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Hear No Evil - Chapter 1

Rowan is an activist with the Pet Liberation Front. He has spent the better part of a decade assisting the cause as a multimedia specialist, but never spends much time with the victims he is so intent on saving. After going undercover as a buyer to capture systemic abuse on camera, he finds a broken boy that steals his heart. Before Rowan knows it, he has a rescue pet at home. Both Rowan and his new houseguest must take steps to heal and adjust to their new normal.

Masterlist

// Chapter 2 (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, mention of noncon, noncon touch, sexual and nonsexual nudity, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

“ID, please.”

Rowan handed over his driver’s license with a smile to the woman behind the counter. Marie, her name tag said, with a smaller typeface beneath that read she/her/hers. A faded cartoon sun sticker was wrapped halfway around the edge of the badge, almost completely covering the familiar WRU logo.

“Mr. Bailey,” she said with a soft smile in return, “welcome to today’s Opportunity Sale. Is this your first time attending one of WRU’s most special events?”

“No, I’ve been before.”

It was hard to keep his voice level, especially at first. He’d been to dozens of these events around the country, and each was proving to be harder on his spirit than the last. The weight of the phone in his shirt pocket, already recording, weighed him down as much as his words.

Opportunity Sale. He loathed the euphemism. It was a liquidation, a fire sale, a last chance for the souls the institution had broken beyond repair. These so-called pets up for sale today were what WRU considered damaged goods, defective products. These are pets who don’t live up to WRU standards of excellence, they’d say, so we’re offering them at a discount, each sold as-is.

The “defects” varied. Some were marred by years of physical abuse, no longer able to perform the tasks they were trained for as their bodies failed. Others had simply lost their minds, slipped into catatonia, a permanent dissociation that rendered them a husk of the person they’d once been. Sometimes, albeit rarely, there were victims that WRU couldn’t fully break and bend to their whims, pets who were marked by attitude and defiance that no typical buyer would tolerate. Some were simply old, the incessant labor and abuse having weakened their bodies, unable to fulfill their purpose with the grace and ease that was expected.

They called it an opportunity, but It was nothing more than a last-ditch effort to recoup the costs that went into each “product.” Fully breaking a person’s mind took considerable time and money, and a broken pet sold for pennies on the dollar was still better for WRU’s books than a total loss.

Those pets that weren’t sold before the close of business would be unceremoniously euthanized before the next sunrise.

“If you’re familiar, then I’ll spare you the usual spiel about how this works,” Marie continued as she ran his ID through the desktop scanner. If she noticed the edge to his voice, she didn’t show it. “But I’ll give you a few reminders, just to refresh your memory. WRU salespersons will be stationed throughout the sales floor, wearing yellow shirts and WRU name tags just like mine. They’re available to answer any questions about merchandise or to help close any sales. We also ask that you refrain from live video or photographs for the privacy of our staff.”

“Got it.” Rowan felt the lie sticky on his tongue. The staff present today would be afforded no privacy, not if he could help it. Their atrocities, their complicity in this system, would soon be aired to the growing world of people who cared. Even this interaction at this front desk would be on tape, ready to share with the world in a matter of days.

“Wonderful,” Marie said as she handed his ID back with a pamphlet tucked beneath it. “You can find the map of our sales floor in this brochure. Domestic will be in the front right through the double doors, Platonic towards the center, Romantics and all other classifications behind the black curtain on the left. I will say that we’re particularly low on Platonic inventory for this event, so if that’s what you’re after, I’d recommend coming back for next month’s Opportunity Sale. If you’re looking for anything specific, a WRU salesperson would be happy to assist.”

Rowan retrieved his ID and the map out of her hands, and he silently hoped she wouldn’t notice his fingers shaking.

“Got it, thanks for your help.”

A final smile was all he afforded her before turning to the heavy double doors beyond the entryway.

As he stepped closer to the threshold of purgatory, a familiar memory rose from the back of his mind. It always did at these places, the familiar sensation overwhelming him as his subconscious dragged him back nearly fifteen years.

---

“Hey, prof, are we there yet?”

Benny’s familiar voice cut sharp through the otherwise low murmur of conversation on the bus.

“Benny, please,” Professor Engelhardt groaned, exasperation obvious in both her face and her voice. “I would appreciate it if all of our volunteers could act their age. You’ll know when we get there, I promise. In the meantime, try and exercise even a modicum of patience”

Rowan felt Grey squeeze his knee, and when he looked over the other young man gave him a toothy smile.

“For once, the loud-mouth has a point,” Grey said as he stifled a giggle.

“I have to agree,” Rowan agreed as he swallowed a laugh of his own. “It feels like we’ve been staring at nothing but cornfields for the last two hours. Where could we possibly be going this far out of the city?”

“Professor Engelhardt did say it was essential to our training as PLF volunteers, and I know that it’s a requirement for anyone who wants to do investigative work for the PLF. But as far as I know, there’s no WRU facilities out west of the city like this.”

“You’d be correct.”

Rowan looked up as his ears burned in embarrassment, the tired professor looking down at both him and Grey from the aisle. She continued, seemingly unaware of the blush that also tinged Grey’s cheeks.

“This is a required journey for all volunteers who are looking to take the next step in their PLF activism. We’d rather you each know now whether this kind of environment will be too much for a sensitive stomach. And you’re also correct on a second count, Greyson. We’re not going to any WRU facility, at least not yet. You each have a considerable amount of training ahead of you before you go quite so far.”

By now, Professor Engelhardt’s voice had grabbed the attention of the other volunteers squeezed into the rattling and repurposed school bus. Faces of all ages, from the hopeful university students to the equally tired retirees, were rapt as their chaperone continued. Rowan’s stomach felt like it was doing somersaults as she spoke.

