#outfit veheme

[fushiguho]

Sucking Professor!Kento’s cock during office hours… sorry in advance I’m ovulating :/

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･

“I just wanna see it.” You pur as you’re sinking to your knees before him, two curious hands reach forward to undo the silver buckle of his belt.

“You just wanna see it?” He echoes incredulously, a laugh of disbelief immediately following his words.

You only hum in response, fiddling with the clasp of his belt, nothing but your feverish urgency guiding you. Nanami does little to stop your advances. In fact, part of him can’t stop himself from helping you as his slender, manicured hands are sliding down to take the belt off for you. Soon, the zipper of his dark gray slacks is being tugged down, eventually revealing the prominent tent beneath the fabric of his Calvin Klein briefs.

Nanami’s breath nearly hitches when you pull at his waistband, unsheathing his swollen cock. The blushing tip drips with precum, kissing his head in a slick mess. His fruitless protests were long forgotten, somewhere so far gone, never to be seen again. And from the looks of it, Nanami’s body is working against him and he can’t find it within himself to stop it.

You definitely don’t miss the way he sucks in a tight breath, exhaling a shaky whimper as the cool draft of the lecture hall kisses the tip of his cock, his chest shuddering with each breath. Almost instinctively your hand is wrapping around the base before slowly dragging your fist up. “You… you said you just wanted to see it– fuck.” He breathes as his lips part, labored breaths falling from his open mouth.

“Did I?” You hum, feign confusion heavy in your tone as you loll out your tongue, allowing saliva to fall from it, coating the head of his cock in a lewd, glossy sheen. Nanami can only nod slightly, mouth wide as you begin to stroke him again with the slick of your saliva. He’s rolling his hips forward, chasing your fleeting touch.

You smile sweetly, “I must've forgotten.”

With your eyes boring holes into his, you inhale deeply before slowly lowering your head onto him, taking him into your mouth with a hum of satisfaction. He’s sweet, almost like a bitter honey. Your eyes flutter close as you swallow around him, gagging sweetly as the tip of his cock brushes the entrance to your throat.

He’s gasping, face contorting in overwhelming pleasure as you toy with his heavy balls, your other hand tugging at his pretty cock. “Mmph—you can’t just—fuck… w-what if someone sees?” Nanami protests while peering down at you through the fallen strands of blonde that adorn his forehead, his scrunched face blushing with crimson.

Your sweet lips drag along the warm skin of his swollen balls, sloppy kisses left in your wake. “No one comes to your office hours anyway.” You gibe, your hand steadily working at his stiff cock. Nanami gapes in response, his head slowly craning back to dangle over his shoulders, a choked whimper on the tip of his tongue.

He hardly even notices the subconscious spread of his legs as he accommodates to your keening sense of vehemence. Truthfully, he’d only be lying to himself if he said he hasn’t imagined you on your knees for him just like this. How can he not? Maybe it’s the way you saunter around campus in the skimpiest little outfits he’s ever seen, your soft breasts and plush thighs on display, practically spilling out of the fabric. Or even the way you ‘accidentally’ email him files of the most nasty and debauched images of yourself.

But Professor!Kento isn’t blameless. He definitely shouldn’t have saved those files so that he could slowly construct his own corrupt file of you—a handpicked selection of your most sacred parts, stored away on his work laptop. Between classes he finds himself growing hard at the fleeting thought of you tucked under his desk with his cock in your mouth, stifling his moans as he grades quizzes for his unsuspecting students.

Oh, and there were the videos too...

He can vividly describe them from memory. In fact, the video that made his cock the hardest was the one of you in your dorm room, slouched against your headboard, completely bare with your legs spread as you ran your slick fingers between your swollen lips. The camera's flashback even caught the subtle gleam of your arousal, gossamers of your essence stretching and snapping between your fingers like shiny cobwebs.

With your phone propped against a stuffed animal, you huffed out small breaths and moans as you shamelessly groped your tits. Mouth gaped as you tugged at your hardened nipples, rolling them between the pads of your fingers.

Over and over again, Nanami replayed the video, shamelessly zooming into your pussy to get a better view of the way your sloppy hole swallowed your fingers. He even synced his moans with yours as he fucked his hand that night, shiny beads of precum slipping from the head of his cock and dribbling down his nimble fingers.

And of course you claimed that you must’ve mistaken the file for your thesis. You’d think after the third time you’d learn not to keep your nudes in the same vicinity as your schoolwork, right?

Whoops.

“I see the way you look at me, Mr. Kento… you’re a smart man but not very discrete,” you taunt, twisting your wrist slightly as you near the head, eliciting a gasp from his lips, “wouldn’t be surprised if everyone knew.”

He’s whimpering wantonly as he bucks his hips toward your face, gaunt knuckles turning a pale white as he grips the armrests of his leather chair, “It’s not my f— fault, y’know that…” he breathes.

The smile that mars your face is almost sick, your sweet lips curling into the most bewitched grin he has ever seen. It nearly has him spilling cum all over your pretty face with a guttural groan and a stutter of his hips.

“Guess it’s also not your fault that you lecture a room full of students with this cock hard like that either, right? Don’t even care enough to cover yourself up when you teach… must want everyone to know.” You're not letting up, your fist tightens slightly as you’re slowly forcing precum from the swollen head of his cock. Warm, pearlescent beads drip in rivulets down your slick fingers.

You lean forward, darting your tongue out to chase his seed as he runs down your knuckles. The wet, hot muscle drags along your fist as you collect his arousal. “Mmm— my professor’s gettin’ soo wet for me… look at the mess you’re making,” you observe as you smear the remaining precum along his cock. “wonder what my friends’ll think when I tell them… they’ll be so mad at me. M’always talkin’ about ya y’know.” You giggle girlishly, admitting to your slight infatuation.

He throbs in your hand at your honeyed words, the vein that runs along the underside of his of his cock swollen and pulsating as you beckon him toward an inevitable orgasm. “Oh, fuuuck…” Nanami gasps, eyebrows furrowing as he struggles to engage in your repartee, “m’gonna cum if you keep talkin’ to me like that… knew you had a nasty little mouth.” he admits.

You can’t help the squeeze of your thighs at his comment as arousal seeps from your cunt, ruining your panties. As you take him back into your mouth with a soft moan, swallowing around him like it’s the last meal you’ll ever have, the subtle roll hips of your as you attempt to relieve yourself won’t go unnoticed.

Nanami thinks you’re the prettiest thing ever, like nothing he’s ever seen. He’s not entirely sure what it is about you that makes all the blood in his body rush for the head of his cock. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re so bright, sharp-witted, and unlike many of his other students, you care about your life beyond university. Or it could even be the simple fact that he’s so deeply infatuated with you. Almost to the point it physically pains him.

More often than not, he’ll catch himself scanning the classroom for you before his lessons, hoping to find you in a row close to the front. When he eventually spots you, shamelessly, his gaze envelops you, mind racing as he imagines all the depraved things he’d do if given half the chance. God, especially the days you’d come to class repping your school’s apparel in those godforsaken athletic shorts from the university bookstore, the curve of your ass peeking from beneath.

You don’t ever mind when he keeps you well after class is over, commending you for your hard work and impressive grades, accompanied by lingering glances and fleeting touches. It’s hard to ignore the sickening sense of attraction you feel toward him. Maybe because he’s the answer to your most impure fantasies.

Nanami’s stomach knots when you peer up at him from between his legs, your sweet eyes like daggers. “Want you to cum in my mouth… on my tongue,” you’re humming sweetly as you loll out you tongue, his tip resting snuggly against it, “I’ll swallow it all.” You’re gently tapping him on the plush center of your tongue now, encouraging his looming orgasm.

His hips stutter as you jerk his cock against your tongue, all of his pretty boy moans and sighs of pleasure like kindle to a flame. “Yeah–f— fuck, yes… want me to cum in that p-pretty mouth?” He groans.

You nod before sitting higher up on your knees, preparing yourself to swallow everything he has to offer. Nanami gasps when his cock begins to twitch against your tongue. The vibration of your pleasured hums and coos is what forces several warm, translucent spurts of cum into the back of your throat.

His mouth gapes as you swallow it all like you promised. You even stick out your clean tongue afterwards as proof. Nanami is bewildered as his chest heaves. “What the fuck.” he whispers, trying his hardest to make sense of the events that just unfolded.

He watches intently as you quickly clean yourself up, readjusting your disheveled hair and clothes before gathering your scattered textbooks and belongings. You sling your backpack over your shoulders before awkwardly looking down at your feet, “Uh, I’ll be late for physics… see you tomorrow?” You question.

He nods understandably. “What time are you done with classes today?”

“4:30.”

He grins wickedly. “Meet me back here at 4:45… wanna show you somethin’ else.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･

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[ichxraaa]

⤷ you wanna go out with your friends but osamu has other plans…

⁂ MINORS DNI

warnings; fem! reader, cunnilingus, osamu being a menance

keys, phone, wallet… checked. all set and ready to go, you’re nearly at the door when you turn around on your heels, muttering to yourself “charger…”

now you’re ready, all that’s left is…“bye samu, i’m leaving!”

you nearly bump into him when you turn on the hall while reaching for the door once again.

“jeez samu! you scared me, i thought you were in the shower”.

he’s still in his black assemble of work clothes minus the apron and the cap, and you don’t pay him too much attention as you check yourself on the mirror one last time.

osamu’s stare is fixated on you, the charger dangling from his right hand forgotten in favor of checking your outfit.

“you’re really dolled up”.

“you think so? i wanted something causal”. maybe you still have time to change? oh fuck it, you like it and that’s it.

“i meant it as in you look pretty”.

you smile at him through the mirror and he yanks you by the hips to make you face him.

“do ya’ really have to go?” his question sounds harmless, uninterested even but by the way in which his fingers have begun tracing against your skin and the way his eyes are turning opaque you can see his true intentions.

something stirs inside you and you stretch on your toes to reach for his lips in a slow kiss. his fingers immediately dig into your sides, palms pressing you against his chest as one of his hands wanders to place itself on the back of your neck to deepen the kiss in a way that was you clinging to his broad shoulders for leverage.

“samu” you mumble in a whisper after managing to escape from his assault for just a second, his half lidded stare nearly making you forget what you’re about to say. “i gotta go…”

“mmm?” he breaths against your neck, a wet trail of kisses coming down your neck as his hands begin to wander across your back, pinching and grabbing with hunger as you can’t help to moan against his ministrations.

you can’t cancel this meeting, not again. the last time you tried to get together with your girlfriends osamu did the same thing, and the time before that too.

his lips have reached the cleavage of your top and nimble fingers have begun dancing under the fabric of your bra with a very clear intention. you arch involuntary as he finally frees your boobs from its restraints and eagerly begins sucking on one of your nipples with malicious intent.

your phone beeps from the depths of your forgotten purse and you are certain that it must be your friends on the group chat.

your voice has lost strength but you must try to do the right thing, “samu…”, you trail off, breath choked up on your throat as you watch him get on his knees, fingers easily unzipping your pants and head resting against your stomach as he looks up at you with that hint of lust and adoration that has you melting into him.

“stay”. he nibbles onto the lowest and softest part of your stomach, “stay and i’ll prepare your favorite”, your breath hitches, his nose has begun to press against the damp spot of your panties in a way that has your insides twitching.

“my friends are gonna be so mad, i can’t”.

“we can also watch mulan, or…” his fingers pull the fabric covering your lips to the side, tongue immediately flattening into you as his fingers open yourself for him. he grunts as he dives in, head getting lightheaded as he tastes you, the feeling of your cunt already throbbing and so wet for him making the strain inside his pants even tighter.

your fingers scratch against his scalp, more like a plea instead of an imposition to make him stop. you shouldn’t. he’s begun lapping at your clit. you really shouldn’t.

the next ‘samu’ you exhale feels more like encouragement than resistance.

“my friends are gonna hate me”.

he slurps your juices without a care, face pressing with such vehemence against you that you can’t hear for a second. he breaks apart just slightly, enough for you to see your arousal coating his chin and his eyes piercing through you.

“take them to the restaurant next time, my treat”. he gives you a second to think, but he knows your answer even before you think about it yourself. osamu ducks down once again and you exhale in defeat when two of his fingers begin rubbing into you with perfect rhythm.

maybe you can cancel after all…

[keulixeutin]

Hard, Harder, Hardest

a/n: hi.

summary: during a hero panel, bakugou thinks about how he can’t help but orbit you and obey.  bakugou x fem!reader.  

cw: suggestive. 18+.  no pronouns used, but fem!reader in mind while writing + mention of female anatomy; also, reader wears lots and lots of pencil skirts.  bakugou pining after you and imagining the nasty.  sub!bakugou and dom!reader vibes (at least, i tried anyways lmao).  reader wears glasses.

word count: 2,183.

Despite the nonchalant way Bakugou was leaning back in the chair, anyone could see he was stiff and irritable: he was scowling and rigid, the curve of his back not quite following the curve of his seat.

He couldn’t help it though.  He was supremely uncomfortable.  He hated this shit, hated being on the stage, following some stupid itinerary, dealing with stupid activities and games to get people to see the “softer” side of him.  What the hell did people need that for?  Wasn’t it enough for him to do his job, protect the city, beat down the shitty villains, and be the fucking best?  Number two hero or not, he didn’t sign up for this stupid celebrity shit.  They could write a slew of articles complaining and criticizing him, but he hated sitting around in the spotlight.

You, his personal assistant, fucking knew this, yet you still, behind his fucking back, worked with his PR team (and that fucking Shitty Hair Hero) to accept the Hero Convention invite and add it onto his schedule (his schedule that you knew he didn’t look at because he trusted you to be good at your job)—and then to not even to tell him until ten minutes before he was supposed to get ready for it?  He had been fuming.

Bakugou’s leg shook underneath the table impatiently and irritably.  A woman dressed in a maid outfit with home-made Hawks wings stepped to the microphone and asked Round Cheeks about her martial arts usage in battles.  The next fan, someone with blue scales scattering across their face and arms, asked a question to a sidekick three seats away whose name Bakugou didn’t know and didn’t care to know.  Internally, he was pleased with this current line of questioning.  As long as no one addressed him, he could sit and pass the time with an annoyed glare until this whole thing was fucking done.

But, obviously, the universe loved dashing his hopes.  The next person that stepped up to the microphone was cosplaying an older version of the Dynamight costume, which was ego-boosting and cool to see, of course, but that itself wasn’t enough to make any of this entertaining or interesting.

“This question is for Dynamight,” the fan began.  “What would you consider your hardest battle?  Also, I’m your, um, number one fan…!”

It was an easy question.

People wanted to know battle specifics, but his hardest fight?  To date?  Currently?  

