae, since your father was human. Your son too, for the human blood that runs in his veins.” A quiet jangle of links, the tinkle of metal against metal that made up the scales of Orochimaru’s earrings. “The distinction doesn’t matter, since you’ve both Manifested.”

Right. Showing Fae traits. Sakumo must suppose he got off lightly with wolf teeth - at least among Rangers, he can shrug and point out that Inuzuka file their teeth into a similar configuration, though maybe they’re also less human than he previously suspected. It might explain why they’ve always been able to work well together, but not mingled as one unit easily. They have a different leader, and Sakumo is the leader of his own group, small though it is. Which, “Sayaka killed the Lady didn’t she.”

“She did.” It’s a quiet confirmation, and Sakumo is uneasy at it. Sayaka, who does not know Sakumo or Kakashi beyond the fact they are her blood, one who she has mourned and one who she never dreamed of existing. Sayaka, for all of that, took on someone who had a power beyond magic in the form of oaths and promises that leveraged people against their own whims, and won.

“How?” Orochimaru himself had noted that it would be suicide to take on the Lady. Yet, Sayaka had won.

“The rules of Underhill are more complex than what Fae would have you know. Oh, their rules for us are simple enough, but for other Fae there are more ... strictures than there are concessions. Likely because they are all out for power.” Orochimaru resettles himself on the thin rail, tucking his bare feet within the swaddling of blankets. “The Lady may have held power via promises, but those all became moot when I revealed her to have broken faith. On top of that, the fight itself was most likely viewed to have been retribution for blood kin. Vengeance, or justice, whichever you prefer.” Clearly, Orochimaru gave no more importance to one over the other, and Sakumo chose not to care. He could wrap his head around the politics, perhaps, easily step into the role of a parent who’s lost something and wanted retribution. “In either case, the Lady had no choice. She had already lost the majority of her power, and would have been cast out of the Court. It’s better now, with her dead and Sayaka the new Queen.”

Apparently, Sakumo has a Fae Queen sleeping in his bed. Who is his mother, and willing to kill for him. There are worse situations to be in, if he thinks about it.

The silence they’ve fallen into is heavy, something not quite comfortable but not quite heavy either. Orochimaru breaks it, “You went through my logs.” It’s not an accusation, just a simple statement of fact. There’s no use denying it, so Sakumo just listens. “Why?”

Sakumo considers, and tries to extract the bare bones of the situation, “There was something afoot, and I needed to know what it was, not just for my job but also for my son.”

“A simple man with simple reasons.” Orochimaru inclines his head, “Still ulterior motives.”

“So did you.” He's fired back before he can truly think it through. At least in this, they’re both guilty of having motives behind motives behind motives. “Why else would you have asked for a sample of my magic, and how else would you have figured that my magic is similar to Sayaka’s?” The silence that follows tells him that Orochimaru’s conceded the point, but it’s barely a victory really. Sakumo sighs heavily, and turns to watch the way the sun’s first rays illuminate Orochimaru’s face, bare of heavy purple and hair loosely tied back. He’s lovely and intriguing and Sakumo wants to try getting to know this person who’s always thinking and moving and so very much the same but opposite. “So, where do we go from here?”

“I like to think that we deserve to start over. I - I was wrong, back then to use myself and my body as a distraction, to sexually harass you, and I've never apologized for that. As well as now, having ulterior motives for what I’ve said or done while you’ve been here. So this is my formal apology.” It’s sincere, and that’s worth meeting equally.

“I should apologize as well, for snooping through something that wasn’t, isn’t necessary for doing my job.” It raises the tiniest of smiles, true and genuine. It feels a little like discovery, and Sakumo can see how Orochimaru can get so engrossed in his work if everything feels like this.

“I think you’re a good man at heart Sakumo Hatake, someone not swayed easily and I cannot say that I am not interested in knowing you better.”

It’s difficult, to be honest, but Sakumo needs to say it. “In the interest of full disclosure; I'm not completely done missing Chiasa, I don't think I ever will be. She is someone I love, deeply, and I always will."