“We’re going to a cattle slaughterhouse. It’s time that you all experience for yourselves what it’s like when blood soaks the floor and all you can hear is screaming and heavy machinery. You need to see what happens when a collection of personal choices and systems meant to harm come together to determine whether something lives, or whether it dies. These aren’t humans, and they can’t speak to you to share their stories, but you’ll have plenty of time to see those horrors with your own eyes as you continue as volunteers. For now, let’s get you accustomed to keeping a straight face amidst the suffering and bloodshed. Given some of your aspirations, that shouldn't be much to ask.”

This time, Grey grabbed Rowan’s hand. Rowan gripped it back until his knuckles turned white.

---

That same smell followed Rowan now, the acrid stench he first experienced in the slaughterhouse on that humid August day. It was a lingering copper heavy in the air, a whisper of blood among festering wounds and fluids. WRU certainly tried to cover their tracks, make this place seem welcoming and inviting to the public, hide the litany of abuse that propped the system up. But to Rowan, and to anyone who knew better, there was no hiding the stench of ammonia and waste that clung to skin as much as sweat. These were sins that neither Pine Sol nor bleach could cover.

Rowan pushed through the double doors and entered the sales floor. It was showtime.

The repurposed warehouse was milling with bodies. There were throngs of buyers meandering between yellow-clad WRU salespeople and black-clad Handlers, some chatting cheerfully while they contemplated buying a living being, others already busying their hands with prodding the “merchandise.”

Opportunistic buyers hoping to get a pet at a discount came in a few standard flavors. There would be the middle-class families, unable to afford a brand-new pet, but still hoping to score a Domestic that was good enough to help around the house. There were the desperate perverts who were looking to try out a Romantic, see if flesh was better than silicone to get their kicks. And then there were the truly depraved, those hoping that they can find a legal way to torture - and likely murder - a living being without the threat incarceration hanging over their heads.

Rowan was posing as a long-curious buyer who might finally cave and get a Romantic all for himself. He wanted to be charismatic and sure of himself, but prove to be a bit more hesitant when it came to the “merchandise” itself. He was dressed smart, like he had money, but erred towards frugality. This would drum up the sales people, get them to incriminate WRU and its horrors under the guise of a sales pitch, the very thing that would generate sound bytes perfect for the pro liberation materials.

He started with the Domestics, he always did. They were typically positioned at the entryway, intentionally so, as both the most in-demand and publicly palatable part of the system. Most families and prospective buyers wouldn’t wander past this point of the warehouse, not needing to look any further.

A few of the victims were kept in cages, others on long leashes for handlers to parade around. It all depended on the state they were in, how well they’d be able to sell themselves as much as the salespeople did.

“You look like a busy man,” a woman clad in WRU-issued yellow said with a smile in Rowan’s direction. “What do you say about never having to cook for yourself again? What about coming home to clean laundry every day without needing to think about it?”

“That does sound tempting,” Rowan answered as he slowed to a halt.

He looked at the man attached to the saleswoman’s lead, a tall and gangly thing, hunched shoulders with a distant look in his eyes. The defect was readily apparent: he was standing and leaning on a pair of forearm crutches, rather than the expected kneeling, because he was missing most of his left leg.

“This is one of our best deals of the day,” she continued her pitch with practiced ease, “I can guarantee you that. A flawless all-around Domestic, with great command responsiveness and attentiveness. It’s perfect for a busy working man or a family with a few kids. We’ve got it marked down today due to an obvious defect with its legs, which means it moves much slower than we’d expect from one of our model Domestics. Likewise, it can’t assume many of the expected kneeling positions, and struggles to move from position to position otherwise. This pet requires a patient owner, but the reward for that patience is a model that otherwise works as expected.”

This man would likely live another day. Rowan couldn’t see many other physical signs of damage beyond the amputation, and so long as this one ended up with someone who kept up with his medical equipment and any other treatments, he’d likely have many more years of service ahead of him. Maybe he’d even live long enough to see the whole damn system dismantled.

Still, it was Rowan’s job today to get incriminating sound bytes and video, so he pressed back.

“I don’t like how tall it is,” he said, staring at the man who’d tower over him if he wasn’t slouched over his crutches. “I’d hate someone to think it has any kind of authority or power over me. It would be embarrassing in front of guests.”

“Rest assured, this model is fully obedient and appropriately subservient. After nearly a decade of service, there have been zero complaints of defiance or insubordination. Its last owners simply couldn’t bear the aesthetics of a Domestic like this. They’ve left glowing reviews of its service, and had it receive additional training in hand washing and minor repairs of delicate clothes. Really, this is a steal, and it’s more than discounted for the cost of a leg.”

“I understand,” Rowan said. “Still, I’m not a very tall man, and this one is just too much for me to handle. Your pitch is good, though, I’m sure you’ll have someone take it off your hands.”

“Of course, we want to make sure that each customer gets a pet that’s best suited for their needs, even if it is at an Opportunity Sale like this. If you’re interested in a shorter Domestic designation, we’ve got one over there with my colleague Dominic.” She pointed to the far end of the Domestic zone, to a tall man in yellow with a pet in a cage beside him. Rowan swallowed disgust once more.

“I’ll go check it out, thanks.”

And he did. He walked slowly, moving deliberately from side to side so his camera captured everything. This included the sight of a Platonic falling to their knees as an electric collar went off around their neck. The would-be purchaser gave a lecherous smile and ran her hand through the panting pet’s hair once the crackle of electricity faded. There would be no fairy tale ending for that unfortunate soul.