Controlling his fucking raging hard-on whenever you with your stupid perfume and your mean laugh entered the room.

Bakugou hadn’t wanted a personal assistant.  Shitty Hair and Raccoon Eyes stubbornly pushed their agenda onto him whenever they noticed at the beginning of the year that he had been swiftly losing control over his wildly hectic schedule.  Between the patrol, the agency work, the hero work, and the unending meetings—all just the tip of the iceberg—he had been struggling to find any time for himself, personally and professionally.  Despite his violent vehemence, Shitty Hair and Raccoon Eyes still strong-armed him by nagging him until they were red in the face and accepting applications on his behalf, narrowing it down to a set of five that he was to choose from.

He had picked you because you looked meek in your photo and you were soft-spoken in the interview; he figured that you’d run off after being on the end of his short fuse for a week straight.

But, by the end of that week, with him having just yelled about the type of tupperware his food was packed in, you had very softly and very firmly told him to watch his fucking tone, or you’d make sure that the only time he sat down for the next six months was on stage in front of an interviewer and audience with a fiercely binding contract that ensured he couldn’t skip without heavy monetary punishment.

(“I have my ex-lawyer-boyfriend wrapped around my finger,” you had said, your voice deadly calm as though you were telling him you had started a new hobby and not threatening your boss, the number two hero.  “I will make sure there is so little wiggle room in that contract—every single Hero Convention from here to goddamn China will have you by the balls for the next six months in the strictest legalese.  Do you understand me?”

He couldn’t lie—he was shocked into silence by how fucking hot that was, how fucking hot you were, wearing the tightest pencil skirt, shifting your metal glasses while you threatened him.

“Now eat your rice.  The leeks, too, please.”)

He couldn’t explain it.  Ever since then, things were—different.  He was hyper aware of you, of how far away or how close you stood near him, of how you were usually in some sort of skirt; his eyes were glued to your backside, to the sneak peek of upper thigh every time you shifted in your seat, mind wandering to how it’d feel to have that thigh pressed against his neck and his face. He was suddenly obsessed with how you spoke, realizing he had mistaken your quiet for meekness, for submission. You were soft-spoken, yes, but there was a weight to your words, one that required obedience from those you were speaking to.  Now he could see that your smile sometimes curled at the corners into a sneer, and that your eyes were sharp, narrowing with a finality he found himself unable to ignore.

Fuck, he was even aware of how you smelled.  He often caught himself inhaling deeply as you passed by, trying to preserve the smell of your shampoo inside his chest.  Whenever you leaned over to show him something on his calendar, he had to fight the urge to press his nose into your hair, to bury his face into your neck where your veins pulsed with perfume. Once, you had left your jacket at his place after a long night of explaining and rearranging the weekend itinerary to ensure nothing would be amiss while you were out of town. He had fallen asleep with his face pressed into the fabric the entire weekend, your scent lulling him into the most comfortable and serene sleep of his life.

Things got even harder when you caught on.  Quick, too, two months in.  The skirts got shorter; your shirts were unbuttoned enough for a heated glance of cleavage; and he frequently found you in compromising positions, bending over his table to grab something instead of walking around, or dropping things at his feet requiring you to lean over to pick up.  It was hardest when you used this newfound power of yours to get him to do things he didn’t want to do—like attend interviews or take off-days.  In his frustration and confusion in the early days, he had once furiously asked if you had a quirk he didn’t know about, to which you laughed wildly in your eyes but coolly said no.

“Dynamight?”  The host pulled him from the memory that had began to take over Bakugou’s attention—the one where, after getting caught in a heavy downpour, you had graciously changed in front of him and cruelly wouldn’t let him touch.

Bakugou was about to respond that nothing had been hard because he was too fucking strong, but he made the mistake of glancing to you, standing off to the side with your phone against your ear.  You were good enough at your job that you were able to efficiently multitask, paying attention to both the conversation on the phone and the Hero Panel.  As if you could feel his intent, you gave him a hard stare, your fine eyebrow raising expectantly at him, almost daring him to put one toe out of line in this nationally broadcasted panel.

The look boiled his blood—and the heat went straight down south.

Yes, things had gotten extremely bad when you had realized your effect on him.  

He was grateful for the table.

Bakugou gave an answer about a villain whose name he couldn’t remember but whose shadow soldier-producing quirk had irritated him the entire fight, and then he ended the response with a muttered thanks to the fan.

He glanced back to you, another mistake—“Good boy,” you mouthed.

Fuck.  He bit back a groan.

There was a mean glint in your eye as you held his stare; it wasn’t a long one, but it was enough to create a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach; it was enough to make his heart stutter and jump.  You turned away first, breaking the eye contact to finish the conversation on the phone, yet it felt like he was the one who had caved.

The rest of the panel continued with Bakugou scowling at a spot on the table or the wall behind the audience, but he participated more than he had originally decided to.  He answered the questions directed at him and remarked offhandedly on other people’s answers whenever he felt like it, eliciting laughter from the fans and eye-rolls and playful arm smacks from Round Cheeks. 

At the end of the panel, the heroes had twenty minutes to decompress before the meet-and-greet. Bakugou and the others were ushered off the stage and back into the make-up room to relax.  After the make-up artist checked that nothing needed to be reapplied, you appeared with a phone against your ear still and a tote bag over your shoulder.

“I’ll check his calendar and get back to you,” you said.  “By the end of tomorrow at the latest.  He’s currently doing the Hero Panel, but if I can find a moment to check and confirm, I’ll let you know earlier.”  

You paused, listening to the person on the other side.  Bakugou took the moment to rake his eyes over your form.  Your pencil skirt stopped inches above your ankle, but there was a slit over your left leg that traveled up—up, up, and up—to your tantalizing thigh.  Your skin was creamy and smooth with lotion or oil.  Whenever you shifted your weight in irritation at something that was said, the fat of your thighs rippled in a way that had his mouth watering.

 “…As I said,” you continued, “Dynamight is currently occupied with the Hero Panel.  If I can grab a moment, I will check with him and his calendar, but I’ll be sure to give you an answer by the end of tomorrow.  Yes, of course.  Yes, you, too.”

Your voice was light and polite, but dry and firm.  You hung up, and then your attention was fucking finally on him.  

You pulled several plastic containers out of your tote bag and set it on the table in front of him.

“Don’t scarf it all down,” you advised.  “But eat a little.  Regain your energy and pick up your mood so you can meet the fans.”

“Not hungry,” he grumbled, wondering if he could convince you to let him rip the slit a little higher.

“Eat the fruits at least,” you said, moving the containers around until the smallest one was on top and opened, revealing grapes and cut apples and mangos. 

“You eaten yet?” he asked.

“No, but I’m fine,” you said, but you picked out a grape anyway.  His eyes honed in on the way your fingers push the fruit past your plump lips.

Bakugou swallowed, neck tense, heart hammering in his chest.  He didn’t know when the leash had tightened so heavily.

“What?” you asked, noticing his gaze.

“Nothing.”  He averted his eyes.

“Oh, I see,” you said, amused, and he found that he hated your tone and simultaneously ached for it.  “You want a reward for earlier, hm?”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to.  Despite his attempt at disgruntled nonchalance, his body was obedient to your voice in a way he couldn’t physically deny or control, no matter how much he dug his nails into his palms or ground his teeth.  There was always a twitch and shift in your direction; there was always a fiery red on his cheeks; there was always the need to orbit and obey.

“You don’t get anything for properly answering a question the way you’re supposed to, Katsuki,” you remarked.  

“Tch.  Whatever,” he grunted, suppressing the involuntary shudder at his name on your lips.

“But if you do well today”—you plucked another grape and then pressed it against his mouth—“maybe you can get a reward later.”

You slid the grape into his mouth, fingers lingering at his lips in a scandalous way that journalists would kill to capture.

His body was buzzing at your words.  He couldn’t help but hoarsely ask, “What’s the reward?” 

“Whatever you want it to be,” you answered, smug as if you could read his thoughts, as if you knew he was imagining you suffocating him with your cunt and thighs, as if you knew that he hadn’t been able to help himself on stage, looking to you as though he would’ve said anything to hear good boy again.

[resident-mercie]

Carlos Oliveira Fic - Halcyon Days (NSFW) Chapter 2.

notes: nsfw allusions, obsessive carlos allusions, canon violence, allusions to death, slow burn romance

➵ You may have made it to the sanctum of the subway, but your peace with Carlos is threatened by both apocalyptic and human forces beyond your control.

“Being eaten by a cutie would be a good way to go, I suppose.” Carlos grinned, arms outstretched, beckoning me towards the hug I so desperately craved. “Just get over here already, before you turn and bite my arm off, will ya?”

With a little hesitance, I shuffled over to Carlos’s seat, finding myself enveloped in his presence, his muscular arm pulling me closer towards his chest. His scent was comforting in a bizarre way, being a mixture of cheap cologne, sweat, and mortality. While reminiscing about it right now made my nose twitch, it was a mixture of smells that were, for the most part, refreshingly human. His chest rising and falling filled me with an unusual sense of relief - that I wasn’t the only human trapped in such a horrific situation. We had each other, and although we had only met around twenty minutes prior, every cell in me screamed that this wasn’t just any chance encounter.

I could feel myself melting into his touch, as I felt him rest his chin on my head, which was now buried into the nook of his collarbone, leading to his chest. In the sanctum of his arms, maybe there was no apocalypse - maybe this was all just a terrible nightmare that I’d wake up from, and then head into my monotonous office job, not giving it any more thought. Yet, a selfish nagging in me pleaded for this to be real, because if this was a nightmare, then the sanctuary of Carlos Oliveira wouldn’t exist beyond the figments of incoherent thoughts in my dreams.

“Is that any better?” Carlos smiled, tracing patterns against my back in a reassuring manner with his thumb, his breathing in tandem with my own.

“I don’t want to let go.”

The carriage door opened as I whispered those words into his chest, and immediately the intimacy developing in the atmosphere dissipated, replaced by an uneasy tension.

“Our first aid service isn’t a secret sex workshop, Oliveira.” A voice bellowed into the room, from a figure seemingly fired by bitter vehemence. This new arrival was just as tall as Carlos, but unlike Oliveira’s stature, there was something menacing in his appearance, threatening almost. His face was paralysed with animosity, glaring at Carlos and I in a way that was unnerving and hostile. “If you want to try and get yourself laid before we run out of supplies, then be my guest. But don’t come crying to me when you’re infected.”

With one last spiteful glare in my direction, the figure skulked away, yet his uneasy presence was still very much influential on the atmosphere.

“Who was that?”

“That’s fucking Nikolai. Guy thinks he’s the top dog now he’s got his greasy hands on an authority position in our platoon.”

“Call me crazy if you want, Carlos, but I don’t trust the guy.”

Carlos’s response wasn’t a verbal one, but the look he gave me was one of mutual agreement. We were on the same wavelength.

After a clear of his throat, the usual reassuring smile of Carlos had returned, as he rested a large calloused hand atop my shoulder.

“Now I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve gotta start clearing some debris off the tracks so we can get the hell out of here. I, uh, left you a fresh change of clothes over on that stool over there. Figured they might be more practical than pyjamas.” He blushed a little, and suddenly realisation dawned on me. I was stood in front of this guy in a vest and some shorts - yeah, not the most scandalous thing in the world, but certainly not my go-to outfit for the most part.

“Oh, shit! I didn’t realise, I’m sorry—“

Carlos held a finger to my lip, and I could immediately feel myself melting into his touch once more. The closeness was unbearable, every cell in me screaming just to kiss the damn man already.

“Shh, minha querida. It suits you very well, just not the most appropriate clothing for the apocalypse. I don’t want you getting bitten, because I can’t let that hug of ours be the last, eh?”

I could only watch in a mix of lust and admiration as he proceeded to leave the carriage, my heart in my chest, his words echoing over and over in my head, my cheeks flushing as fantasy after fantasy uncontrollably sprung into my mind.

“I’ll be on the tracks if you need me. Hopefully won’t be long till we can get out of this shitheap.”

I could only sit aboard one of the derelict subway carriages, watching Carlos clear the tracks through the misted window. I felt much more comfortable in my change of clothes, being cargo trousers and a turtleneck, as they helped to warm me against the cold September air. All I could do was sit and wait, minutes turning into hours, and the hours crawling by.

“I see you’ve taken a liking to Mr Oliveira, hm?” A joyful voice echoed throughout the carriage, grounding me in reality once more. “The name’s Mikhail, UCBS platoon leader. I’ll be accompanying you survivors to the safe zone. Maintenance is nearly done. Why don’t you go find Carlos, and tell him the good news?”

I nodded, smiling at Mikhail. He was older than the likes of Carlos and Nikolai, with both his experience and his exhaustion plainly evident on his face. I stepped out of the carriage, running down the platform, until I found Carlos, a slightly disappointed look dampening his usual reassuring smile.

“Carlos, hurry up!” I waved with a smile, so relieved we’d finally be getting out of here. “Maintenance is done, and you guys managed to clear the tracks! We can finally get out of here!”

“That’s great, but there’s a slight complication.” Carlos forced a weak smile, unable to properly meet my gaze. “I’m not gonna be on your train outta here. I’ve been saddled with more duties.”

Crestfallen, I asked whether this was the last train home.

“No, no, not at all. Once I’ve finished up here, the subway carts will come back for me and some more of the crew. We might not be making it out at the exact same time, but I promise we’ll both make it out together, one way or another.”

I nodded, trying not to let the tears that were forming in my eyes escape.

"It ain’t goodbye, it’s just see you later, minha querida. I have a parting gift for you though.”

Carlos hoisted himself up from the tracks, back up onto the platform, walking over to me, and enveloping me in another hug I so desperately craved. I was yearning for his scent, his presence, his touch, as one hand ran through my hair, while the other slipped something into the deep pocket of my cargo trousers.

“I don’t fucking trust Nikolai. He’ll be on your train home with Mikhail. If he does anything that makes you feel unsafe, promise me you’ll defend yourself. Maybe I do sound delusional right now, but I don’t care. All of his platoon mates who he’s taken along with him while trying to get the subway running haven’t returned. You know what that means, right?’ Carlos’s voice was a low, husky whisper, a voice so tantalising as he held me so close. “I’ve slipped you a handgun and some extra bullets. The safety is on. Promise we’ll be together on the other side, right? Don’t let anyone hurt you.”

Together. A simple word, yet one that made me shiver inexplicably. His unwavering loyalty, bordering on obsession, made me ever so more infatuated with him.

“I promise, Carlos. Promise me you’ll stay safe here, too.”

“Of course, minha querida. The first thing I want to do when I see you, is hug you again. You better get going. I won’t be far behind, I promise.”