Oro reads between lines, "But you're also ready to wade back in?"

"Wade is a good word for it. If you're okay with slow, then ...." The ball is in Orochimaru’s court. He might not want to deal with the encompassing grief that comes and goes, or the fact that Sakumo will love Chiasa for the rest of his life. He’s used to missing her, not used to having someone there, used to mourning those who are lost.

Orochimaru smiles and reaches out a hand, “Then, hello, I’m Dr. Orochimaru Benzaiten, genius PhD. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I like reading academic papers and writing scathing reviews, research, and have been called dangerous before.” His eyes are dancing and it playful.

Sakumo can’t help but respond in kind. “Major Sakumo Hatake, single parent to a genius 7 year old, recently reunited with his long-lost mother, a Queen. I love spending time with my son and my dog, Fuzzy, and can be persuaded to listen to long rambles on any topic. Also, I like dangerous.” He smiles, and it’s weird around a mouthful of wolf teeth, but in the dawn light, it feels a little like a rebirth, and Sakumo can’t wait to see what comes next.

#sumigakure halloween event 2017 #prompt 15: this town isn't what it seems #promtp12: character finds out they're a supernatural creature #IM SORRY I LOST INTERNET THIS IS SO LATE DDDDDDDDD:#art writes

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derrickperegrine · 7 years

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@snakepitnet: obscure characters

i wish you could see the wicked truth caught up in a rush it's killing you

a continuation of the last meal

(click ‘keep reading’ or read on ao3)

London during the day can be something that seems ordinary and mundane, at the first glance, but to Lucian Bole it was something immeasurably extraordinary. Like any European city, it was a territory commandeered by sleek, modern skyscrapers and timeworn edifices alike, a metropolitan tug-of-war between the past and the present. However, London presented this vision with a twist. There was something more complex, more thorny about London. It was not a spontaneous conflict between the two disparate bodies; it was more like a brokered arrangement of a sort, a tailored compromise.

Everything about London was preternaturally neat, organised; things belonged where they belonged, in their own neighbourhoods of stereotypes, values, and norms. Yet these open demonstrations of identity seemed to imply that, beneath the obvious displays, existed something sinister and hidden; and that idea caused a visceral reaction of unease, curiosity, and excitement within Lucian. The emotion was multiplied threefold when Lucian wandered the streets in the evening, when all the proper markers and brands of the city disappeared into the muggy dark, and it seemed like secrets were swimming around him.

Which is why he preferred to work during the day, when his judgement was not obscured by the unseen shape of these prearranged mysteries, these exiled truths in the dark; when he could see what he was dealing with, and stay focused and objective.

The serenely flat, grey sky mirrored Lucian’s heart as he navigated his way through this city, a labyrinth with tall buildings for hedges, and he peered into the shadows cast around the city for his clues. His clear grey eyes darted around his surroundings swiftly, bouncing off glossy glass and rain-smoothed stone both, like sunlight deflecting off of water. It was not the look of a curious wanderer examining his path forward; it was not the look of a hero seeking to defend himself from the Minotaur within. It was the look of a hunter surveying his grounds.

Curling his lip, he bared a row of painfully white teeth; he passed a quick, sharp pink tongue over his ivory fangs. He would hunt tonight.

Carrying a briefcase in one hand and a folded umbrella in the other, Lucian sauntered into the British Library, his tan overcoat flapping behind him. The British Library was an august construction, its acute and precise contemporary style not making it seem less authoritative or respectable as an educational structure; the terracotta colour its exterior more evocative of the art of older worlds, than the aesthetics of the modern age.

He walked through the doors, into a large, airy expanse that stretched into another dimension entirely. Lucian took a deep breath, and breathed in the cool, clean scent of silence and good lighting. He found his way to his usual spot, in a corner of the library rarely accessed by the tourists who also tumbled in everyday in large and fumbling numbers. Lucian threaded through stacks and aisles with the familiarity of a resident, and the briskness of a shark through cold water. However, when he got to his usual desk, he noticed that someone else was sitting there.