“I saw my colleague Debbie point you over here,” the WRU employee said as Rowan came within earshot of the cage tied to the warehouse floor. “Do you mind if I give you the sales pitch while you look the merchandise over?”

“Well, the fact you’ve got this one in a crate while the others are out and about isn’t promising,” Rowan tried to lament as he gazed through the bars of the cage.

“Ah, but that’s part of the story.” Already the salesman was working to weave a tale, and it was one Rowan would listen to with well-practiced feigned interest. The man gestured at the crate with an expression of false sorrow before he continued.

“This one isn’t in a crate because it’s a danger to you. No, it’s a danger to itself, and only then because it’s so stricken by grief. You see, this pet is from our very first Domestic-Care line of products, the latest from WRU in home-care solutions. Its extended training made it perfect for older buyers looking to have a Domestic with a bit of extra training in handling low-complexity medical equipment like wheelchairs, walkers, shower chairs, stair lifts, and more. It was paired with a loving owner, carried out its tasks dutifully, and went years with a perfect record. All check-ins from WRU were met with glowing reviews.

“Given the opportunity, it follows routines to a degree of meticulousness few of our pets have a predisposition for. Genuinely, this pet has always been one-of-a-kind. However, its owner passed away from circumstances entirely beyond this pet’s control. It went out of its mind with grief, and no matter how many new homes we’ve placed it in, and no matter the attempts we’ve made to re-train it, it escapes and runs right back to its old master’s home.”

Even now, Rowan could see the pet searching for the door, their eyes following the flow of people in and out of the sales room. The human feelings were there. They always had been, and Rowan could all but feel the grief himself. That panicked searching for a way out, that desire to run into the arms to the person that this human felt they belonged to. A desperation for a door to an old life, a familiar voice, an expected touch. Grief as manifest through complete brainwashed devotion.

Rowan knew better by now than to let his emotions seep through onto his face.

“So, it’s a runaway risk. A certain runaway, in fact.”

“I wouldn’t say anything with certainty,” the employee said with a nerve-tinged laugh. “In fact, the reason this particular model is on the floor today is with the hopes it connects with someone as deeply as it connected with its first owner. There’s no guarantee of that, we know, but it’s worth the shot. We’re hoping the right person will come along today and help them find peace. In the meantime, we’d recommend a home outfitted with windows that lock, and doors that are equipped with biometric verification that the pet can’t bypass.”

The only peace this pet would find would be its death later this evening. No one in their right mind would take a runaway, not a casual purchaser, and not even a liberation group. The risk of a successful escape was just far too great.

The pet wouldn’t meet Rowan’s eyes even now, as it returned hunting, searching for the familiar face it was expecting. A face that would never come. There was no solace in knowing that soon, for the faithful at least, pet and owner would be reunited.

“Unfortunately, I’m not equipped to handle a runaway,” Rowan said as he looked up from the crate with a sigh. “Honestly, I feel like these Domestics have just sidetracked me. I was here to look at the Romantics, really.”

“Then you’ll want to head right behind that curtain over there,” the man said with a gesture to the tall velvet curtains that cordoned off nearly a third of the warehouse. “There are plenty of additional WRU employees there to help you find a model that’s suitable to your needs.”

With a nod, Rowan turned to walk towards the curtains. He lingered for a moment, just long enough to stick his fingers through the bars of the cage at his side, a chance to let the pet seek out comfort if they wanted. No touch came, and Rowan walked away with a familiar pang in his heart. He knew by now that he was never going to save them all, not yet, but it didn’t ease the pain.

Another flash of his ID was all it took to get him through the foreboding curtains. WRU absolutely didn’t want families and reporters seeing this side of the system, after all. The Romantics division might have been the second best-selling of all the WRU models, but it was also the most secretive. There was good reason for that.

As soon as Rowan passed the threshold he was hit with the thick aroma of sex and fear. There was a more sinister atmosphere in the rooms that existed behind the curtain, air heavy with that adrenaline-twinged sweat of broken pets who were fighting for their lives, some being used live for demonstrations on the sales floor. Even after all this time, Rowan’s stomach wasn’t quite accustomed to it.

He kept his chest forward and shoulders out. That was the best way for his camera to capture the sights and the sounds, because after all, that was the reason he was here. He wasn’t here to save these victims, as much as he wished that was the case. He was here in the hopes that their suffering would give those that came after them a fighting chance, that airing these atrocities to the world would bring the system to its knees one day.

The first sight that drew his attention was a man cinched to a table, an unusual arrangement for even the most “defective” Romantics. There were already two potential buyers there, hands on the naked pet, touching his body and fondling his genitals. The pet was unflinching, his chest rising and falling steadily, lips giving out soft sighs and moans in a practiced rhythm.

“I didn’t expect this one to be so popular,” the WRU employee said with feigned exclamation as Rowan meandered over. “But young man, you certainly have good taste. This model is one many once would have believed was unsalable, but here, at the Opportunity Sale, it’s being given a second chance. Not only that, but it’s proving to be the center of attention.”

‘What’s wrong with it?” Rowan asked bluntly, still surveying the scene. Something had to be wrong, and even his own seasoned eyes hadn’t figured it out yet. The pet’s gaze was unfocused, its body still, just as a Romantic was trained to be unless given the command to engage.

“Another tragedy, I’m afraid.” The salesperson didn’t sound saddened at all. “There was an incident during its training that left it paralyzed from the mid-back down. This means that, as a Romantic, its functions are limited. It can’t sustain an erection anymore, and it can’t engage in certain types of play. However, it's still just as tight as our standard buyers would expect, and its mouth is an absolute dream. You’d be responsible for the additional care costs of a paralyzed pet, but for someone with limited sexual needs of their own, this model will more than fulfill.”