I waved goodbye to Carlos, saddened by the fact we weren’t getting out of here, together, right now. While I was upset, I knew deep down that he could hold his own, and that it wouldn’t be long until we were together again. The carriage I was in, for the most part, was relatively silent - the only other occupants being Mikhail, and Nikolai. Oh, how I desperately wished Carlos was in Nikolai’s place instead. They were mumbling about a “Nathaniel Bard”, a name that was totally unfamiliar to me, even after all my years of living in Raccoon.

“Are you sure he’s not dead? I mea, the whole city is full of tho—“

Nikolai’s tirade was abruptly cut off, as the subway carriages tilted and screeched, immediate panic coursing through my veins. Even if a bit of debris had been missed on the tracks, the subway carriages shouldn’t have acted so abnormally.

“What the hell?”

I ran to look at the carriage tailing behind us, desperate to see if this was just some kind of bizarre accident. But, it wasn’t there. All that was left was a few seats, some bodies and—

“What the fuck is that thing?” I panicked, yet counting my blessings that Carlos had offered me the handgun moments before. Stood before me was this hunkering tower of flesh, staring me down with its clouded, soulless eyes.

“Go, get to the back carriage!” Mikhail ordered, still determined to risk his neck for the sake of one sole survivor. Nodding, I ran to the next carriage, yet the lock had just turned, and as I looked up, my stomach sank.

“Nikolai, what are you doing? Let me in!”

Nikolai’s sly smile crept up his face in an almost comically evil way, waving at me from beyond the glass.

“Now why should I do that? After all, he’s probably not after me.”

“Fuck you, you fucking shithead.” Words tumbled out of my mouth, unable to entirely comprehend that he’d throw a civilian and his boss out if it meant he was the one to get out alive.

Mikhail’s shots at the creature were futile, as it grabbed him by a tendril of bloodied muscle, like some kind of sadistic predator torturing its prey. Yet, as I watched the events unfold in front of me, it seemed that the shots were more of a diversion for my sake.

“Get off my train, shitbird.” Mikhail growled, and with a click of a detonator, my eyes were met with a blinding light. Whatever happened after that is impossible to describe, as while the train derailed, I was slammed into the side of the carriage.

As everything faded to black, I hoped and prayed with every cell in me that I could still fulfil my promise to Carlos. We will get out of here. Together.

[ehlnofay]

The travellers arrive at the lake earlier than they expected, a good few hours before sundown.

“I think we have time to find an inn after all,” Veezara says, his shifting feet treading boot-prints into the pebbly sand. “There’s certain to be one somewhere on the shore.” Or not too far from it, at least; Lake Ilinalta may be bad luck, or said to be, but travellers still need rooms and innkeepers still need coin.

Torr, who is already leaning his knapsack against the trunk of a tree, shrugs. “Eh. I like it here just fine.”

He sits down in the dirt to punctuate the statement.

Veezara remarks, “You have managed to avoid going to inns for a remarkable amount of this journey. You know you can afford it, yes? You have the money?”

Torr scrunches up their face. “Don’t use observations you made while shadowing me across the country against me,” they complain. “And yeah, I know. But I’d rather send it back to Windhelm.”

“Of course you would,” Veezara mutters, half-fondly; Torr sticks his tongue out.

“’Sides,” he says, after a moment’s silence, “it’s nice out here. I’m learning so much about the land, Veezara, about nature. You wouldn’t deprive a poor city kid the chance to learn about nature, would you?”

Veezara laughs at him; but he acquiesces, so Torr counts it as a win. They start undoing the ties of their knapsack. They’ve both been walking for ages now, and Torr’s hungry. (He’s not as good at dealing with hunger as he used to be, either – which is probably a good thing, but also means the food in his pack is disappearing at an alarming rate.)

His friend does not have the same idea.

“If we’re going to spend the afternoon resting,” he says cheerfully, “then we should at least make the most of it. Let’s go swimming. The water is beautiful.”

Torr digs a half-stale hunk of bread out of the pocket of the knapsack. “You go,” they reply. (Do they still have that crock of jam they nicked from the wedding in Solitude? The bread looks a bit too tough to eat on its own.) “I can’t swim.”

When they glance up, rock-hard bread in one hand and the other feeling for a jam jar in the bag, Veezara is staring as though they have two heads. “What?”

“You can’t swim?” he asks, incredulous, and Torr snorts.

“Veezara,” they say patiently, “I grew up in Windhelm. Where would I have learned to swim?”

“There’s a harbour, isn’t there?”

Torr cackles. “You’d get battered by one of the boats in five minutes flat, if you managed to last the cold that long. Not even the Argonians down the docks ever swam in there. Nah, never learned. You have fun, though! It does look nice.”

It really does, the sun slowly beginning its descent into the mountains and valleys to the west, glittering bright and merry off the water. The Lake Ilinalta itself is almost luridly colourful, reflecting the blue of the sky with picturebook vehemence. Torr hadn’t known water could look so bright – back home the harbour was always just grey.

Veezara nudges their leg with his toe and they look up. “What?”

“Unacceptable,” he says firmly. “Do you have a clean change of clothes?”

Torr’s been switching between the same three outfits since they started this job (‘cept the duds they stole to blend in at the wedding.) “Clean enough.”

“Good,” Veezara says, and leans down, grabbing Torr’s arm and hauling him up. “I am teaching you to swim.”

 By the time the sun touches the distant mountaintops, Veezara seems well on his way to making good on his promise.

They’re standing in the not-quite-shallows but not far from the shore, Torr in his undertunic (which he figured could use the wash) and Veezara in his grey linen trousers, and after ages of gruelling work Torr seems to have at last got the hang of kicking.

Gruelling is a bit exaggerated; Torr can think of many things worse than spending an afternoon splashing ineptly around under the warm sun. Even if they’re not sure that water activity is quite to their taste – the first ten minutes were spent inching into the lake and yelping at the mushy squelch of the dirt between their toes. Then when Veezara coaxed them into dunking their head in the water (most important part of swimming is holding your breath, apparently) it went right up their nose and then the next five minutes were spent trying to get their dripping hair out of their eyes and refusing to go get a hair tie out of principle. Veezara laughed at them again, and said they looked like a half-drowned skeever; but that’s easy for him to say, he’s been swimming long as he can remember and he doesn’t even have hair.

But Torr’s mostly got the hang of it now, he thinks; even if it took him a long time to get used to the odd sensation of water lapping against his chest, and even if he was worrying about slaughterfish for so long and bringing it up so much that Veezara stopped finding it funny. (Excuse him for being worried about stories of fish that can take a chunk out of you afore you catch a glimpse of them! Torr’s heard they like more temperate waters like the ones down Falkreath, and as a human that can’t swim he’ll be at a disadvantage if any do show up. This is their home turf.) He’s actually kicking now, instead of just slapping his feet noisily on the surface of the water, and he’s able to stick his head underwater without immediately choking down half the lake, which Veezara says is about as much as can be hoped for in a few hours.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” he keeps saying, which Torr is pretty sure is a load of shit but appreciates anyway. “Try to roll your head to the side, you look like you’ll snap your neck in half bending it backwards like that – there you go.”

Torr sucks in a breath and douses their head underwater again.

“This sucks,” they complain when they shift their head to get air again. “I’ve been doing this for ages and I’m not even moving.”

Veezara says placidly, “You’re more than welcome to let go of my hands if you want to try a few strokes on your own.”

Torr only tightens his grip. “No thanks,” he replies. Water gets a bit in his mouth. Veezara grins.

(It really does suck. But Veezara is so enthusiastic about the whole thing, and they don’t want to disappoint.)

(Besides, it’s nice, in a terrible sort of way.)

“Actually,” Veezara says, and he doesn’t finish the sentence.

The thing about the lake is that it moves, the waters ever gently pushing and pulling, and Torr’s pretty focused on trying to manage the kicking and the moving to breathe and the not getting muddy lake water in his eyes at once – so it isn’t until Torr notices Veezara’s knees gently knocking against his chest that he realises he’s tipped onto his back and is moving them slowly and steadily away from the shore.

Torr startles, takes in a mouthful of lake water, chokes. It dribbles unpleasantly down their chin as they gasp, “Veezara!”

Unruffled, he says, “Now we’re moving.”

Torr swallows some more water and starts coughing. (It’s foul-tasting stuff.)

Veezara looks concerned, then. He tries to reach down to brush the wet hair out of Torr’s eyes, murmuring, “Hey, hey,” like they’re an agitated animal, but their grip on his hands clamps in a way that implies they’d rather rip off his fingers than be detached from them.

“I’ve got you,” he tries. “You’re fine, yes? I’m not letting go.”

Torr spits out a mouthful of water. “Can’t just start swimming me across the bloody lake with no warning!”

“I recognise that.” He’s still swimming unceasingly backwards while Torr coughs and kicks. “I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”

“No next time,” Torr says. “Never getting in the water with you again, you’re a menace.”

Veezara laughs at that. “Nonsense. It’s an important skill to have. You never know when you may need it.”

Torr manages to catch enough breath to blow a raspberry.

They keep moving – Torr keeping up his steady if ineffectual kicking, Veezara effortlessly swimming for the both of them – for a while, until Torr is soothed enough to stop coughing and gagging and to just barely loosen their grip on their friend’s hands. Not enough to stop worrying about whatever could be lurking in the depths (mostly slaughterfish, maybe one of the huge crabs, although the lake is supposed to be haunted so he thinks a bit about ghosts too) but at least enough to stop vocalising those worries.

It really is nice if he calms down a bit. Nice colours. The movement of the water is unnerving but nice once you get used to it. The fact that Veezara’s going to the trouble is nice, too. Torr honestly never gave swimming a thought before today (he was in Windhelm, after all, what kind of madman would think about swimming there) but it’s clearly something that Veezara values, that he wants to share with him. Torr’s never quite gotten used to this in all the time he’s been in the Brotherhood; other people being the ones to go to the bother. Other people teaching and showing and explaining things. Weird – but nice.

“Keep kicking,” Veezara prompts, and Torr does.

They reach a rock jutting from the lake, its surface warm from the sun, and grainy. It’s too smooth at the sides to climb but Veezara gives Torr a boost. Torr turns to help him up – and sees how far they are from the banks, and feels a little sick. (They could maybe swim a stroke or two, if they were lucky, and the bank is… definitely further than that.)

Veezara denies the offered hand. “I’d rather get a proper swim in while you’re getting some shut-eye,” he says teasingly, and Torr thinks about falling asleep on the rounded top of the rock surrounded by water who knows how deep and feels sicker.

“Suit yourself,” he replies, and curls up a bit, because he is cold in his still-dirty now-dripping undertunic, and the sun is nice. (Falkreath and its ridiculously mild weather.)

The rock is actually quite nice too. Not too cold. No jagged edges. In a nice quiet place, where the water laps gently against the stone. As far as places to sleep go, Torr definitely could do worse – no, tell a lie, they have done worse. Under a posh house’s porch comes first to mind, though in their defence, they’re pretty sure they had mild hypothermia at the time. Weren’t thinking quite straight. At least no owners of the rock would likely burst onto the scene and start screaming bloody murder to get off the property while they’re trying to have a kip.

“Hey Veezara,” Torr calls, the movement of his jaw feeling funny against the coarse stone, “you’d haul me out if I fell into the water, right?”

“No, I’d let you drown,” he says. His voice, floating on the water from somewhere past Torr’s head, is flat enough to indicate exactly what he thinks of that query. “Of course I would, Torr, what kind of question is that?”

“The kind of question asked by someone who’s tired. Thinking of taking you up on your suggestion.” (He isn’t really. He’s not actually going to sleep on the rock. But he is tired – been walking all bloody day, and almost every day before that since Solitude.)

Veezara’s voice comes again, fainter. “Scream if you need me.”

“Will do.”

Torr tilts his head back, face to the dimming watery-blue sky, and shuts his eyes.

He likes times like this – slow-paced, no fuss. He’s never quite sure how to manage in them, but he likes them. (That’s why it’s best when they coincide with travelling like this – he gets to relax while also having a distinct spot to work towards. Still something to do, there’s just no drastic rush.) It’s luxury to get to lie down on a silly rock in the fading warmth of an afternoon on the lake.

Would be nice if the others could be here, too – though that’s an image which makes Torr laugh as soon as they conjure it. They can practically see it – Gabriella sitting cross-legged and stately on the banks, Arnbjorn grumbling about the weather and the water and the pointless break in routine, Festus huddled up under a tree with a notebook. Astrid and Babette at least would probably be good sports about it – and Cicero might like it, if he could be persuaded to leave the coffin.

But Torr’s never actually seen Arnbjorn and Cicero in a room together except for meals, and not even then half the time. So maybe a lake day would not be nice. Torr can see it going sour quickly.

Oh well. Still a funny image. (Maybe one day – after the stress and the glory of this job is over in full, and everyone’s had time and space to get used to each other – it would be possible.)

“Veezara?” Torr calls. “What are the odds we could do something like this with everyone?”

The lake is silent. Torr opens his eyes. “Veezara?”

The lake is silent.

They sit up.

Maybe he’s playing a joke on them, they think uneasily. Maybe he’s hiding somewhere to get a rise out of them. But that’s not his way, and anyway, there’s nowhere to hide; the water all around the rock is smooth and undisturbed, and there’s nothing else to hide behind.

“Veezara,” they shout again. There’s no ripples, nothing.

He’s a good swimmer, right? He said. Surely a strong swimmer can’t drown in a calm lake.

(Except with outside influence. Veezara never denied that there were slaughterfish in the lake, and Torr’s heard they can drag you down.)

(That’s probably not happening.)

(Veezara’s been under the water, presumably, for an awfully long time now…)

“Veezara,” Torr says again, though he highly doubts there’s much use.

He’s crouching on the little rounded rock, trying not to think about how much of it is submerged in the depths, how deep the water here might be, how far below his friend might be. There’s a ripple to the side of it, suddenly, and he leans over to try to see what it is (Friend? Fish?) except –

Except he dripped water all over the stone and made it slippery, and he pitches over the edge and into the water.

Torr’s not ready when he goes under, hasn’t taken a breath. He scrabbles at the side of the rock for purchase, scraping his hip and knee painfully, but it’s too smooth and too steep and his hands won’t grip. He can’t tell how deep he’s fallen – tries to look up, reaching as though there’s something to grasp – but he can only murkily see how the sunlight breaks on the surface and he doesn’t know how far he is. Shit.

Shit shit shit. This is why Veezara shouldn’t have dragged him out onto the rock!