Peregrine Derrick looked up from his book to stare at Lucian, his flinty brown eyes meeting Lucian’s slightly startled grey ones. Lucian also noticed that he had never seen Peregrine wear glasses before, and the sight disturbed him somewhat.

Peregrine closed his book deliberately.

‘What do you want?’ Lucian’s whisper came out a hiss. Peregrine took his feet off the desk -- of course, the ruffian never learnt how to sit with proper posture even whilst they were at Hogwarts -- and pushed himself away from the desk. He unfolded his spindly limbs with a certain degree of awkwardness, before collecting his book and then walking over to Lucian. With irritation, Lucian noticed that he did not bother to push the chair back in.

‘I want you to look this up for me,’ Peregrine said as he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and took out a ripped piece of paper, folded up haphazardly. Lucian accepted it and unfolded it; the weight and brightness of the paper suggested that it might have once been part of an envelope. In Peregrine’s untidy, stormy script was a single name. Agni.

‘Falcon, you know I’m here for a mission, right?’ Pansy was going to meet up with him soon -- in less than ten minutes -- and establish a legilimency link in order to supervise him. Peregrine can’t just shove another task onto --

'You’ll want to know, too,’ Peregrine said simply, staring down at Lucian. Now that he was standing up and half a head taller than Lucian, the shift in the elevation of their eye contact made Lucian feel annoyed. Though he had to admit that this wasn’t like Peregrine; Derrick was usually a more withdrawn bloke, and rarely talked to anyone outside of a mission. The fact that he was asking for Lucian’s help meant that this was a subject of great significance that he couldn’t get done himself.

And it bothered him that someone like Derrick would feel helpless, or perturbed by something. Or someone; Lucian didn’t know. It bothered Lucian that it bothered Peregrine enough to chase him out of his cheap sofa, and made him swap his sweats and flannels for an actually presentable pair of jeans, a respectable button-up, and fucking glasses. No, he still wasn’t over the glasses.

Lucian glared up at Peregrine and stuffed the piece of paper in the back pocket of his slacks. ‘Why me?’ he grumbled; if this was something important, Peregrine could have just gone to Cassius.

‘Angel can’t know.’ Peregrine shot him a stern look that read, So you better keep your trap shut. ‘And I don’t trust anyone else. Besides, we’ve always made a good team.’

‘Yeah, those days are long gone,’ Lucian laughed bitterly. Indeed, during their Hogwarts year there was no couple of beaters as synchronous and collaborative as Derrick and Bole; save for perhaps the Weasley twins. But even so that made their partnership impressive, since the two of them didn’t share a uncanny identical twin connection.

‘You know where to find me,’ Peregrine said by way of goodbye, and left Lucian alone.

Lucian walked over to the vacated desk, and dusted off its surface as well as the seat of the chair. He settled in, pulled the chair closer, and opened his briefcase. He took out a sleek laptop, and set it on his table. A cold light shined against his face as soon as he flipped up the monitor. With nimble fingers, Lucian logged into the machine. Placing a finger on the trackpad, he located the Messages application and clicked it open. He hovered over the contact list on the left sidebar, until he located one labeled ‘Nightshade’.

‘Dinner is ready to be served,’ he typed, hit send, and reclined in his seat.

Around fifteen minutes later, Pansy showed up, and dropped her bag on the other side of Lucian’s desk. She grabbed a chair from another desk, pulled it over to her side of Lucian’s desk, and sat down. As she booted up her computer, she tapped her foot against Lucian’s, and the link fizzed to life.

‘Lumos, do you copy?’

‘Affirmative, Nightshade.’

Lucian began sending his files over to Pansy. ‘So here is what I have on Mulciber,’ he spoke over the link, ‘Since Mulciber is known to favour routine and control -- if you see footnote 23, it explains that he uniquely favoured the Imperius Curse, and I have a collection of human intelligence on his regimented schedules for each day of the week -- I think it may be a better tactic to haphazardly reveal what we know to him; as he will not be able to control when he receives these messages, and therefore cannot anticipate them.’