At least once each Opportunity Sale, Rowan swore to himself that this was finally the time he was going to be sick on the job. He’d see something so horrific that there was no answer except to choke up bile and spit there on the sales floor. He’d likely out himself as a PLF agent in that same breath - after all, who else would be so concerned about the well being of pets? - but it almost didn’t matter. These horrors were too much to witness, much less bear as the victim was bearing them now.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. At least that sales pitch would make a great sound byte for the pet liberation materials.

“Uh, yeah, that’s not what I’m looking for. I’d definitely want one that’s younger and, uh, more mobile.”

“Understandable,” the salesperson said with a nod. “There are plenty of other options here today that might suit your fancy. Feel free to keep browsing, and as always, you’re welcome to ask a WRU employee for any assistance or further direction.”

“Thanks.”

And Rowan did keep browsing. He browsed carefully, angling his chest to capture all of the angles he could, kneeling down to “inspect” pets that were sprawled naked on the floor. The path he took around the Romantics section was methodical. The disabled pets, the catatonic pets, the ones with abuse written on their skin, Rowan tried to capture them all. When he could he gave their hands what he hoped was a squeeze of comfort - possibly the last they’d receive in their too-short lives.

He was nearly to the back corner, at which point he’d loop around to the front and make a graceful exit, when he saw another Romantic in a crate.

Unlike all the others, this one made Rowan stop in his tracks.

The man in the crate was young, possibly ten or so years younger than Rowan himself. He had a thick hair of black curls and he was looking through the bars of the crate with searching, hopeful eyes. It was almost like he was waiting for something, someone, to notice him. Most of the pets here were defeated, on their last chance at redemption, already chewed up and spit out. Their spirits had been dampened. Somehow, some way, this one was still fighting.

It was like a thread in his chest pulled Rowan up to the crate. His feet were moving without him commanding them, unlike anything he’d experienced at a sale like this before. He was caught up in something special, something different, about this victim.

“You have a good eye,” the saleswoman said with a warm smile. “This is possibly one of the best deals we have on the floor today, so long as you’re willing to be a little patient.”

“What’s wrong with this one?” Rowan asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy kneeling almost eagerly behind the bars.

“Let me start off by saying that this pet is in great physical condition. Not only is it one of the youngest we have here today, it has passed almost all of our physical examinations with flying colors. Its strength, speed, and tactile abilities are within or exceeding our typical parameters. Not only that, but this particular pet has something that is typically reserved for only our most exclusive customers: it has dual training, and is classified as both a Romantic and a Domestic.”

“That’s not something you typically see at an Opportunity Sale, I suppose,” Rowan pretended to muse. He already knew that what she had said was the truth. Dual-classification pets took many more months of training than single-classification, and it often showed in both the abuses and expenses associated with keeping one. A Dual-classification pet could easily cost as much as a down payment on a house.

“Exactly why this is such a great opportunity,” the saleswoman beamed. “As a Domestic, it even has specialty training in French cuisine. You’ll be eating like royalty every night if you so please. As a Romantic, its skills and abilities are considered quite standard, with experience in training for light bondage.”

“So, why aren’t you telling me what’s wrong with it?”

A sigh. Dramatic, almost despairing. It was an act of practiced sympathy that soured Rowan’s stomach even further.

“Unfortunately, this one seems incredibly selective with the orders it follows, if it follows them at all. No amount of effort from our most experienced WRU handlers have been able to adequately refurbish it. As I said, its behaviors and capabilities are within or exceeding WRU standards, and it certainly seems eager to please its keepers, but I can make no promises on its compliance with specific commands.”

The boy looked up at Rowan for just a moment before turning his gaze back down. From that brief glance, Rowan wouldn’t have put him a day over twenty-five. But God, he just looked so lost. He didn’t seem lost in the way that many others at the sale today did, that catatonic, too-far-gone glaze over their eyes, the will to live entirely sapped out of them. Instead, it looked like this boy was hunting for something, someone who would notice him, give him attention in return.

Rowan couldn’t help himself. He saw it as a sign that this victim wanted to live, wanted to make it off this floor alive, wanted to connect with any human being that came by and could give him a chance. It was a spark, and against his better judgment, Rowan hoped that he could one day stoke it into a fire.

“How much?”

The words left his mouth before he was able to swallow them down. His heart began to race almost instantly: this wasn’t the plan, it was never the plan. He was supposed to get in, take some footage, and get out. He wasn’t trained for anything else. He wasn’t prepared to engage in rescue activities, especially not like this.

Yet Rowan had never known anything with a certainty such as this: he could not leave here without saving this boy.

“Wow, you’re won over already?” The saleswoman’s voice was light, but she was already pulling out a clipboard with a stack of paperwork on it. “I haven’t even given you all of its physical details yet. You can’t see quite how tall it is in the crate, can you? Here, let me get you its height, weight, vaccine record, some of its other statistics-”

“It doesn’t matter,�� Rowan managed, almost breathless from the sudden influx of stress. “I want this one. How much?”

“Because it’s lacking in one of the most essential features of a WRU product, the ability to listen to owner commands, it’s offered at a significant discount. This one is seven thousand and five hundred dollars before tax, and the seven percent state and local sales tax will be applied at checkout. We also have optional add-ons, like the pet care package that insures all well-being visits, vaccines, and dental care at any WRU-sponsored pet clinics, as well as training class vouchers to impart additional skills.”