They hadn’t had time to take a breath, so now they really need to – only that’s an absolutely awful idea, so they’re just floundering, trying to break the surface and grab onto the rock all at once. Their lungs are aching, and they’re scraping their whole body against the stone in their efforts to climb it, and it’s really, really not working, and shit. This is so stupid. They’re a bloody assassin, on their way home after killing the Emperor’s cousin at her own wedding, having spent years on the streets in Windhelm where getting caught outside in the wrong weather could freeze your fucking face off, and they’re going to die because they fell off a rock.

Torr can’t help but exhale, now. He manages to clamp his lips shut before he breathes in again, but his chest is burning and he can’t breathe in and he can’t get a grip on anything and he really needs air and he gasps and it hurts like hell and there’s nothing but the weak sunlight to hold onto –

And then there is something to hold onto. Torr clutches at it, his hands scraping and grasping, and then he’s rising, and then he’s above the surface and he’s trying to exhale and inhale at once and it doesn’t work and he’s coughing and retching over the water, still scrambling for height, and they’re moving.

It feels like Torr’s coughing up a lung. But eventually it soothes enough that they can shift their head to look – and it’s Veezara, dragging them towards shore with a set look on his face.

It turns out he can swim a lot faster when he’s not catering to Torr’s fear. Even when he’s practically carrying their spasming dead weight, he’s still going at a speed that would leave any may-or-may-not-be-there slaughterfish nowhere.

He hauls them out of the lake, onto the bank, and lets them cling limpet-like to his arm as they continue to cough and splutter and generally have a bad time. There’s air enough to breathe – but their chest still aches, exhausted, and they think they might have bashed most of their body against the rock in their efforts to climb it. They can see blood beading, thin and watery, thin and watery, on their grazed wrist. There’s a little blood on Veezara’s head too, in the creases between the scales. Torr hopes they didn’t do that.

Veezara lowers him onto the dirt of the bank. Torr spits something – lake-water and phlegm, maybe – onto the ground and rasps, “Sorry.”

“What? No.” Veezara flicks hair out of their face. “Don’t apologise, you almost drowned. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“Thought –” But Torr’s chest aches as soon as he starts talking, so he presses a fist to his chest and quiets. Veezara goes to their packs and finds a threadbare blanket in Torr’s knapsack. It’s a sweet gesture (even though Torr fruitlessly tries to stop him draping it around his shoulders – now his sopping hair will drip water all over it!)

“What happened?” Veezara asks, after a time. “I was only out swimming for a few minutes – I shouldn’t have left you when you can’t swim, but how did you even manage it?”

Torr pulls the drenched blanket tighter round their shoulders. “Couldn’t see you. I was looking and then I fell in.” They look up at him accusingly, then. “Thought you drowned! Where were you?”

Veezara stares at them incredulously.

“What?”

“Torr,” he says, and gestures at the side of his neck –

To the shape of the gills, standing out against the scales. Torr blushes painfully red. “Forgot,” he mumbles, and tips his head back. “Nine, I’m such a dope.”

Veezara laughs.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” he says, much too sweet and earnest for such a stupid mistake. “Really, I shouldn’t have left you alone when I knew you can’t swim. It’s entirely my fault.”

“At least partly my fault for being an oaf,” Torr argues. He snuggles further into the sodden blanket. “Least you kept your promise.”

Veezara looks blank a moment – then he smiles. “I did say I’d get you out of the water, didn’t I? I seem to be making quite the habit of rescuing you.”

“Oi. I could have managed Solitude on my own.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Torr balls up the dripping blanket and throws it at him; he laughs.

[mcrco]

Red String of Fate

repost from my old blog. After losing his wife in battle, Ivar is granted a look into a future life.

Ivar the Boneless, last born son of Ragnar Lothbrok sat upon his throne in the Great Hall of Kattegat. He was a mess, anyone could see it just by looking at him. From the way he chewed his nails to the quick and the way his eyes never lingered in one place - if he could bounce his leg with anxiety, he might have been doing it. What had reduced their great king to such a mess? It had been the loss of you.

During the first attack on Kattegat’s walls by his traitor brother, Hvitserk, who had sided with Bjorn, you had been struck down. He knew without a doubt that the Valkyrie had summoned you to Valhalla, for it had taken several arrows and then finally a knife in your throat to steal the life from you. You were a hero in Ivar’s eyes, a Goddess, even. But none of that could ease the pain that he had lost his wife and would surely soon lose his throne. His throne meant little in comparison to you, for without you, he was truly alone in this world.

He acquitted himself of his throne, hand on his crutch as he pushed up and off the wooden seat and proceeded to quickly limp towards his room. The marriage bed he had shared with you would now permanently remain cold without your warmth and once in the room, he would stare at it with vehemence. As if it was the beds fault you were dead and not Bjorn’s.

Letting the crutch clatter to the floor, Ivar rests his face in his hands to allow himself a moment to cry, to feel pitiful for himself and all that he had lost. Amidst a sob that breaks free of his lips, a bright light scatters across the room without source. It’s enough of a surprise to shake him free of his sorrow and fill him with curiosity - a curiosity that blooms into hope when he makes out your silhouette within the light. With desperate hands he grabs his crutch and walks quickly towards the light, towards you.

You had met Ivar Lothbrok by pure chance. A silly, almost cheesy movie like run-in at the grocery store. Both of you had reached for the same mango, hands touching before you each pulled back and laughed awkwardly. Names were exchanged and it had felt like you knew each other for a lifetime. What blossomed that day became a full-blown relationship and one year later, you now lived together in a cozy little apartment.

Ivar was sweet on you, but easily jealous though he tried not to be and really, it was the thought that counted. You knew his jealousy was out of love and perhaps even a little bit of his own self-consciousness. Ivar was wheelchair bound most days and sometimes it made him feel ashamed. While he understood that his disability didn’t make him any less worthy or that you loved him any less, growing up he had still suffered the cruelty of children and adults who should have known better, but didn’t. Their careless words or disgusting and abliest jabs sometimes ate at him and you knew it. So you let him be jealous without getting angry about it and often all it took to soothe him was a kiss and a reminder that you were his.

He was in the living room now, watching a movie, a documentary of some sort that you had lost interest in fairly quickly. You had left his side - despite his whining for you to stay and cuddle - to go into the kitchen and make dinner. It was the only excuse you had to flee his boring movie choice and as you left, he had smacked your ass playfully, bringing laughter to your lips and a red tint to your cheeks.

Standing in front of the open fridge to grab ingredients, you hear a strange noise behind you and a flash of light. Turning around, you’re met with the sight of Ivar. Though he now wears something completely different and his long hair is braided back. It takes you a moment to realise that you don’t recognize this outfit he’s in, it’s not something you have ever seen in his wardrobe before.

He looks at you like he’s seen a ghost or a miracle or some combination of the two and before you can ask him questions about the attire and the light and so many other things, he throws his crutch to the ground and launches himself fully into your arms so that you’re the only thing keeping him standing. Under his weight you crumble to the cold, tiled floors and you feel his shoulders shake as he cries.

He pulls out of your arms to sit in your lap, not something he’s ever done before and when he presses his forehead against yours, you see that he’s still crying. Lifting your hands up, you wipe the tears from his blue eyes, concern filling you and your chest constricts with fear that perhaps he’s hurt himself and that the tears are from pain.

He says something, over and over in a language you don’t quite understand. It’s not quite Norwegian, though there are words here and there that you think you recognize. You know Ivar is Norwegian, that it’s his first language and you’ve been trying to learn to speak it for him but these words are almost alien.

“Ivar, what’s wrong?” You press kisses to his tear-stained cheeks and at the sound of your voice, he pulls away, brows furrowing before he asks you what sounds like a question in that strange language.

“What was the crashing noise? Are you okay?” You look up at the doorway to your kitchen at the same time the Ivar in your arms does. There is silence as everyone tries to understand what’s going on.

There is an Ivar in your lap who clearly doesn’t speak English and there is a second Ivar standing in the doorway. You wonder if you’ve gone mad and then the thought hits you that you do not know this beautiful stranger that you were so close to. You look to your lover for a rescue before hiding your embarrassment behind your hands.

Amongst the confusion the Ivar in your lap grabs his forlorn crutch and manages to stand up and you follow suit only for your Ivar to grab you away from him and pull you tight against his side protectively.

“What the fuck is going on?” He asks, looking between you and his lookalike but all you can do is shrug and bite your lip, worrying it between your teeth because you had been kissing the face of a stranger. A handsome stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.

The new Ivar says a flurry of things that you don’t understand and reaches out his free hand to grab at you, as if he too wishes to hold you protectively from his other self.

Your Ivar speaks rapid fire Norwegian and the other Ivar replies only for them both to look confused. “He’s speaking Old Norse,” declares your Ivar, looking more and more perplexed by the moment.

Taking out your phone you do a quick search of the web. Icelandic is the closest thing to Old Norse that still exists and so through the wonders of Google, you’re able to somewhat communicate with this strange, new Ivar.

He tells you that he is Ivar the Boneless and he boasts proudly of his many feats in battle before his voice softens and he explains that you are, or perhaps at least in another life was, his wife. The explanation leaves you all with more questions than answers for none of you can explain how he came to be here or why and the news that you were his wife in that life and the way he looks at you has your Ivar pulling you even closer.

When this new Ivar sees this, he makes a quick grab at you and in a matter of moments, you have two large Norwegian men on the floor, wrestling each other out of jealousy. It doesn’t take you much effort to wedge between them, kissing your Ivar until he calms down. Unfortunately that only enrages the new Ivar and before he can make another attempt at your boyfriend’s life, you give him a quick kiss on the cheek, an action you were usually not so bold to make. It was strange, but this wasn’t your Ivar, so you felt a little shy around him, it made you want to hide but at the same time you could never be afraid of Ivar, no matter what form or life he came from.

“We’re going to have to make the best of this,” you announce as they both grumble and glare at each other. You sigh and lean into your boyfriend, pressing your face into his shirt and he softens.

The other Ivar reaches out, hand on your back gently and you look up at him and bite your lip once more. Is it selfish to say that you wouldn’t be against having two of them? The thought of them sharing you makes your face burn bright and you hide it back against your boyfriend who huffs, clearly making an accurate guess at your thoughts.

This new Ivar seems confused. The wife that he knew was fearless, she was not as shy or soft as you were. She was a fierce shield-maiden that charged into battle and was surely blessed by the Gods for her beauty and bravery. He had watched her face armies, cutting down enemies as if the fight thrilled her to no end. And in fact, it did. Nothing had gotten his wife’s blood going like a battle and the sex that came afterwards was the best. It was the one time that she would take charge. She told him once while covered in blood that she would ride him like a wild mustang and that he would not cum until she was satisfied.

He steps back as it truly sinks in how you were not his. That you were different. But he sees the way you cling to this reincarnation of him and his heart swells to know that you were destined to find your way back to him one day.

Perhaps it was for this reason that the Gods let him have this odd glimpse into the future - reassurance that he would reincarnate and be born anew like many would be in Ragnarok, that the Aesir meant to bring him back to you one day. His goodbye to you in his time was not permanent.

The two Ivars share a look, quietly and wordlessly communicating to each other a promise to protect and cherish you and as you lift your face to stop hiding and look at the new Ivar, he gives you a warm smile and then fades away. As if he were nothing more than a dream.

You reach out to the empty air where he had stood moments ago and then turn to face your Ivar. It was strangely reassuring to know that you had found your way to him over and over again throughout many lifetimes, that he was as bound to you by the red string of fate as you were to him.

“I guess finding out that we were married before ruins the surprise that I was nervous to ask you to marry me now.” From his pocket he pulls out a ring and you laugh. This was surely going to be the most unique and exciting engagement story in all of history.

“Yes. I’ll always say yes, no matter what life we’re living, Ivar.”

Sitting on the back of a cart as those who remained loyal to him help him escape Kattegat, Ivar thinks about the future. Not a few years from now but rather a few lifetimes. He would be reunited with you one day, the Aesir proved it would be so. That knowledge would sustain him, keep him going through this life. Even in death you were not lost to him, you never were. One day you two would find your way back to each other and perhaps you would continue to find each other again and again, until the Earth finally sank into the sea and true Ragnarok happened.

The Norns had woven your fates together and that was all he needed to keep going, to not give up hope. Your love was neverending.

[bella-daonna]

Flannán Fest 2022 Day 5: Happy Birthday Flannán!

yes i am showing up 4 days late with a Starbucks to my own event don’t @ me

You found out when his birthday was from Maeve.

It’s closer than you thought - but you’re correct that he’s not the kind of man to make a big deal out of his own birthday.

You’d like to, though. Or maybe not even a big big deal… but you want to mark the occasion, somehow.

You don’t have much money exactly. Technically, Daonna does. Somewhere, anyway. You assume.

It still feels a bit like theft, and you’re not sure if the unseelie king, so strong and unbending in his morals, would appreciate a stolen gift.

Something handmade, then. But what?

It’s cold out here, and your mam taught you how to knit, sooo…

Maeve procures some knitting needles and yarn for you, with many thanks.

You do your best to only work on it when he’s not around. You want it to be a pleasant surprise, after all. But it’s a bit nerve-wracking because you’re not even sure if he’ll like it.

Does he even like receiving gifts? What if that’s why he didn’t mention his birthday?

You shake yourself for being silly. Even if he doesn’t like it, you’re sure he’ll appreciate the thought. And it’s a practical gift, so he could always pass it on to someone who’ll want it, even if he doesn’t.

And… maybe he’ll like it, says a shy, hopeful voice in the back of your mind.

You work on it every evening - you’re trying to get this done. And you do - you’re finished two days early, so you have one more evening to procure something to wrap your little gift in, to be presented to the king the next day.

You carry your little bundle, wrapped in brown paper (it’s all you managed to find in the circumstances) and go to find him.

He’s a busy man, of course. Nobody ever said ruling was easy, but really? It’s his birthday!

You finally manage to corner him. “Flannán!”

He looks surprised to see you, for some reason. “Ah. I thought you were busy today.”

“I’ve been trying to talk to you. I wanted to give you this. Happy birthday.” You thrust the parcel into his hands, feeling suddenly self conscious.

“It’s my- oh.” His gaze drops to the package, and he opens it carefully. “What’s this?”

“I made it.”

He carefully unrolls the scarf you had painstakingly knit. Double knit, a reversible rust and white design of three dogs running. It hadn’t been easy, and there were a few portions you had to un-knit along the way. One of the dogs looks a bit lumpy, too, but by the time you had noticed, you had been too far along to go back to fix it.

There’s a long pause, and his expression is inscrutable. You don’t know why. Does he hate it?

“If you don’t like it I can take it b-“

“No.”

You blink at the vehemence in his tone.

He unrolls it fully, and caresses the fabric gently.

“You made this for me?”

You nod.

“It gets chilly out here.”