Pansy nodded. ‘This seems reasonable to me. And once again, all of these sources check out?’

‘Naturally. I’ve taken precautions to verify the information given by doing a bit of personal reconnaissance when I had the time, as well as taking pains to ensure that our sources are not double agents and to motivate them to keep quiet.’ He looked up from his screen and smiled at Pansy. ‘You know that I can be very persuasive.’

Pansy said nothing. She was never one much for words, after the War, Lucian thought. It was almost saddening, as she had been a bright, talkative personality at school. Although it got annoying at times, Lucian found that he still missed it, especially when faced with the immense emptiness of silence.

‘Stop being sentimental, it won’t bring any of it back,’ Pansy chastised him, not sharply, though; and Lucian dropped the train of thought. He forwarded a detailed schedule of his plan for the next few months over to Pansy, so she could follow his progress after they deactivated the legilimency link.

‘Very well,’ her voice buzzed over the link. ‘I’ll be keeping in touch. Take care, Lumos; though you’re probably the most careful of all of us.’ She made eye contact with him across the desk, and then packed away her things, got up, and left, the link fizzing out behind her.

Lucian took his time logging out of his computer, and putting it away into his briefcase. He loitered around the library for while, browsing the shelves; not that it amounted to anything, as he couldn’t borrow anything out of the library. He hoped that one day he would walk into this library, with the time and energy to read for pleasure. Unfortunately, it seemed like that wouldn’t happen in a long time.

As soon as Lucian returned to his apartment, he started on a fresh pot of coffee. He enjoyed the ritual of it -- scooping out the beans, whirring them through the grinder, and then putting the grounds in his french press, then adding boiling water. The orderly, logical sequence of it appealed to him greatly; he’d always been an organised person, but in recent years, with his life greatly unbalanced and uncertain thanks to the War, he’d come to appreciate this ... structure and stability even more.

Lucian left his coffee to steep as he retreated to his study, extracting several heavy folders from his desk, labeled in neat block letters, OPERATION IMPERATOR. He brought his files to his living room, and set them on the heavy oaken coffee table. He pulled his computer out of his briefcase, logged in through a different account, and got back to work.

As technology began to evolve in the Muggle world, it naturally caught up with the Wizarding society as well. The age of the Internet provided a whole new level of anonymity for its Muggle users; and wizards sought to benefit from it too. There was a myriad of various services one could employ under an anonymous alias -- and whether these activities contributed to a surprise birthday party or the murder of an ex-Death Eater, no one would know.

Logging onto an anonymous owls service, Lucian requested a particular message to be sent to a particular address, and paid with the credit card that Graham had given him. For members who had more ... expensive methods -- which were really not expensive at all; it was just that no one really spent money to take out a mark -- they were all sponsored completely by the Organisation, though no one knew where Cassius had gotten the money. Knowing the nature of groups and sources they had ties with, no one really wanted to know.

Was this what Peregrine had wanted him to look up? Lucian frowned. Peregrine should know better than to poke around the Organisation’s business. What’s gotten into him?

Lucian padded over to the kitchen and poured himself a mug of coffee. He returned to the living room and hovered over his laptop, watching the progress of his order -- monitoring when his message would be printed and attached to the bird he had chosen.

It was a rather risky choice, to use an online company to print out confidential information and tie it to a bird that anyone could shoot down. However, Lucian needed to make Mulciber dance; he needed to use methods that would obviously have him feeling exposed and vulnerable. It’s always the easiest way to flush them out of hiding.

He kicked back onto his sofa and sipped his coffee quietly. The sky outside his window darkened slightly, and he was expecting to hear the pitter-patter of rain anytime. It was almost unbelievable that he now had the free time in the middle of the day to watch the rain fall.

In another reality, Lucian Bole would be a very busy man indeed. He always strived to be the best version of himself, to fulfill his true potential; so he would socialise tirelessly, meeting all sorts of important witches, wizards, sorcerers, and mages to network; he would go to university to push himself and hone his skills; he would work himself up the ranks and become a respectable man.