Rowan had already retrieved his wallet from his pocket, fingers trembling as he pulled out his ID and method of payment. That was a lot of money, yes, but who was he to put a price on a life? His car could hang on another few years, probably. Maybe. It was just money, he’d be fine.

“I’ll take the base package. I don’t need anything else.”

The rest of the sales floor became distant, dull, and Rowan took the pen into his hand as the saleswoman shoved a pile of paperwork in his direction. Tomorrow morning, she said, this boy would be delivered to his front door. Initial on this line, sign here, what’s today’s date? It was a blur and Rowan was hardly aware of what his own hands were doing.

He couldn’t hear her over the thundering of blood in his ears, and the rush of adrenaline made it hard to steady the pen in his hand. He penned his signature on the final line and the saleswoman congratulated him with words he could hardly make out. It didn’t feel real, like he was walking through a dream.

Rowan was going to be a pet owner.

---

The din of conversation in the massive room almost overcame the incessant ringing in the pet’s ears. Not much was capable of drowning it out these days, not since it had become so loud. It never stopped, anymore.

It couldn’t hear the words that were exchanged all around it, those busy groups of people moving back and forth, their legs passing its crate by without stopping. It had a hard time hearing words, no matter how hard it tried, and whether it was somewhere busy like this or otherwise. It wanted to be good, it wanted to listen, it wanted to make its master and its handlers pleased. But the pet couldn’t do that anymore, and deep in its gut, it knew that’s why it was here today. It was here with all the other pets that were broken, that were missing things, that cried when they were brought into the room this morning. Those pets were bad, and the handlers had no trouble saying as much.

The pet wanted to believe it wasn’t like those broken pets. That it would go back to Master, or have a new master, and be able to please them like a good pet should. But for that to happen it had to be on its best behavior. Handler Green had said so, that the pet would be thrown out if it didn’t try its very best to listen and be good. Handler Green had shouted this over and over, as though the pet was being disobedient just by existing, rather than unable to hear him. It didn’t want to be disobedient, and it wished that the handlers didn’t have to repeat themselves so much. It wished it could hear right, like the other pets were able to.

A pair of legs stopped beside the crate, toes pointed towards the yellow-shirt woman that wasn’t a handler, but the pet was told to behave for nonetheless. The pet looked up, eager to see who might be interested, perhaps someone who wanted it. The man’s eyes met the pet’s, and it quickly averted its gaze back towards the ground, cheeks burning. It was a novice mistake to make eye contact with a person like that. If it didn’t get itself under control, remember its training and very best manners, the pet knew that it was destined to fail.

Maybe it was a broken pet after all. It certainly had the bruises and scarring from seemingly endless corrections by handlers, anyway.

Those legs finally walked away and a blanket was thrown over the top of the pet’s crate. It yelped in spite of itself as the darkness descended. Did this mean that it had failed? Was that single glance enough to seal its fate, destined it to never have another Master to serve, no second chance to prove itself? Was this the end - alone, in the dark, unable to hear anything but the shrill ringing that had become its only companion?

I want to be good, it thought to itself, tears splashing down from its watering eyes to its knees. Its fists balled up, hands shaking from the sadness and the longing. I just want to be good.

---

Taglist (please ask if you would like to be added or removed, I know it's been a while :))

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#hear no evil #whump #whump writing #whump community #whump blog #bbu whump #bbu #bbu adjacent #hear no evil chapter 1 #almost two years after the first chapter was published we're back at it #hope y'all like this one even more the second time around

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krys-loves-otome · 2 years

Text

A Second Glance, Part 4

Rating: Teen (the entire work is marked as Mature, so read the rest at your own risk)

Pairing: Hideyoshi x Preg!Reader

Summary: A look into the aftermath of Chapter 3. There's also a flashback scene at the beginning.

Warnings: Pregnancy, references to and going into light detail about a past character's death, Nobukatsu also has a potty mouth on him so if foul language is something that bothers you, it's here too.

Notes: Adding in a few more people to Nobunaga's family tree as IkeSen canon makes it a little sparse. Added in his nephews Nobukatsu and Nobutaka (who were originally two of his RL sons, but made nephews for the sake of this story) and his little sister Oichi with her daughter.

Part 1 || Part 3

Read A Second Glance all in one place on ao3!

My Fanfic Masterlist

And many thanks to @tsundere-mitsuhide and @scummy-writes for beta-reading for me!

-----

"Thank you for visiting with us, [Name]. It was a pleasure to meet with you again."

Warm rays of spring lit up the flower gardens Nobunaga was sitting in alongside his younger sister, Lady Oichi. He had decided to visit her when she had written to him about her new daughter. He also decided to drag you along for the ride. You both had been too busy to see each other lately, so he claimed the trip for your benefit as well, to cure your loneliness of the time spent apart.

Though the sentiment was nice, you couldn't help but feel the slightest twinge of jealousy (and some other feeling you didn't have a name for then) when you see the usually demonic and ruthless conqueror giving all his attention to the bouncing infant on his knee, letting her touch his cheeks while she giggled and babbled away happily.

"Thank you for inviting us, Lady Oichi," you say, watching as the smirking uncle and his little niece engaged in a fierce staring contest. "I'm surprised he responded to your letter so quickly."

Oichi laughed. "Just Oichi, dear, please."

She glanced at her older brother, a wistful look in her eye.

"Truth be told, I am glad we get along as well as we do. He will never admit to it, and he will call me a silly brat until we both have gray hair and wrinkles, but he has always been there for me when I needed him. He always cared even if he does not always show it."

Oichi frowned.

"Ever since the falling out at Father's funeral, I have not seen much of my other brothers and sister, since I chose to support Nobunaga. We haven't spoken much since then."