He takes the scarf and wraps it around his neck, and it doesn’t go with his outfit at all, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“…thank you.”

You feel warm at the sight of the little smile peeking at the corner of his lips.

“You’re welcome.” You step closer, reaching out to adjust the scarf around his neck.

“Happy birthday, Flannán.”

[tangleweave]

Investigation. {Bill, our beloved}}

[ A Test of Skill / Accepting ]

{ Investigation: 14 }

"It could not have been a common thief."

The dissatisfaction in Bill's voice would have been enough, but on this rare occasion, it also shows plain as day on his face. "The enchantments upon Stormbreaker were wrought by the Dwarves of Nidavellir. Many of them are identical to those which adorn Mjölnir. It cannot be lifted by any but the Worthy, and save for the royal blood of Asgard, I know of no force in the universe which would prevent it from answering my call."

None of which, of course, is what Beth is truly asking, and he knows that. He regrets the tone of his voice because she is blameless for this conundrum; his vehemence is misplaced. He had thought nothing of leaving his weapon in the shuttle pod as an unobtrusive cane, certain as he was that the ship would meet with no disturbance. He had meant only to enjoy a day of market exploration with Beth in his true form, the body that makes him feel like himself... and relatable to his guest, above whom he otherwise towers.

But now? Where there had been both ship and cane, there are now neither. And without Stormbreaker, he cannot reacquire his cybernetic form... and with it, many of the features and abilities he would gladly take for granted now.

He plants his hands on his hips, blowing a breath of frustration through his teeth. "This cannot have been merely a crime of convenience. It was an opportunity. If Stormbreaker will not answer my call, then it must have been the target... and so we must have been under surveillance by some entity or force that is aware of my relative helplessness in this form. Perhaps we still are."

He shifts his gaze to Beth. "I was outfitted with the finest in Korbinite scanning technology. Until landing here, I would have been aware of technological surveillance. Therefore it must have been a low-tech effort. No cloaking... only disguise and deception. And I know you too well, Beth, to believe you would not have noticed the same people following and watching us over time, or that you would not have alerted me to such."

His eyes narrow. "There is a species that is able to hide in plain sight, in a myriad of forms... and it has the capacity for such a level of pretense that it might trick Asgardian weaponry. The Skrulls."

[leedonwatch]

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[lasclnow]

Wirecutter rates best gtd software

One was the Gary Powers spy-plane calamity in 1960, which glued together an early version of the I.S.I.–C.I.A. This is not a book about the Central Intelligence Agency (C.I.A.) but it is everywhere, framed by two secret missions. Also here are extracts from their liturgy, the powerful creation stories, and religious justifications, drawn all the way back from the conspiracy in 1981 to kill President Anwar Sadat of Egypt, and re-purposed for the 9/11 levies. And, like a crimewave family, a small band of men (and the thousands they recruited and sent to their deaths) triggered a cascade of incidents, small and large, that almost engulfed the entire region in war, and raised nuclear hackles. The (religious and secular) insurgents in India and Pakistan that these spies tracked, recruited, ran as assets, or tried to kill, over two decades, emerge anew in the following pages too, as a small band of capable, relentless, and ruthless antagonists, with names that are familiar but whose goals and antecedents are surprising. A small number who have never stepped into the sunlight remain committed to hot-metal solutions, impatient with the Some who began as hawks and arch pragmatists have become pacifists, now believing in dialogue over warfare, advocating for negotiation as the path to resolution. On other occasions, their vehemence reflects the hold their outfits still have over them, framing everything they see and do. Their stories are deeply subjective, sometimes confessional, and nearly always partial thanks to operational security that throttled their vision so that often they only saw their own inputs and outputs. Many of the events they participated in are well-known outrages, but they have redrawn them in the book in intimate, and revelatory ways, shedding new light, providing fingertip context, and drawing, sometimes, contrary, and shocking, conclusions. These are politically tinged tropes, and in the pages that follow spies from both secret services appear altogether different, as they describe how they became (and some still are) invisible protagonists, knee-deep in chaos, a few of them becoming militant, some losing traction, others having religious and political epiphanies, some going rogue, a few becoming crazy. The principals in this book are from India’s Research and Analysis Wing (R.A.W.), which is rarely talked about at all, and has been denigrated as a bureaucratic viper’s nest, while its enemies, in Pakistan’s InterServices Intelligence (I.S.I.), are spoken about all the time, but mostly portrayed as mysterious, self-serving, and deadly. For Z&A “It is always better to admire the best among our foes rather than the worst among our friends” Viet Thanh Nguyen, The SympathizerĪcknowledgements and a Note on Sources and Methods What follows are personal accounts – and, occasionally, the regretful recollections – of rival officers and analysts working to outwit and trap one another in the ground zero of the spy wars.

[yougetsu]

Day 5 - Favourite Music Video

Definitely, I can't choose one... so, I made my top 5 list.

1. Kick -大地を蹴る男- Every single MV from Six/Nine is my favourite, but Kick is astonishing because of the use of light, the outfits, and the vehemence. 2. Bran-new Lover I am very fond of this one because it doesn't matter how many times I've watched it, still feels refreshing and I always notice new details. 3. ヒロイン It has this cyber-punk vibes that I adore. SSL deserves more love. 4. Alice in Wonder Underground It's a pleasure to look at it. I like the costumes and how the band interact. 5. Ophelia It's a simple one, but I love looking at them in that "room" together. Also, the subtle and delicate dance moves of Sakurai are sweet.

*I should have written a note below the template to suggest that you are free to add whatever you wish to add in the challenge because when it comes to music, it's difficult to choose just one element. But anyway, you get it.

[atmilliways]

February 13, Dethentines 2022

The Wedding!!!!

Murderface, mostly. Toki is also there, and Skwisgaar/Abigail is mentioned.

While Nathan and Pickles are Skwisgaar's co-Best Men, Abigail chose Toki as her Bestie of Honor and (reluctantly) Murderface to be a Bridesman so he won't insist on being involved some other way, like as the officiant.

But before the wedding, they have to go shopping.

Bridesman

“Thisch whole thing schickensch me.”

Toki rolled his eyes. “Don’ts know whats you expecteds when you makes a big cries-baby scene abouts beings in the weddings party.”

“I schaid that becausch I thought Schkwischgaar wasch gonna pick me for hisch schide,” Murderface grumbled. He slouched after Toki through the strip mall that had been cleared especially for them, boots squeaking sullenly against the plasticine sheen of the white and black tile floor. 

“Threes againsts ones ain’ts very balance, Moiderface. Besides, Nathans and Pickle wouldn’ts let you be co-co-bests man. There’s already two! You’d gets stuck beings just a grooms man, and you already saids you don’t wants that ‘cause it sounds gay.”

Murderface curled his lip in a sneer. “It doesch schound gay,” he muttered, but without vehemence—all bark and no bite. 

He had already been forced to admit that ‘bridesman’ sounded a lot more heterosexual, at least until someone (Toki) started saying shit like ‘bridal party’ and ‘bachelorette.’ But by then he’d already told Abigail he’d do it, since she and Skwisgaar had already nixed his other ideas for being involved in the wedding (officiant, DJ, guest performer, knife juggler—just to name a few), so it was this or nothing. And unfortunately, ‘this’ included shopping for matching outfits. 

“Well, just shuts up and don’ts ruins this shoppings trip. It’s supposeds to be fun.”

The shop they were there to visit was tucked away in the back corner of the mall. It had very much the feel of a one-person operation: small and cluttered, with racks of fancy outfits lining the walls and a long table in the middle scattered with lengths of cloth, scissors, measuring tape, spools of thread, and pincushions that bristled like porcupines. A shrill little bell rang when the door opened and again when it closed, alerting a figure that came bustling out from a back room an instant later. 

Murderface slouched around the shop while Toki, who had made the appointment, started chatting enthusiastically with the shopkeeper. He sneered at the suits along one wall—a fairly limited selection, but still all the colors of the fucking rainbow, including a couple literally rainbow suits. If Skwisgaar thought he was getting him to traipse down the aisle holding a bunch of flowers and dressed like a fucking bowl of Skittles, he had another think coming. He prodded at some of them, but even though they were handmade and didn’t have tags announcing what size they were, most (if not all) were pretty slim cut. 

Ugh, fucking fashion industry. This was going to be that von Wiechlinghammer shit all over again. 

Abigail had said something about green, and there were definitely some green suits. Grass green. Aqua green. Emerald green. Some weren’t even made from regular suit fabric; some were velvet, some were fucking corduroy. What the hell kind of clown show operation had Toki dragged him to? (No leather, though. That was at least something.)

In wandering, Murderface realized he had passed all the suits on display and had ended up in dress-ville. Ugh. But he had to admit—and maybe this was because he wouldn’t ever have to wear one—these struck him as a lot less ugly. Shit, why did chicks always seem to get better stuff? Any lady in any one of those dresses would be smoking hot, whereas him in any of those suits would look like a total dildo. 

A hand landed heavily on his shoulder, nearly scaring the piss right out of him. “Jeschusch fucking Chrischt!!”

“Moiderface cans go first,” Toki exclaimed with a shit-eating grin. “You cools withs that, Moiderface?”

He hadn’t been following the conversation at all, but that was already obvious enough from his totally intimidating and very manly shriek of surprise, so Murderface just scowled and nodded stiffly. “Schure, whatever.”

The tailor, who Murderface couldn’t tell if dude or chick, looked him up and down. Instead of taking his measurements though, which Murderface had been dreading, they just said, “I’ve got just the thing. Should be the right measurements, or near enough. . . . I’ll be right back. Why don’t you go into the changing room and I’ll pass it over the door for you to try on.”

Unlike the rest of the shop, the changing room was completely uncluttered. Murderface shut himself in and looked sulkily around for a bench that wasn’t there. “Where am I schupposched to schit to take my bootsch off?”

“Just takes your pants off overs them,” Toki called through the door.

“Have you not scheen the schizhe of my bootsch?”

“Have you nots seen the size of yours pants?”

“Fuck you!” Murderface flipped him off—not that Toki could see it, but it still made him feel a little better—then bent double to start wrestling his boots off. 

A moment later he was down to his confederate flag boxer shorts, with his shorts, t-shirt, and vest draped over one arm and a fresh new complaint all lined up. 

“There aren’t any fucking hooksch! Where am I schupposched to put my clothesch, the floor?”

“Just pass it over,” the tailor replied. The bundle of clothes was duly passed over the top of the door, and a moment later a different, neater bundle was passed back. 

The fabric felt nice, Murderface thought. A little rough, maybe, but a good texture. He was immediately suspicious. Unbunching it from around the wire hanger it was still on, the deep green, slightly sheer outer layer fluttered almost to the floor and he saw that—

“Thisch isch a fucking dressch!!”

“Sorry,” came the tailor’s voice, sounding surprised, “isn’t that what your friend said you wanted to try on?”

Somewhere beyond the door, Toki broke out into a fit of poorly stifled giggles. 

“Toki, you little schit!” Murderface fumed. “Fuck thisch, give me my clothesch back!”

“Nope, I’m nots giving thems back untils you tries it oo-on,” his bandmate sing-songed back gleefully, like an absolute dick. 

“Thisch whole schtore isch full of clothesch, I’ll juscht find schomething elsche!” Murderface threatened. 

The smugness in Toki’s voice was palpable as he replied, “Nots that fits you, there amn’ts.”

. . . He was probably right, nothing on the racks had looked like they would fit him. Fuck. 

It wasn’t like Murderface had brought a spare change of clothes to the fucking mall. And given the crowds of people outside, a mix of pissed to be shut out of their own shopping center and hoping for a celebrity sighting, the prospect of stomping back out to the dethlimo in his underwear wasn’t exactly appealing. The tabloids already made enough fun of him as it was. 

Murderface’s shoulders scrunched up, then slumped in defeat. A man shouldn’t have to put on a dress against his will while sober. 

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But if you take any pictures or videosch, I’ll fucking kill you. And none of that boomerang schit, either! I’m not falling for that one again!”

He scowled at the garment in his hands. 

Okay. 

Time to put on a fucking dress. 

The inner fabric felt surprisingly cool and silky against his skin as he, for lack of a better idea, flipped the thing and started tugging the skirt over his head. To his surprise it went easily over his stomach and hips, aided by a slit in one side that went up to just past his knee. It fit a little closer up top than what he usually wore, but was just stretchy enough that he didn’t feel trapped. All in all, it probably could have been worse. 

“Alright jackoff, I’m wearing it. Happy now?”

“Comes out and shows us!”

With his clothes still held hostage, Murderface had little choice. He ground his teeth together, vowing to get Toki back somehow sometime soon, but reached for the latch on the changing room door. 

“Right this way,” said the tailor, who seemed to be carefully staying out of the contention between these two tricky customers. They gestured towards a floor-to-ceiling mirror, wings of it stretching slightly forward on either side—all the better to see every horrible angle in. “This was supposed to be for an AMAB bridesmaid in another wedding, but it was never picked up. Or paid for.” They gave a haughty little sniff, then continued. “The A-line skirt starts just above your natural waist, then you’ve got the outer chiffon for a nice, flowing shape. Cap flutter sleeves to soften the broadness of the shoulders a little bit. What do you think? Comfortable?”

Murderface didn’t know what all of those words meant, but was too caught up in staring at his reflection to comment. He had absolutely expected to look like a potato in a sack, or possibly a sausage in green casing, but . . . the overall effect was actually more slimming than anything in his closet back at the Haus. The green looked good against his skin, and didn’t clash with his eyes as bad as he’d thought it might. His arms didn’t even bulge out of the wide straps that swooped down into a shallow V across his chest, or if they did it was hidden by the fluttery sheer stuff the little draping triangle of each sleeve. 

Cap sleeve, huh. When did they invent that?

This isn’t so bad, he thought, but didn’t dare say out loud. This is actually. . . . A flush was starting to creep into his face. The slit up the skirt showed a lot of leg, and yeah it was hairy, but he’d automatically stood with that leg a little bit more forward than usual and the result was a damn good power stance, even standing there in his socks. This looks kinda good. Even though it’s a dress, on me, a man.

Then his eyes flicked to his bandmate’s reflection, and Toki’s huge grin instantly reminded Murderface what was at stake here: his dignity. He whirled—only partly to watch how the skirt swirled around him with the motion—and stormed back towards the dressing room, snatching his clothes out of Toki’s hands as he went. 

“You tell anyone about thisch and I’ll make you regret it every day for the rescht of your schtupid gay life, Toki!” 

In the privacy of the dressing room, he took a quick moment to run his hands down the skirt, marveling at how much he liked the feel of it and how surprisingly not fat and ugly he felt in it. Chicks really did get better stuff. 