He wasn’t born into a particularly aristocratic family. He didn’t have an already established estate to lean back upon, nor a notorious name that would brand him. He was simply Lucian Bole, the son of two middling purebloods, who named their son ‘light’, expressing their hope for a brighter future, a prominent reputation.

Unfortunately, his parents were clumsy and misinformed in their pursuit of status; they sympathised with Voldemort in hopes of receiving a social and economic boost for supporting a pro-pureblood politician. It was clearly an unwise move, but Lucian had not been able to persuade them to drop it. Lucian never trusted Voldemort, naturally ... but his parents’ actions nevertheless condemned him to association. His parents’ greatest desire, to become better -- which also became his desire -- ended up damning the whole family.

Now he had no prospects to speak of -- being an amateur spy, investigator, and blackmailer was perhaps the best use of his abilities at this point. It wasn’t like it was a particularly bad situation. Lucian still enjoyed that he held such power over other people; but what was his legacy? What would he be remembered for?

Nothing. The name ‘Lucian Bole’ is as good as dead right now. Since all the Organisation’s operations were strictly anonymous for the safety of all involved -- a strategy that Lucian greatly understood and respected -- it was unlikely that his efforts would ever be commemorated. They may be credited to ‘Lumos’, but they’d never be his achievements.

His deeds would change the world; but he would not.

Lucian had more or less made his peace with that. At least he was being useful, and he was good at what he did. These two conditions kept him more or less happy, even though his situation was not ideal. However, he would rather remain like this, if the other option were to throw his life out the window and indulge in self-destructive behaviours, succumbing to existential depression. Living is not about achieving one’s dreams or being happy -- living is learning to make do with what’s been thrown at you.

And life had thrown a lot of stuff at Lucian -- including a treasure trove of information, contacts, and sources connected to the Death Eaters. Lucian’s parents’ dabbling in Voldemortian politics granted him unique access to some of Voldemort’s closest subjects, and while his parents were trying to pander onto these greater, aristocratic purebloods, Lucian learnt a lot about them.

Ugly secrets that they never told anyone. Locations of secret hideaways. Personal habits, preferences, and even fears. It’s amazing how much an adult will talk after a few servings of alcohol down their gullet. He stored all this information neatly away, because if he were to get revenge for his stunted future, these details would be his weapons.

He was the ultimate puppet-master, threading together implicating evidence and twisting the ropes to make his marks dance. The weak-willed often caved in earlier to the fear, startled by the incredible amount of incriminating information sent their way. Many of them commit suicide, rather than face the authorities. Others stuck out, convinced that Lucian wouldn’t dare go to the aurors, that he was just bluffing; for if he really wanted to go to the aurors, he would have just taken that information and gone. They thought that Lucian kept this information between them because he wanted something out of it. The truth was that Lucian was bored; and he enjoyed watching people react to him. He often followed up this tactic by having Peregrine and Graham hover around menacingly at his marks’ place of residence; show them that Lucian and the Organisation could really hurt them. Since Peregrine and Graham were pretty terrible, that was usually enough to scare them into submission. If even that didn’t work, Lucian would just tip the aurors. He had better things to do than to play a passive-aggressive game of blackmail tug-o-war with a former Death Eater. Or he’d sic either someone else on the job.

No one survived the Organisation. Lucian would hound them down.

In fact, this contributed greatly to the Organisation’s notoriety as ‘The Last Meal’. Since word of their rogue assassination team’s extraordinary success and horrifying methods got out -- thanks to some of the flashier messages left by Millicent -- the amount of Death Eaters turning themselves in, so as to escape a gruesome death, increased significantly.

This pleased Lucian greatly; he was very smug about the success rate. After all, he deserved to be; he put a lot of hard work in verifying his evidence and planning out most of the missions -- since he was the master of information, he headed Death Eater-hunting, and supervised mark-assigning as well.