"How many other siblings do the two of you have? If I may ask?"

"My brother hasn't told you?"

"It's… never really come up in conversation."

She paused to think.

"As far as I'm aware, two brothers and another sister still live, aside from myself. All of them are older than me while they are all younger than Nobunaga. The most I've heard from my family outside of Nobunaga… was when our sister's sons had reached adulthood recently. I am considering visiting them so they can meet their new cousin."

"Good luck, if you decide to do so." You say, "At least to help patch up those relationships."

"Thank you," Oichi smiled, "I am glad my brother has found someone as kind and reassuring as you."

The heat in your cheeks flared lightly but you smiled along with her nonetheless. Nobunaga smirked, reaching across to bring you in closer to him.

Morning light and chipper birdsong strained Mitsuhide's eyes and ears, not helpful in the least for his pounding head. Though he was fortunate to have a fresh set of clothes and some strong-smelling tea coursing through him, it did little to alleviate his fatigue and overall mood. His feet dragged only a little bit on the hallway floor.

"Good morning, Lord Mitsuhide," Mitsunari, fresh as a spring daisy, greeted with a small nod.

"Morning," he returned half-heartedly, running a hand through his hair, "I'm sure you've heard that Hideyoshi called this emergency meeting because of what happened last night?"

"Yes, I've heard." Mitsunari frowned in thought, "Lord Hideyoshi asked me to look after Lady [Name] so suddenly last night, I didn't have much of a chance to ask him what was going on. All I know is what Lady [Name] knew of the situation."

"Well, the short of it was that there were assassins sent in the night. At least two of them, in fact."

"Two assassins? Lady [Name] had said you had killed one of them."

"The other was lurking nearby. My vassals found him and interrogated him."

"The first one could have had information as well," Mitsunari said, "Why did you-"

"I find men who wander around with unsheathed blades quite uncouth. Especially around unsuspecting little mice and monkeys."

Mitsunari blinked and cleared his throat.

"Then, what did you discover from the other assassin? The one your vassals caught?"

"He was under orders to capture Azuchi's castle chatelaine. Preferably alive but it wasn't a guarantee."

"Do you know who sent him?"

"Not him directly, but his… I guess we'll call him his 'dearly departed comrade', had an Oda insignia on his sword."

"An Oda insignia?" Mitsunari's eyes widened, "but that would mean-"

"Yes. Playtime with the Oda is over, I'm afraid."

"Over Lady [Name]?"

"She seems to have gained their attention without us noticing it. Lucky little Miss Popular."

"But, why?" Mitsunari asked, worried, "Why now? As far as I was aware, the Oda didn't acknowledge her existence, outside of Lady Oichi."

"It is a mystery. Someone must have noticed something was up, especially with Hideyoshi still sitting on his hands."

Mitsunari sighed, looking out at the chirping birds in the nearby trees. A chilly breeze ruffled their feathers, soon snuggling closer together for warmth in their nest.

"…It's been months now."

Mitsuhide gave a sad smile, to no notice of his companion.

"Grief is one of the hardest burdens to bear. Some just have a harder time letting it go than others."

"We can't keep holding it off forever."

"It's still in Hideyoshi's hands, whether we like it or not."

"Can't we just-"

"I've already tried with a threat to sweep the chatelaine away to my own castle. He… didn't take the threat too well." Mitsuhide laughed quietly, "he might have punched me then."

Mitsunari pursed his lips, frowning in thought. He looked Mitsuhide directly in his eyes.

"Would you have taken her if the chance was before you?"

Mitsuhide said nothing, still keeping his smile in place despite Mitsunari's hard stare. Only the bird chatter filled their silence.

After a beat, Mitsuhide chuckled quietly.

"It's getting late. Let's not keep our dear Hideyoshi waiting."

With a reluctant nod, Mitsunari turned away and entered the meeting room. Mitsuhide was slower to follow, watching the dripping icicles in the trees.

"The fox stealing the wife away while the husband sleeps?" he chuckled, his sad smile returning for a brief moment before his usual beguiling smirk took its place, "it’s a silly notion, Mitsunari. A story meant for children to warn them of the villains of the world. It couldn’t happen in real life, after all."

He turned away, facing forward. One of the birds flew away from the nearby nest, gliding into the distance.

Two identical sets of carnelian eyes glared at each other, the fire of anger hotter than any swordsmith's forge. A low guttural growl broke the silence along with a cup slammed on the table, splashing steaming tea.

"Why did you interfere, Nobutaka?!" snarled the scarred man before a poised man with long black hair tied in a low ponytail. "I almost had that bastard monkey! If you had just-"

"Murdering Hideyoshi was not part of the plan, Brother." Nobutaka said calmly, sipping his tea with furrowed eyebrows, "Our only goal in Azuchi was to capture the castle chatelaine. There was no need for bloodshed."

The scarred man, Nobukatsu Oda, huffed bitterly, scratching furiously at his short black hair.

"Why do you care so much about a castle's caretaker? What's so special about a wench that arranges flowers and sorts dainty napkins all day?"

"The fact that she was Uncle Nobunaga's chatelaine is curious. He never had one before, and then she suddenly appeared, as if from the heavens one day."

"Maybe he was really impressed with her decorating skills." Nobukatsu said sarcastically.

"Maybe you should learn to pay more attention," Nobutaka steepled his fingers, his glasses' chain glittering in the sunlight.

"Is it not strange that a woman with no social standing or noble heritage suddenly has the attention of not only Uncle Nobunaga, but his vassals and allies in Oshu and Mikawa? Even his enemies speak well of Uncle's castle caretaker. I find the matter quite intriguing."