The rest of the appointment was relatively painless, with the tailor finding a gray suit that would fit him well with only some minor adjustments. Apparently the only green would be the ties, pocket squares, socks, and suspenders under the suit jacket, all of which Abigail had picked out ahead of time. 

When the tailor handed Toki a suit to change into, Murderface waited until the other man was safely in the changing room before shuffling up and whispering, “Schend the dressch dischcretely and I’ll pay whatever you want. Double that. But it hasch to be dischcrete, got it? Otherwische I’ll give you the worscht Yelp review thisch world hasch ever scheen. I will schit all over your life, do you underschtand me?”

The tailor kept a perfectly straight face and replied, “Yes sir. Extremely discrete.”

Was that a knowing glint in their eyes? Murderface wasn’t sure, but he could sure as hell respect someone that had managed to make something that made him look good. Dude or chick, that clever S.O.B. knew their shit. He gave a curt nod, then stomped out of the shop. Half of the hooded security detail, which had been waiting vigilantly outside the blessedly windowless shop the entire time, detached to follow him back to the limo. He was going home to find a good hiding place for his newest purchase—maybe in the Iron Maiden, for irony or whatever. 

Toki could find his own ride home.

[seekers-who-are-lovers]

When Kenjaku and Mahito went to a gay bar: a head canon

What were the chances that fake Geto Suguru, a.k.a. Kenjaku, and Mahito visited a gay bar at the Shinjuku Nichome to “scout” their prospective humans to house the bodies of the Death Painting brothers?

Gege Akutami was more amused with his editors’ vehemence to subject one of his underage characters going to a pachinko.

On the other hand, them editors were not particular with Eso’s vava-voom attire. True, there were no panels explaining/indicating that Mahito and Kenjaku had a sojourn to a BDSM club, but what could happen in the background?

I wonder if the human who took Kechizu’s fetus was one of the “customers”?

Going back to Eso’s racy outfit, it is reminiscent of what the classic BDSM enthusiasts will wear, mostly gay men. (Apologies if I am stereotyping.) I wonder if the two evil creatures toyed with that idea. After all they both see that non-jujutsus as collateral damages and playthings. Or could it be Gege’s homage to JoJo’s Adventures characters like the others have suggested?

Whatever it is, my head canon is that Kenkaju/fake Geto Suguru and Mahito, all swagger, amusedly selected their victims. After all, I believe that Kenjaku, as the “walking brain” which inhabits different bodies, doesn’t matter which gender (like Yuri’s “mom”), isn’t a stranger to kinky stuff.

So these two enter a room and a full-on sexual act of a threesome is about to happen. The three people are so startled they haven’t totally grasped what is happening. Next thing they know, all of them are forced to swallow the preserved 150-year-old fetuses of Choso, Eso, and Kechizu one after the other. However, Eso and Kechizu’s short lives are a mere testament how unfair the universe is.

[dimigex]

I Won’t Lie - Kakasaku

It’s finally done!! I started this piece years ago but never finished it. It’s the follow on to my story Distraction, but you don’t have to read that to understand it at all. 

Distraction, I Won’t Lie, Part One, Part Two, Epilogue 

Here’s the first part, the rest is linked above and also available on FF.

"So, have you put the moves on the Hokage yet," Ino questioned, applying black eyeliner with a practiced flip of her hand. Her aqua blue eyes stood out in sharp contrast, seeming larger than they had any right to.

Sakura groaned from the bed, falling back to cover her face. "I never intended to put the moves on him," she mumbled, hoping that Ino wouldn't be able to see the crimson flush of her cheeks. "And, it didn't work anyway. Kakashi doesn't know that I exist."

Ino jerked the pillow away and leveled her best friend with a stare. "He definitely knows that you exist, but you need to remind him that you're a woman now, not a little girl." Her gaze swept over Sakura from head to toe. "Why don't you put on something a little more interesting tonight?"

"What's wrong with what I have on?" Sakura frowned at her outfit. Okay, the leggings that she wore were more comfortable than provocative, and her mother would have approved of her shirt, but that didn't mean there was anything wrong with it. She always dressed like this when they went out. It wasn't her fault that Ino had more outfits than any other girl that Sakura knew, and an uncanny way of making everything look sexy.

"Nothing," Ino answered, with a smile curving her cherry-red lips. "As long as you want to die old and alone."

Sakura threw the remaining pillow at Ino's face, narrowly missing. "Shut up, Ino-pig," she grumbled, reverting to the insult that had become a friendly nickname over the past few years. Sakura tugged at her shirt for a moment, chewing her lip "If I agree, can you make it look like I'm not trying too hard?"

A grin split Ino's face. "Of course. We have to find just the right outfit to show off that body you worked so hard for."

Before Sakura could protest, the blond pulled her off of the bed and toward the closet. Nearly an hour later, Sakura examined her expression in the mirror, shocked at the illusion that Ino had created. Long lashes framed her green eyes, making them stand out against her pale skin. The faint dusting of freckles that Sakura usually hated had taken on a soft glow from the highlighter Ino used. Glossy lips completed the expression, in a shade lighter than Sakura ever thought she could pull off. Ino hadn't stopped there. She'd transformed Sakura's hair as well. The pale tresses piled on top of her head, falling in artful curls around her face.

Ino pulled Sakura from musing about how she looked like an entirely different person by tugging on the dress. The blond dragged the black fabric to the side, baring one shoulder. It draped Sakura's body, accentuating enough to suggest that she had more curves than she really did. Chuckling, Sakura pulled the fabric toward her knees. Ino slapped her hands away. "Stop that, it's supposed to be short."

"I can't wear this," Sakura complained even as she turned to admire herself from the side. It hugged her body in a way that none of her other outfits had.

Shaking her head, Ino walked over to the closet and tossed a pair of heels to Sakura. "You can, and you will. No one will be able to keep their eyes off you, especially not Kakashi."

Color flamed in Sakura's cheek, hidden somewhat by the makeup. "What if he isn't there?"

Ino's devious grin made Sakura nervous. "Then you'll go home with someone else. You look too damn good to go home alone tonight"

-------------------------------

When Ino and Sakura swept into the pub nearly half an hour late, dozens of heads swiveled in their direction. Ino linked an arm through Sakura's and pulled her into the room before she could back away in a fit of self-consciousness. Her gaze swept over the people gathered for Naruto's birthday, trying to ignore the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Kakashi wasn't there yet or not coming at all, everything they'd done had been a waste of time.

Forcing the hopelessness down, Sakura caught sight of an overbearing ball of sunshine cutting through the room. Naruto's grin probably had more to do with the atmosphere than alcohol, but she couldn't be sure. He threw an arm around Sakura's shoulder and pulled her into a side hug. "I was beginning to think nobody from my team was going to show up tonight."

When Naruto released Sakura, his blue eyes slipped lower than her neck. The blush on his whiskered cheeks was obvious even in the dim lighting. "You look nice tonight. I mean, not that you don't always look nice-" Sakura's laughter cut off the awkward exchange, and Naruto managed a nervous smile before rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't think Sasuke is going to make it tonight."

"Unfortunately, Sasuke's mission has him delayed outside the village." The proximity of Kakashi's voice made Sakura jump. When she turned, she realized that he stood just inside the doorway behind them. Their gazes locked, and Kakashi's eyes widened, perhaps only just now realizing that she'd been the one standing with Naruto. While pink hair was unusual in the village, a few girls had started imitating Sakura after the war. She hated it, but the element of surprise was nice.

Ino unwound her arm from Sakura's and moved away to speak to someone that Sakura didn't recognize. Completely oblivious of the tension of the moment, Naruto caught Kakashi with his other arm and pulled them both into a hug. Sakura felt the warmth of Kakashi's chest against her side. "I'm glad you two made it, at least."

Kakashi pulled away, chuckling in the back of his throat. "Of course I came, I have to keep an eye on you kids to make sure you don't get into any trouble."

"We aren't kids," Sakura grumbled, challenging Kakashi with a glare through her mascara lengthened lashes. "We're adults now."

"That's right, sensei. We don't have to listen to you anymore." Naruto laughed, giving Kakashi a cheeky grin.

Kakashi frowned, the barest movements of his mask. "I'm still Hokage, though."

"For now." Naruto's banter eased the conversation into playful jabs that allowed Sakura to stay silent. Kakashi hadn't even responded to her comment about being an adult now. Her heart sank lower in her chest.

As the men exchanged barbs, Ino reappeared from wherever she'd been. Grabbing Sakura's hand, she led them to the bar. "It's pointless," Sakura complained, leaning close so that the words would only be loud enough for Ino. "He'll always view me as a kid. I'd be better off chasing Sasuke."

"Absolutely not," Ino hissed, vehemence dripping from her voice as she raised a hand to order drinks. "Sasuke isn't even on the radar for you. Do not put yourself through that again."

Sakura nodded and toyed with the silver teardrop earring that Ino had loaned her. She knew that Sasuke was a bad idea. The boy had never acknowledged her, not really. And now, it was the same with Kakashi. At best Kakashi saw her as the child that he'd mentored years ago. At worst, the annoying girl that she'd been during those early days. She'd never change that.

"Let me tell you my secret, Forehead." Ino shoved a shot glass into Sakura's hand. "It just takes five seconds of insane courage to get whatever you want. That's it. Just five seconds of bravery, then the hard part is over. You either have the thing you want or you don't, but at least you'll know."

"Is that how you landed Sai?" Sakura asked, closing her grip around the glass of liquid courage without questioning what was inside it. The idea that Ino actually liked Sai and wanted to be with him when there were so many men that she could have had was something that Sakura had trouble wrapping her mind around.

Ino laughed and tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. "Yes, Sai. And, all the others."

Gossip suggested that Ino had worked her way through half of the eligible shinobi in the village. There was a great deal of truth to it. Ino had dated Shikamaru for a couple of weeks before the pair decided that friendship was less troublesome than a relationship. She and Kiba had been fireworks from the beginning, fighting almost constantly. Choji was too gentle, Lee too exhausting, Shino too quiet, and the list went on and on. Somehow, Ino landed on Sai and found that the man matched her surprisingly well. Sakura had already noticed the girl looking for him in the crowd.

"Drink," Ino commanded, nodding toward the alcohol. Sakura steeled her nerves and tipped the glass up. The liquid burned the entire way down, making her gasp for a breath. Ino clapped her on the back. "Good, now let's go and find someone to make him jealous over."

"Ino, no." Sakura pulled away from her best friend with a firm shake of her head. "It doesn't matter. It's just a silly crush."

The look on the blonde's face suggested that she didn't believe Sakura's excuse, but she didn't force it. Sakura let her gaze wander over the people brought together to celebrate Naruto's birthday. He had touched so many lives, and since the war, most people recognized that. Naruto had wanted to do something at Ichiraku, but the stand was too small for all their friends. They'd made arrangements for the celebration to be held here, but white bowls of ramen dotted most of the tables.

Kakashi drew Sakura's eyes like a beacon. He stood in the shadows beside Captain Yamato, heads close together as they spoke. It had surprised Sakura to learn that the men were old friends, especially since Kakashi held so many people at a distance. Sakura and Naruto had grown closer to him, of course, but there didn't seem to be many others. Tsunade and the other jonin perhaps, but the ease between Kakashi and Yamato spoke of actual friendship. Sakura felt a twinge of jealousy. Why couldn't it be that easy for her?

Ino leaned close, the scent of alcohol drifting from her lips. "You know, Yamato isn't bad looking either."

Sakura considered the words. While Yamato didn't hold the aura of mystery that Kakashi did, his easy smile and kind eyes made him attractive in his own way. Even so, no matter how much Sakura watched the pair, her eyes strayed to Kakashi. As she'd expected, he'd worn his uniform to the party. The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up against the heat of the room, while his hands were tucked into the pockets of matching pants. Kakashi's mask remained in place, of course, but the headband that used to slant across half of his face was missing. Two charcoal eyes stared out at the room, silver hair falling into them.

"Oh, it's definitely just a little crush," Ino teased, pulling Sakura from her longing gaze. "Why don't you just go and talk to him? Ask him to dance or ask him back to your place. Just do something besides staring at him."

When Sakura started to protest, Ino rolled her eyes. "Come on, I've seen you kick ass so many times, but you're scared to talk to a boy? The worst thing he can do is turn you down. And, if that happens, it's his loss."

It isn't that easy, Sakura started to argue. Only, she knew that it was. She'd been pining after Kakashi for months, treasuring stupid, little moments that probably meant nothing: the way that his arms had curled around her on the training field, how his eyes lit up when he laughed at her joke about Tsunade trying to kill them both with reports, or the startle when her fingers had brushed his wrist. Those things made her wonder if there might be something more, but Kakashi was impossible to read. The sudden intake of breath when Sakura touched him could just have easily been discomfort as desire.

"I think I need another drink," Sakura declared, putting away the miserable thoughts for another day.

It didn't take long for the pleasant warmth of alcohol to loosen the tension that seemed permanently attached to Sakura's shoulders. She relaxed enough to dance a couple of turns with Naruto. He was far more awkward on the dance floor than any shinobi had the right to be. After two dances, Sakura begged off and pushed him toward Hinata. A few months ago, the girl had finally gotten brave enough to let Naruto know that she liked him. The pair was slowly turning into a couple, but the transition was painful to watch. They were both too shy for their own good.

Sakura stumbled back toward the bar, surprised to admit that she was having more fun than she'd thought she would, even if Kakashi ignored her. As she reached for her glass, Ino flashed a pleasant grin that warned Sakura that the girl was coming up with a plan that Sakura wasn't going to like. Without explaining anything, Ino linked their arms and dragged Sakura back into the crowd. Three steps into the walk, once she realized where they were going, Sakura tried to stop the inevitable. But, it was too late. Ino stopped beside Kakashi and Yamato.

The men looked up in surprise, their conversation stopping abruptly. Sakura felt Kakashi's gaze on her face for several heartbeats before it slid toward Ino's. With another signature grin, the blond moved into Yamato's personal space. "You sent my boyfriend on a mission just before the party, and now I have nobody to dance with. It seems only fair that you take his place." Ino held out a hand expectantly.

"Um-I-uh-it was unavoidable," Yamato stammered, a delicate pink blush tinting his cheeks. Sakura almost rolled her eyes. It was pathetic to watch how easily Ino turned him, or any man for that matter, into a stuttering mess simply by batting her eyelashes. She'd thought Yamato was better than that.

To Sakura's surprise, it was Kakashi who spoke next. "I think she has a solid case." Yamato gaped at the man, but Kakashi continued as if he hadn't seen it. "You deprived her of enjoying the evening; you should make up for it. Within reason, of course."