He would find every last Death Eater if it was the last thing he did. Maybe then would they be able to reveal who they truly were; and perhaps after seeing the proof of atonement for these Slytherins, the public would be willing to accept them back into their society again.

Maybe he still had a shot at that life.

Lucian watched Mulciber for two months. Since he didn’t really have much of a job -- he worked as a Wizarding technology consultant over the Internet, as well as a ‘research librarian’ for hire, in regards to more ... esoteric subjects. After all, there are topics that ordinary libraries don’t usually cover; and Lucian was a master of hidden informations and clandestine intelligence.

He enjoyed working in the British Library. It was well-lighted, public, and peaceful; he attracted nearly no attention, a well-dressed young man diligently at work. He had a peaceful demeanor and a trustworthy expression, and no one ever noticed him selling secrets of the Dark Arts over the Internet.

He supposed that he shouldn’t be selling those secrets over the Internet; after all, he was supposed to be good now. He was supposed to be taking the bad guys out, not sponsoring their activities. Though, another way too look at it was to see it as a trap -- they come buying intelligence from him; and he ends up tracking them down and in turn gathering intelligence on them. It’s a win-win situation for him -- he gets the information he wants, and gets paid by the victim for it. Lucian was an opportunist, if anything.

Between his usual activities and monitoring Mulciber, Lucian also did some research on ‘Agni’. He was quite irritated with Peregrine, who basically just handed him a torn-off corner of an envelope with ‘Agni’ scribbled across it. He did a quick search on Google, and of course the results are pertained to the Hindu god of the name, a god of fire and messengers. Obviously, this was not what Peregrine had in mind. He called Peregrine about it; but he only told Lucian that it was an alias of someone he found but didn’t recognise. Peregrine was looking through the Organisation’s files to decide on his next mark, and this name cropped up several times, which was suspicious, considering that it had never been mentioned before.

Peregrine thought that perhaps it was the codename for a new operative, but when he checked the personnel list for a handler, he didn’t find any new names. So, he naturally came to the conclusion that something was afoot, and purposefully happening behind all their backs. And Peregrine did not like having any blindspots. Neither did Lucian, so he carried on with his search.

It was obviously near-impossible to find any information with only an alias to go off of; and moreover, it was also difficult to conduct this research anonymously, since no one could work out what they were investigating the Organisation. That would perhaps end in very untimely deaths for the both of them. Lucian thus confined his probing to his private circles, asking other ‘librarians’ if they had received queries regarding a figure going by the name of ‘Agni’; nothing turned up. Similarly, none of his victims-turned-sources reported any information regarding Agni, either.

Lucian also logged onto the Organisation’s database and combed through the entire thing -- he did not want his history to record a specific search for ‘Agni’, in case someone in the know may find that suspicious -- but nothing turned up. Knowing Cassius, it’s entirely possible that he only kept the information in his own mind, and any mention of ‘Agni’ would be kept on easily destroyable paper. However, it was unlike Cassius to leave such files just lying around, letting Peregrine find them. Uneasy, Lucian felt like it could be a trap, and pursued this investigation unusually cautiously.

Meanwhile Mulciber was positively writhing in his ‘secret’ hideout. Lucian scheduled his owls in advanced, and whenever a delivery was due to be made, he walked into a café across the street from Mulciber’s hideaway, and camped out there to monitor his reactions. He also went there on non-scheduled days, however, partly to shake off any detection of espionage on Mulciber’s part, but also because the coffee there was damned good.

Mulciber sent him multiple owls back, scans of which Lucian received on his account for Owlnonymous, and they mainly contained empty threats regarding how Mulciber would end him soon; ‘I have sources,’ he told Lucian, not knowing that Lucian had already bought-out or threatened all of his sources. Lucian enjoyed being thorough. He did not dignify those threats with a response, and merely sent Daily Prophet clippings on ‘The Last Meal’’s hits to Mulciber. One day he caught Mulciber reading one about Graham and visibly paling, as Lucian was sipping an exceptional caffè latte.