"Are you really holding back on killing Hideyoshi just because of some woman you find 'intriguing'? That butt-monkey is still standing in our way of clan leadership! He is also the one stopping us from claiming what rightfully should be ours: Uncle Nobunaga's domain. What in all hells are you waiting for?"

"To see what the monkey does."

"…What?"

"Listen to me, Nobukatsu." He looked straight into his brother's eyes. "The fact that Hideyoshi is stalling for time is also peculiar. He could take the domain for himself, reaping the benefits and no one would bat an eye. But, he hasn't. He also refuses to relinquish it to anyone, Oda or otherwise. So, if he doesn't want to hand Azuchi over to anyone nor does he take the rule for his own benefit, why is he sitting on his hands, wasting everyone's time?"

Nobukatsu was quiet, grumbling as he tried to process his younger brother's implications.

"He's… waiting for the chatelaine… to do something? Since you keep bringing her up, she has to be important for some reason."

"You're catching on." Nobutaka chuckled, "I'm impressed."

"Enough mind games, snot-face. What are you getting at?"

"Again, Hideyoshi, as well as many others in Uncle's circle and outside of it, speak favorably about the castle chatelaine. Hideyoshi refuses to move forward with surrendering Uncle's domain or taking it for himself. My theory is that the chatelaine is carrying Uncle Nobunaga's child and that monkey is waiting to seize the child and name him as Uncle's posthumous heir."

"Wha-What gives that bastard the right to do that? He shouldn't interfere with-"

"Did I also mention that the chatelaine was named an Oda princess?"

"By who!?"

"Uncle Nobunaga, before his unfortunate passing."

"But, she wasn't related to any of us. She didn't wed him or was a named mistress. Hells, Uncle Nobunaga was never married so he couldn't have mistresses to fool around with."

"How quaint of you," Nobutaka continued, "but rumors have spread regardless. Other nobles claim the chatelaine an Oda princess, but can never substantiate their claims, other than what they heard from sources in Azuchi's castle, not from the clan itself."

"So, let me get this straight. You're saying that Uncle Nobunaga possibly knocked up his chatelaine and now Butt Monkey Hideyoshi is gonna try and claim the brat as Uncle Nobunaga's heir after he's already dead because the chatelaine has some fake princess title?"

"That's my theory on the matter."

"It's bullshit."

"I did not ask for your opinion."

"It's bullshit he thinks he can name some random bitch's accident as heir. Is there any proof the little punk's even Uncle Nobunaga's spawn? You did say the chatelaine was 'spoken of highly' in Uncle's circle. Could have screwed one of his vassals and claimed it was Uncle who did it. Could be Butt Monkey's kid for all we know."

"No one will know unless a child suddenly materializes, if my theory is correct."

Nobukatsu grumbled again, glancing out at the dripping icicles.

"So what do we do now, since you're so insistent about not killing the monkey."

"Right now, we wait to see how Hideyoshi responds to our little… message. Hopefully he's not dead, no thanks to you."

"I still think he's better off dead than you doing this song and dance you keep doing. Easier that way."

"I'm trying to be civil, to go about things the right way. Unlike you who bludgeons his way into getting what he wants."

"At least I'm getting results while you sit on your ass drinking tea and playing Go all day. Heh, it's no wonder I'm twenty minutes older than you; you had to sit and think about being born before the midwife pulled you out."

"And you're a crude, boorish oaf who has no patience for anyone." Nobutaka deadpanned "You're a terrible general with a short temper as well."

"And you're lucky you're my brother, else I have half a mind to cut out that tongue of yours."

"Oh, I feel so loved and appreciated in your presence, dear brother." Nobutaka stood, "now get out of my sight. Your entire existence disgusts me."

"Your face disgusts me."

"Your insults are as poor as your provinces."

"They're still bigger than yours."

"Get out of my castle before I throw you out myself!"

"That, I'd like to see." Nobukatsu laughed, standing up, "Go ahead and throw me out, you weakling brat!"

"My lords!" a voice spoke up in the doorway, a servant with a scroll in his hand, "a message has arrived from Azuchi."

"Hopefully good news," Nobutaka spat.

"I'm afraid not, sir," said the servant, handing over the scroll. "Lord Hideyoshi was quite displeased with your threat, as it were."

"Who cares what he thinks," Nobukatsu snorted, "Most aren't exactly itching to be taken out by assassins."

"At least we know he's still alive enough to be irritated." The younger brother read over the message, his eyebrows furrowed. "He also says to not threaten him or Azuchi's safety again, else he will have to take 'drastic actions.'

"Be more than what he's currently doing," Nobukatsu sighed, "now what?"

Nobutaka crumpled the paper in his hand and threw the ball into the fire behind him.

"I think if you want something done right, you'll have to do things yourself. I'm going to Azuchi to see that insufferable primate and Uncle's beloved chatelaine."

"What, to prove your pet theory right?"

"There's a reason the monkey keeps holding Uncle's legacy hostage. If he freely won't give it to us, I say we should go and take it from him."

"Great idea, I'm going with you."

"No, you're not."

"Someone has to save your scrawny ass if a fight breaks out."

"I'm more than capable of protecting myself, thank you."

"No, you're not."

"Says you."

"Says me who has saved your ass more times than he can count, which is pretty high."

"You just want to come along to impale your sword on someone."

"Would you rather I impale you instead?"

Nobutaka sighed.

"Fine, but no killing while we're in Azuchi. This is going to be a scouting mission of sorts. No bloodshed."

"Only if they provoke me first."