As the implication hit home, the pink on Yamato's cheeks deepened to crimson. Sakura struggled not to laugh at his expression. Ino cleared her throat, moving her hand closer. For a moment, Sakura wondered if Kakashi was going to have to push the man forward. Finally, Yamato dipped his head and took Ino's hand. Sakura couldn't stop her mirth as the pair disappeared onto the dance floor. "He's going to be furious with you later, you know that right?"

"It's good for him. Yamato is too shy." Kakashi leaned his shoulders against the wall, and for a moment Sakura couldn't take her eyes off of the smooth stretch of his body and the way his armor shifted with the movement. Half a second later, she realized that he'd said something. Deciding that it probably wasn't important, she nodded and he continued. "Of course, she doesn't mean anything by it, does she?"

Sakura shook her head, watching as Ino attempted to guide Yamato's hands toward her hips as she moved to the music. He kept moving them back to her waist, embarrassment obvious. Sakura chuckled under her breath. "No, she's quite taken with Sai actually."

"Our Sai?" Kakashi asked, eyebrows rising in surprise.

Sakura nodded, watching as Yamato finally relaxed into the dance and loosened up a bit. "She and Sai balance each other well, like Naruto and Hinata."

Kakashi followed Sakura's gaze toward the bar where Naruto and Hinata were talking. The blond leaned against the edge, telling some kind of story while the girl gazed up adoringly. Two years ago, she'd been too frightened and embarrassed to speak with him, and Naruto too stupid to realize why. With a little gentle prodding, they'd finally caught on.

Kakashi made a sound that might have been agreement in the back of his throat. "You're all pairing off these days, falling in love and getting married."

"Not all of us," Sakura grumbled. Frustration bled into her voice as she continued. "Some of us accepted the weight of duty instead."

A silver eyebrow arched skyward as Kakashi turned to face Sakura. A look of understanding crossed his features, but Sakura doubted that he realized she was talking about him as well. Undeniably handsome, Kakashi could have his pick of women in the village, but he remained alone. He had thrown himself into the role of hokage, even though he hated it. Sakura had done the same at the hospital, though she enjoyed her work for the most part. The two of them weren't as different as he seemed to think.

A stir went through the room. Naruto pushed away from the bar, his voice cutting through the din of music and conversation. "You made it!'

As much as Sakura wanted to continue admiring Kakashi, her attention drifted toward Naruto. He stood in the doorway, arms thrown around-Sakura's mind temporarily shorted out, taking several seconds to catch up with her eyes. Sasuke stood in the spill of light, Naruto's arms wrapped around his shoulders. Raven dark hair and equally black eyes swept through the crowd, taking in everyone and everything. His gaze slid over Sakura, then returned and lingered.

Despite everything, Sakura blushed under Sasuke's gaze. Beside her, Kakashi shifted away from the wall. A hand pressed almost imperceptibly against Sakura's lower back as Naruto approached, Sasuke trailing behind like a shadow. Sakura half turned toward Kakashi.

Naruto interrupted the pair before Sakura could get her thoughts in order. "Look guys, Sasuke made it back in time."

"So, he did," Kakashi answered for both of them, voice cool but not quite unfriendly. "Welcome back."

Sasuke turned, oozing arrogance as he inclined his head toward Kakashi. Dark eyes roved over Sakura a second time, an almost smile curling his lips. Even so, Sakura read the tension in his shoulders. Despite the years that had passed, Sasuke remained something of a pariah in the village. There were some groups who would never forgive or forget the time that he had spent trying to destroy the Leaf, despite Naruto's efforts to change their opinions. Sakura knew that Kakashi had helped save Sasuke from execution or life in prison, but the Hokage's intervention had ended there.

"Sasuke!" Ino appeared from nowhere, throwing her arms around Sasuke in a hug that the man shrunk away from. "Welcome back."

Sakura flashed her friend a thankful smile at the interruption. "You're looking well," Ino continued, pulling all of Sasuke's attention to herself by keeping her hands on his upper arms. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Maybe later," Sasuke answered, voice sounding strained as he shrugged away from Ino's touch. When she released him, the man turned and smiled. "Hello, Sakura."

Sakura couldn't remember how to draw a breath. A thick strand of black fell across Sasuke's eye, adding an air of mystery to his already captivating appearance. Warmth suffused her face when he moved closer, near enough to reach out and brush her cheek if he'd wanted. "Hi," she answered, toying with a silver bracelet circling one wrist.

Sasuke slid between Sakura and Kakashi, angling his body to face hers. "How have you been?"

"I've been doing well." Sakura's answer barely scratched the surface of everything that had happened in her life since the last time she saw Sasuke. She couldn't seem to remember a single event that she wanted to talk about. Yamato approached the small group and squeezed in beside Kakashi while running an appraising eye over Sasuke. He didn't acknowledge the Uchiha's presence. Instead, he leaned closer to Kakashi and whispered something in his ear.

Pulling her attention away from the exchange, Sakura realized that she'd been asked something. It would be rude not to keep talking to Sasuke, so she smiled. "How about you? How have you been?"

"I stay busy following up on leads," Sasuke answered, revealing nothing about his time outside of the village. Maybe he thought that Sakura wouldn't accept his reasons for leaving her behind, or maybe, he didn't care if she did.

After all, how could Sakura expect Sasuke to understand the hours of work that she poured into the hospital, sometimes losing a patient despite her best efforts? Would he care that she pushed herself in training as hard as she's ever done in case they went back to war? Sakura imagined Sasuke teasing her efforts to create orphanages in Konoha. Would he understand Sakura's version of sacrifice when it didn't align with his?

Sakura's eyes drifted back to her group of friends. Naruto stood beside Ino with a silly grin on his face, undoubtedly because Sakura and Sasuke were talking together. He still believed the two of them could make it work somehow. Yamato and Kakashi watched them both without seeming to do so. Sakura couldn't help but wonder if they deemed Sasuke as a security risk, even after all this time. Her gaze settled on the tension in Kakashi's jaw, wondering why he seemed on edge.

Kakashi understood the passion that drove Sakura to fight for those causes. Or, if not, he humored her. Sakura and Kakashi had worked hand in hand to train additional medical shinobi, create orphanages, and work through various issues at the hospital. She'd assumed that Kakashi wanted to see the same outcome that she did. Would Sasuke want that? Did it matter? He wouldn't be in the village long enough for it to make any difference.

Despite the way that things between them had changed, Sasuke still reduced Sakura to a lovesick teenager. It wasn't that her feelings had stayed the same, but Sakura had spent half of her life chasing after Sasuke. She couldn't shake the memory of nipping at his heels, of being willing to throw everything away if he'd only acknowledge her. As Sasuke spoke, Sakura's mind responded on autopilot, answering with soft laughs and smiles.

After several minutes, Ino caught Sakura's attention and half nodded toward Kakashi. He and Yamato had fallen silent, allowing the conversation to flow around them without interruption. Sakura raised her shoulders in a helpless shrug, silently asking what she was supposed to do about the situation. Ino frowned, then leaned in to speak. "So, Sasuke, did you know that Naruto and Hinata are dating?"

The question cut off the conversation. Surprise flitted across Sasuke's face as he looked over at Naruto. The blond's cheeks flamed crimson and he sputtered over his words "Well, Ino is dating Sai," he managed, red from his hairline to his chin.

Ino grinned, tossing her long hair over one shoulder with an air of dismissal. "You say that like it's a bad thing. Sai happens to be far more interesting than you'd anticipate. Not to mention adventurous."

The suggestive nature of Ino's comment made Naruto choke on his breath. His eyes bulged and Sakura couldn't help but laugh; he was still so innocent. Naruto grabbed Sasuke's arm. "Come on, it's definitely time for a drink."

Without waiting for an answer, Naruto pulled the Uchiha toward the barkeeper and further away from Ino's insinuations. Laughing, the girl watched them go. Then, she turned back to Yamato. "I thought you were going to dance with me? And, you," Ino studied Kakashi, "should dance with Sakura so she isn't left alone over here."

For all the nudging that Kakashi had done when Ino asked Yamato to dance, the man seemed less than enthused about taking his own advice. "It isn't befitting of the Hokage to indulge in-"

"Oh no you don't, senpai," Yamato interrupted, already pulling Kakashi away from the wall. "I did my duty, and now it's time for you to do yours. Off you go."

Yamato's brown eyes shone with an inordinate amount of amusement, and Sakura didn't know whether to be thankful that he was pushing Kakashi toward the dance floor, or embarrassed at being some type of twisted payback. Either way, the indecision lasted only a moment. Ino grabbed Yamato's hand and guided him toward the dancers, leaving Sakura alone with Kakashi on the edge of the room.

Kakashi rubbed the back of his neck as he turned to face Sakura. Embarrassment raised the temperature of the room several degrees until it felt impossible to draw a breath. "You don't have to dance with me," she murmured, trying not to sound as disappointed as she felt.

"Ino and Yamato would never let me hear the end of it if we didn't." Kakashi held out one hand, and Sakura slid hers into it. Her pulse pounded in her ears when he leaned closer. "Besides, we only have to dance long enough to get them off our backs."

Sakura didn't trust her voice to speak without breaking, so she nodded and followed Kakashi onto the dance floor. Music blared over the speakers, bass line making her heart pound in tempo. She drew a deep breath and looked into the eyes that had been hidden for so long. Even now, months later, Sakura hadn't gotten used to seeing more of Kakashi's face. She remembered the intensity of his gaze on the training field and the way that she'd wanted to pull him close and lose themselves in the storm.

Just five seconds of insane courage, Ino's voice whispered in the back of Sakura's mind. She could press her body against Kakashi's under the guise of dancing and admit that she wanted more than that. Butterflies the size of elephants trampled over Sakura's chest. If Kakashi rejected her, it would hurt, but she could mask the pain long enough to make it home. Then, she'd be free to deal with fallout. She had done the same thing over Sasuke nearly a year ago. But, if Sakura never took a chance and told Kakashi, she'd never know if there could have been anything between them.

Kakashi spoke, interrupting Sakura's momentum. "You look different tonight."

"Ino begged me to let her try something special for Naruto's party." Sakura chewed her lip, wondering if the words were technically a lie. She wanted to look more enticing as well, more like Ino and less like herself, in hopes that she'd capture Kakashi's attention.

The tempo of the music increased; Sakura allowed her body to follow. She felt the hem of her dress riding up her thigh and tugged it down with one hand. Kakashi followed the movement then snapped his eyes back to her face. He asked something, but the words were lost in the din of the crowd. When Sakura scrunched up her face in confusion, he leaned closer. "For Sasuke?"

For you, Sakura thought, holding the words tight between her lips. The accusation in Kakashi's tone surprised her. "I didn't know he'd be here."

Kakashi inclined his head at the words, expression unreadable. He rested his hands at Sakura's waist without a hint of familiarity or desire. Kakashi moved to the music, half a foot between their bodies. Sakura flashed back to the way his arms had wrapped around her like a glove on the training field. He moved on protective instinct, not to get close to me. The realization left a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Sakura surrendered to the rhythm of the music, turning to present her back to Kakashi's chest so she wouldn't have to meet his gaze. She closed her eyes, willing the ache in her heart to stop. This entire situation was so stupid. Ino was right about everything; Sakura needed to tell Kakashi how she felt so that she could pick up the pieces and move on. She had done it before, and she could do it again.

Fingers curled against Sakura's hips, the thin fabric of her dress hardly masking the feel of Kakashi's touch. Sakura wasn't sure if he pulled her back, or if she moved of her own accord, but she felt the warmth of his breath against her neck. She focused on the sensation, electricity rushing through her body. His damn flak vest separated Sakura from the heat of his chest, but she imagined that she could feel it anyway.

The song ended and the weight of Kakashi's hands fell away as if it had never been. Light pulsed around them as another song started. Sakura turned back to face Kakashi, drawing a shaky breath. "Do you think that dance met their requirements, or should we do another, just to be sure?"

Sakura's name left Kakashi's lips in a strangled sound. Whatever he'd been planning to say was lost when someone bumped hard into his back. He stumbled through the almost nonexistent space between them. Sakura heard an apology, but she couldn't match the voice to a face before her arms were full of Kakashi. She stumbled backward under his weight, tripped over her heels, and then they were falling. Vaguely, some panicked part of Sakura's mind wondered if she was about to give everyone in the room a free peep show.

Kakashi twisted in the air so that Sakura wouldn't be crushed beneath him. His left shoulder absorbed most of the impact half a second before she hit his chest. The air whooshed out of Kakashi's lungs in a soft hiss as their bodies pressed together. Exposure forgotten, Sakura felt his hands grip her, one near her shoulder and the other dangerously low on her back. They were close enough for their noses to brush, Kakashi's eyes wide. The charcoal tone wasn't as dark as Sakura had anticipated, but shot with silver through the iris. She noticed the outline of Kakashi's lips beneath his mask. Kami, it would be so simple to—

"Hokage-sama?" Genma's familiar voice cut across Sakura's thoughts. The man pushed through the crowd to reach Kakashi's side, undoubtedly on guard duty for the night. Sakura raised her head to glare at his poorly conceived timing.

Kakashi released Sakura like he'd been burned, hands coming to the floor instead as he pushed into a sitting position. She half fell into his lap from the sudden change of position. "I'm fine," he answered the unasked question. "I'm hardly old enough to get injured from falling down."

"Especially beneath a beautiful woman," Genma quipped, flashing his senbon-studded grin. Then, his leer slid toward the woman in question and his expression changed to something contemplative as he offered a hand. "Oh, hey, Sakura."

Sakura had no choice but to accept Genma's offered hand. Cheeks flushed with embarrassment, she let the tokujo pull her away from Kakashi. Belatedly, she remembered to adjust the slinky dress lower on her thighs and higher over her chest. Hopefully everything had happened so quickly that she didn't have any reason to be embarrassed. A small crowd gathered around them. Kakashi pushed through them as the music started back up; Sakura followed him to the edge of the room.

"You aren't hurt are you, Hokage-sama," Ino gushed as she hurried to the pair's side. Her brow creased with worry when Kakashi tried to wave her off. Sakura barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her best friend. The ploy was obvious.

"I'm fine," Kakashi grumbled, looking distinctively embarrassed by the attention. "I'm not made of glass."

"Still," Ino pressed, reaching out like she might touch Kakashi's arm. "You hit your shoulder hard when you fell. I saw it."

Sakura could see the wheels turning in Ino's mind. No, please, Ino, don't do this. Sakura's silent plea fell on deaf ears. Kakashi raised his arm to prove that he could, but Ino didn't drop the subject. "You should let Sakura take a look at it, just to make sure. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

And, there it is, Sakura grumbled internally. Annoyance bled through Kakashi's embarrassment as he tried to wave the blonde's concerns away. Sakura interrupted the exchange before it could get out of hand. "Doesn't anyone care about me? I fell too."