Mulciber had no one important to him that Lucian could threaten him with, so he merely sat back and calmly denoted the ways he could take him out -- to report him to Lucian’s Organisation, who would no doubt send a less merciful person to take him out, in a variety of gruesome ways; or he could release all this information at a random moment, and sic the aurors upon Mulciber; or, he could sell Mulciber out to the highest bidder, and God knows what would happen then. Certainly a lot of his victims would love to get a good chunk out of him.

Mulciber then pleaded for forgiveness, tried to offer him bribes, and sought to sell himself as a new source for Lucian; but Lucian was interested in neither of these, naturally. He could fetch a better price from other buyers, and who would want Mulciber as a source, a Death Eater who had lost all his connections as soon as he went off the grid? Besides, Lucian had more than enough sources -- how else would he have found Mulciber?

Mulciber then asked what Lucian was going to do with him. Perhaps it was a desperate attempt to forge an escape plan; maybe he was just seeking the comfort of knowing his fate. Lucian would not grant him either luxury. He merely wrote back, ‘You’ll see,’ and ceased replying to Mulciber’s frantic pleading.

He then waited out by the café, keeping an eye on Mulciber whilst he continued his hunt for Agni. He was now narrowing down his suspects by filtering the people who could be in contact with the Organisation. based on their knowledge of Hindu mythology. Although, it occurred to him that it was equally as likely that ‘Agni’ was an acronym, and that possibility would be a serious pain to deal with.

At night, if he was bored, he would sometimes leave some indications that he hadn’t forgotten about Mulciber -- ordering a parcel owl to deliver rat bones to his address, or sending a howler of Millicent’s favourite lullaby. It was like the ticking of a bomb before it exploded; except more erratic, more unnerving, more uncertain.

By the end of the month Mulciber had caved in. The last straw was a small effigy of Mulciber, wearing the clothes he was wearing the day before, and another effigy in ragged, bloody clothes that Lucian fashioned out of a shirt that Peregrine so generously donated. Not many people knew this, but Lucian was rather good at handicrafts.

Mulciber opened his window -- the first time that Lucian had seen him do it -- and whistled for a crow. With shaking hands he attached a letter to the crow, and sent it to the aurors. Within the hour, a discreet group of figures dressed in Muggle clothes appeared at Mulciber’s doorstep, and rang his bell. Mulciber came down willingly, looking around fearfully. He did not spot Lucian, who had been watching calmly, sipping his coffee. The aurors bundled him away, and Lucian spotted the great Harry Potter amongst them.

He opened ‘Nightshade’ on his Messenger application and sent, ‘Target neutralised.’ He then sat back and enjoyed the last rays of the autumn sun, the feeble breath of a season fading into cold darkness.

The Daily Prophet reported Mulciber’s turning himself in very soon, in the next day’s paper. Apparently he had sent a frantic letter to the Ministry, begging them to ‘save him.’ Lucian smiled smugly as he sipped his coffee.

Although Lucian was not the fastest operator in the field, he was the most thorough, and his long-term approach inspired a dogged and omnicient reputation for the Organisation. More underworldly characters found out about them, and defected to their side before it was too late. Therefore, he was often assigned to take out the most prominent targets, as well as the ones with the most connections.

His webs stretched out infinitely, and he could play them like a harp; however, sometimes, he could not control what fell onto his plate.

An Owlnonymous owl flew into his window the day following Mulciber’s arrest. In scratchy black handwriting, it read, ‘You won’t find me. -- A’.

Lucian nearly poured his coffee down his front. He set it down on his table; and, scrambling, he ran over to his phone and dialed Peregrine’s number.

‘What?’ Peregrine responded, his voice crunchy with static.

‘They know,’ Lucian whispered.

‘I know.’

#snakepitnet #lucian bole #peregrine derrick #pansy parkinson #hp fanfiction #saladstuff #saladfic #saladedits #the last meal #yes another one sghkdfjlsghdfsg #i won't rest easy until i finish the first half of this series at least #i'm doing eight chapters for the first half and nine for the second half #the first half are all character introductions -- and you will get to know who agni is yes

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