"As if that's a difficult task." he sighed, sending his servant away, "whatever will keep you quiet."

Nobutaka stood now, taking his tea cup and walked out of the room as his brother took the opposite direction.

"Azuchi and Uncle's legacy will be in the right hands soon," he said quietly, tightening his hold on his cup, "no matter what stands in my way. No stupid monkeys and certainly no upstart chatelaines will stop me from gaining what’s supposed to be mine."

Cooled tea slid between his fingers, his cup having cracked with the sheer strength of his grip. He threw it against the wall, a satisfying crash resounding in the otherwise silent halls.

Light puffs of smoke floated away into the evening sky, the stars just starting to turn visible. Hideyoshi closed his eyes, sitting on the veranda, the coming night chill not seeming to bother him. He leaned back, feeling every joint voice their discomfort.

With a sigh and another puff on his pipe, he finally noticed you standing a little ways away from him, bundled in a warm haori and holding another dark green one in your hands, neatly folded. Hideyoshi coughed loudly, frantically trying to put out his pipe, erratic smoke puffs escaping his mouth.

"[Name]!" he choked, "What are you doing up? Didn't I already tell you about good sleeping habits starting-"

"Yeah, last night," you said, "right before Mitsuhide gave me a week's worth of nightmare fuel."

"…Nightmare fuel?"

"A-anyway," you continued, "I didn't know how long you were going to be out here, so I brought you a jacket."

"You didn't have to, [Name], I would have been fine without one."

"It's still cold out, Hideyoshi. I'm… We're worried about you. Me and Mitsunari, that is." You handed it to him, standing at his side. "And… they're, they're worried too. We all are."

After a minute's pause, Hideyoshi reluctantly put it on, hiding his hands in the sleeves.

"It's still late," he said, "and it's been a long day. I won't be much longer, promise."

"…Can I stay just for a little longer?" You asked, "They… they've been getting restless lately, especially at night."

"Well, we certainly can't have that, can we?" Hideyoshi sat up straighter, pulling one side of his haori open. "If you're staying, I'm keeping you warm while you're out here. No buts, missy."

You smile and laugh, accepting his offer of shared warmth. You take careful, slow steps on the shallow stairs. Hideyoshi's arm reached out to steady you as you descended. Once you were settled beside him, his arm encircled your shoulders with a comfortable amount of his haori covering you.

"Warm enough?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you."

He nodded, turning his gaze back to the darkening sky, the stars becoming clearer and brighter.

"It's funny," he said quietly, "holding you like this to keep warm, it reminds me of my early days of serving Lord Nobunaga."

You looked up at him, hoping this was the famous story from your time, of Hideyoshi and Nobunaga's sandals.

"I was… young and overly eager to please him, as he had given me my second chance at life. I was about to do anything if it would please him."

He paused while you waited in anticipation, watching his cheeks turn pink in embarrassment.

"Including… putting his sandals in my kimono… to warm them for him."

You snickered while he sighed.

"It was a long time ago, [Name]."

"I think it was sweet of you, thinking of his comfort like that."

"He laughed and called me a stupid monkey."

"It wasn't stupid at all!" you giggled.

"Now you're just being nice, [Name]," Hideyoshi grumbled.

You snuggled in closer, pulling your shared haori closer.

"…I dreamed of him last night," you said softly, frowning, "I think he was trying to warn me."

"Warn you?"

"He tried to but… there wasn't any sound in the dream," you paused, "save for one. When… when he was struck from behind and…"

You shivered. Hideyoshi held you closer.

"I should apologize to you," Hideyoshi said, clenching his fist. "iIf I had been faster, stronger… I could have reached you sooner. Hearing you scream like that, fearing I was too late… seeing Lord Nobunaga falling to the ground… I didn't know what was happening anymore… just that I was seeing red."

"Hideyoshi…"

"You… you were clinging to him so tightly, refusing to let him go. I… I held both of you in my arms, his blood was coating both of us… I… I was ready to kill Masamune and Mitsuhide for trying to separate all of us… and Ieyasu because he was touching you… to remove you from us… I … that day still haunts me."

His eyes were hard, lost in the memory of that day. It had been hard on everyone, the hardest to the two of you. A hollow victory with the biggest loss to all involved. You reached for his hand, both of your chilled fingers seeming to bring him back to the present. He gave an apologetic smile.

"See, I really have kept you out here too long. Your hands are frozen!"

He slipped his arms out of his haori, giving his remaining warmth to you while rubbing his hands over yours.

"C'mon, let's get you inside," he insisted while standing up, "I'll make you some tea and we'll get you some warm covers to sleep under. Four should be good. Or would five be better?"

One hand over yours, the other at your back to keep you steady on the steps, Hideyoshi held you securely despite his frigid fingers, making sure you safely made it onto the landing first, making you temporarily taller than him.

You turned towards him, his nose and cheeks red from the cold, sure to be matching your own, much to Hideyoshi's dismay.

Before he could climb to your side, however, you leaned towards him, touching dry and cold-chapped lips together with his. The tobacco still lingered on him, you noticed.

Hideyoshi froze, eyes wide open in surprise. When you pulled back for air, though his cheeks were warmer, his eyes, once again, filled with sadness. He let out a breath.

"Inside, [Name]," he left no room for argument. "Now."

#krys's adventures in fanfiction #a second glance #ikemen sengoku #hideyoshi toyotomi #mitsuhide akechi #mitsunari ishida #cw: pregnancy #cw: references to character death #cw: language #it's been 84 years #or more accurately at least one year #but it's finally got a new chapter #I'm so happy #now watch it be another year before the next chapter comes out #oof

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