"I could take a look at you," Genma offered with a cheeky grin from his position at Kakashi's shoulder. "In fact, it'd be my pleasure."

"No," Sakura and Kakashi answered in the same breath, dragging a knowing laugh from Genma. Kakashi looked almost as surprised as Sakura felt. Cheeks warming at the insinuation, she continued. "I don't need anyone to look at me, I am fine. But, shouldn't you be more worried about me?"

Genma chuckled in the back of his throat. "Because you're such a delicate little flower? I saw the damage you did to the training grounds the other night. I think I'd rather take my chances with Kakashi, to be honest."

"Probably for the best; she's stronger than you think." Sakura's stomach clenched at the unexpected praise from Sasuke. She hadn't noticed that he and Naruto had rejoined them in the chaos.

"Damn right she is," Ino answered, fighting to keep the attention on anything but Sasuke. Her eyes met Sakura's with silent pleading. While Sakura knew what Ino wanted, some things were easier said than done. Sasuke watched them with a smug satisfaction on his face that Sakura couldn't begin to understand as Ino continued. "What will Tsunade say if you leave Hokage-sama injured until tomorrow?"

Kakashi shook his head as Sakura groaned under her breath. She loved Ino, but sometimes the woman went a little overboard with her matchmaking. "Tsunade would say that it's nothing, and no more than I deserve if I can't keep my feet under me. But, if it'll put your mind at ease, I'll get it checked out."

"It would," Ino breathed out, her concern almost palpable. Sakura wondered why the woman didn't become an actress; she certainly had a knack for it. Ino pulled her forward. "There's no time like the present."

Kakashi cast a withering glance at Ino, then faced Sakura. For a moment, the rest of the room disappeared. Even the overwhelming presence of Sasuke shrank to insignificance. The sheepishness that Sakura had noticed earlier had evaporated, replaced by something darker in Kakashi's gaze. Though Sakura couldn't put her finger on it, the expression made chill bumps erupt on her arms. "Would you mind?"

It wasn't the first time that Sakura had healed Kakashi, not by a long shot. But, it was the first time that he'd asked. Sakura's heart did somersaults in her chest. "I don't mind," she breathed, forcing strength into her words. "But, not here. I need somewhere quieter, with better light."

Kakashi inclined his head as if the words made perfect sense. Naruto groaned, his voice turning whiny. "You're going to miss my party? This is the first time we've all been together in years."

"We won't be gone long," Kakashi assured the boy. "Just long enough to satisfy Sakura."

Ino choked on her laugh, eyes shining. Sakura's cheeks flamed crimson at the insinuation. Kakashi either didn't notice or didn't want to draw attention to it. He nodded toward the door. "Come on, let's get this over with, shall we?"

--------------------------

As she and Kakashi emerged from the pub, Sakura drew a breath of the chilly air. Naruto had been the only one to raise an objection to them leaving the party together, but Sakura felt the heat from a dozen gazes as they crossed the room. When they stepped into the street, Sakura's hand slipped out of Kakashi's, and neither made a move to retake it. He stared at the darkness, the stars above, and the benches by the door as they stood under the hazy light of the neon sign.

"I'm sorry that this took you away from the party," Kakashi began with a sigh. When his gaze turned to Sakura, it swept over her body in a way that suggested that he hadn't missed the tiniest facet of Ino's hard work. "You clearly wanted to be there."

"I can always go back later," Sakura answered, knowing that she wouldn't. She didn't want to face Sasuke or Ino after leaving with Kakashi, regardless of what happened next. Kakashi's shoulders seemed to tense at the response, but Sakura wasn't sure if it was her imagination or not. Undeniable nervousness settled in her gut.

Kakashi rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "You don't really need to look at my shoulder. It's fine, but I needed an excuse to get out of there."

"I know," Sakura agreed. She would have realized if Kakashi was hurt, probably before he did. "But, I gave my word, so we should at least check it."

"Do you want to go to the hospital?" Kakashi moved down the street as he asked the question, forcing Sakura to follow on his heels. He didn't turn back when he continued. "Or, would my apartment be okay? It's closer."

Sakura's breath caught in her throat. She knew where Kakashi's apartment was, of course, but she'd never set foot inside of it. That he'd allow her into his world, even for a moment, stunned her. He continued walking, shoulders tight and hands stuffed into his pockets as he waited for an answer. "Your apartment is fine."

The silence gave Sakura unwanted time to think back over the night's events. She had seen appreciation in more than a few eyes when they noticed the changes that Ino had made, but she couldn't be sure that any of it had registered with Kakashi. He'd said she looked different, not better, not beautiful, just different. That word could mean a million things, or nothing at all. Ino was right though, if Sakura couldn't have Kakashi, she could always go home with someone else. Hell, even Sasuke had noticed and appreciated the extra effort in her appearance. There was only one problem, Sakura didn't want to go home with anyone else.

Sakura nearly walked into Kakashi's back when he stopped in front of her and nodded toward the steps leading up to his apartment. Though she knew it was entirely platonic, Sakura's heart pounded in her throat as she followed him higher. Kakashi unlocked the door, flicked the lights on, and pushed it wider. Sakura slid under his arm and into the room, taking in a million details at once.

Kakashi closed the door behind them and bent to remove his sandals. Sakura admired the smooth stretch of his body for a heartbeat longer than she should have. Tearing her eyes away, she rested one hand on the wall and bent down to unbuckle her heels. It felt good to be out of them, if it was only going to be for a few minutes.

"Does your shoulder hurt at all? They're notoriously fragile as far as joints go." When Kakashi didn't speak, Sakura opened her mouth to repeat the question, then had another idea. Five seconds of insane courage. She took two steps forward and reached for Kakashi's arm, the healing glow surrounding her hands.

When Sakura touched his shoulder, Kakashi startled and jerked away. 'I'm fine," he ground out. "You don't have to—"

"Your heart is pounding," Sakura responded in awe, letting her fingers fall away from his arm. The touch had been brief, but the spike in Kakashi's pulse was obvious.

Kakashi forced a harsh breath through his nose. "You're supposed to be checking my shoulder, not my heart."

Five seconds of insane courage. "Your shoulder," Sakura repeated, trying to think over the blood roaring in her ears. Just five seconds. She reached for the straps of Kakashi's flak vest.

[sansacherie]

First Kiss

I.

The Third Month of The Year 298

“You look lovely, Rhaenys.” Aegon smiles at her as Rhaenys enters the Hall of Lamps, accompanied by her three bridesmaids and their escort of guards.

“Only lovely?” Rhaenys wrinkles her nose. “You disappoint me terribly, Aegon. You should not describe a bride as anything less than exquisite. At least, that is what my bridesmaids tell me.”

Arianne winks at her while Sansa and Daenerys giggle. In the Faith, it is often the custom for a bride such as Rhaenys to choose three bridesmaids to honour three of the seven gods- the Maiden who bring bless the marriage with lasting love, the Mother with children, and the Crone with wisdom to survive the years together. Rhaenys had agonized over who to pick among her ladies, not wanting to cause hurt, but thankfully her mother had guided her into selecting Arianne, Daenerys, and Sansa. No one can fault her for choosing family, or soon to be family in Sansa’s case, Elia reasoned.

“Your sister is playing with you, Your Grace.” Arianne drawled. He does. Aegon laughs and offers Rhaenys his arms, before lowering his voice. “You look beautiful as always, Nee-Nee. I suppose I’m just used to it.” Rhaenys smiles sadly at this resurrection of his babyhood nickname for her.

Rhaenys does feel beautiful, however. Of course, although she is not vain enough to deem herself the Maiden’s rival, she also does not find any value in lying to herself when she sees her reflection.

But this is different. The dressmakers have done well, truly. Rhaenys’ gown is a glory, a creation of red silk with long flowing sleeves that felt inviting as sin when she was helped into it earlier. Her bodice glimmers with golden thread. Resting on her black curls is a golden diadem with red rubies and an inscription in Rhoynese at the bottom.

On her wedding cloak, is a dragon whose open mouth reveals no crackling flames but instead a large golden sun that overwhelms the creature in size. The other dress that Rhaenys will change into for today is also just as beautiful, with Sansa gasping in delight upon seeing it. Although it is not demanded, it is not unusual for a bride to wear a gown favouring her new husband’s colours at their reception as if their vows were not enough to demonstrate that she was now his. But Rhaenys has no wish to offend her river lord or make him feel uncertain, so her gown is silver satin and sleeves consisting of myrish lace. Adorning the outfit is a belt made of deep red velvet with blue sapphires.

Aegon signals that they are ready, and from inside the sept proper music begins to play. Arianne lifts up Rhaenys’ cloak from the ground, while Sansa and Daenerys pick up the hems of the gown; the former looking painfully excited while Dany almost looks as nervous as Rhaenys feels.

Arianne nods at her and proudly smiles at Rhaenys in the way that Aegon did, and Rhaenys wills herself to breathe.

As a princess born, her entire life was the realm’s, shaped and nurtured with it in mind. It was the offering demanded for her birth and rank being predetermined by the Seven. It was a truth familiar to Rhaenys as a favoured story might be for a child who delights still in its thousand telling.

However, unlike that small child, Rhaenys could never be allowed to want other stories. Rhaenys is not friendless in this either, she remembers.

Her life belonged to the seven kingdoms, and so it appeared, did her first kiss.

Their kiss does not make Rhaenys forget to stand, or forget the crowd that had gathered in the royal sept to witness Lord Edmure Tully take her for his lady wife.

The number of guests is not as many as the wedding of Aegon to Lady- Queen Cassandra Baratheon, but Rhaenys’ wedding is still the first of a blood princess since that of her paternal grandmother forty years ago. Their noses bump, and his beard tickles Rhaenys chin. Nobody dares laugh to break the spell of the solemnity of the occasion, but Edmure reddens all the same.

When they turn to face the cheering crowd, Rhaenys cannot squeeze his hand- there will be a hundred times during the wedding there will be time for contact, but she gives him a bright smile, to put him at ease. “My lord, I must confess. You’ve rather exceeded the expectations of a maiden’s first kiss.”

Edmure’s eyes widen, then his generous mouth curves into a boyish grin. There is a kindness in it, and Rhaenys’ heart twists suddenly. Did her father smile at her mother on their wedding day? Despite the betrayals that he rained down on her, did he at least do that?

There is no way of knowing. Rhaenys cannot ask her father this, or a thousand other questions since she was old enough to understand how the crown prince almost brought them all to ruin. She does not want to dig up the past for her mother, who now basked in the warm present; with her adoring husband. Elia Martell paid Rhaegar Targaryen little attention in death, just as he paid her little respect and dignity in life.

II.

The Third Month of The Year

Two weeks pass before they enjoy their first misunderstanding.

“Have I done something to upset you?” Edmure asks her, in Rhaenys’ bedchamber.  They have been given adjoining rooms here in the castle.  They will not leave the Red Keep until the end of the month.  Rhaenys is glad of it.  She is not afraid to leave, but she is not necessarily anxious to either.

Rhaenys shakes her head, her sketchbook lying forgotten in her lap.  “Of course not, my lord.”

Edmure frowns.  “In public, whenever I try to kiss you, or take your hand- it’s almost as if I am some stranger and not your husband.  You look uncomfortable.”

Rhaenys feels a flush of shame. She’d not meant to sail down this river.  However, she smiles at him.  “Give me your trust in this, Edmure.”  Edmure’s eyes widen.  Until now Rhaenys has called him Lord Edmure or my lord, while he has alternated between Princess Rhaenys or my lady, or my princess, for Rhaenys will be a princess long after she is Lady of Riverrun.  “If you were a stranger kissing the king’s sister, you would know it.”

“That still does not answer my question.”  It is almost an accusation.

That still does not answer my question.”

Rhaenys sighs.  She must be truthful with him. “It is not because of you, I promise.  It is because of me, and well- Lord Tywin.”

“Lord Tywin?” Edmure echoes her, like the sound of the ocean in one of the seashells that could be found along the beach of Dragonstone.  Then he looks a little ill.  “You mean to tell me that you love Tywin Lannister?” Edmure splutters.

Rhaenys cannot help but laugh; the notion is so ridiculous.   Love is wasted on a man like that.

“No, my lord.”  Rhaenys says gently. “It is because I cannot forget who I am, and who Tywin is.  Or Mace Tyrell. You know the line of succession to the Crown, I trust.  I am my brother’s heir, after any children he might have.  My sons will inherit first over any sons that Viserys might give his Cersei.  May the Seven permit that we have a future where Aegon lives long and has many children.  I want that for him.  But you and I are not foolish to think that Tywin is equally satisfied.

So, I have always been- careful. Careful with my behaviour, with how I am perceived.  I told you that you were my first kiss. I- I had no wish to give Tywin palace gossip that he could use to his advantage.”

Edmure crinkles his forehead.  “Surely nobody would think badly of a child for having kissing games.  Cat and Lysa-,”

Rhaenys now tosses her sketchbook aside. “Forgive me my lord, but your sisters’ experience cannot be compared to mine.  Their mother is not Dornish.”

Edmure looks lost.  “What has that got to do with this?”

“Everything.”  Rhaenys hisses, standing up now.

“People will take innocent kisses and think it proof of a Dornish woman’s wanton ways, as if there isn’t plenty in the Reach or Westerlands who were no maidens when they were married! Or men who have a dozen mistresses!  I know the rumours of Ashara Dayne, my mother’s lost friend.  Everyone assumes that Ashara slept with Brandon Stark, but she never did! She was younger than me when she died, and yet people simply assume that she gave him anything more than a smile.  And Dany-,” Rhaenys wipes away her tears.  “We were only children at the time. I don’t think Dany was any older than five.       We were calling each other stupid things as children do, and my mother had entered the room when Dany called me a Dornish slut.  To this day, I still don’t know where the hell she got that from.   And the look on my mother’s face-,” Rhaenys stares at the floor.  “My darling grandfather called her that, a few times.”

“So, because of this, I have always been careful. My mother has taught me so.  Since I was a maiden flowered, being alone is not something I am used to.  There has always been either my family or my ladies or my guards.  I will not let myself be vulnerable to any rumours that would paint me unsuitable to be a queen; rumours that the lion and rose will try to use for their own ends.”   Rhaenys is surprised by the vehemence in her voice.

She takes a deep breath, before continuing. “Secondly, it is just my nature. I appreciate that you are my husband, but I have never been comfortable with physical affection in public, specifically hugs and kisses.  I endure it for proprietary’s sake.  If truth be told, I am not entirely fond of being embraced.”

Edmure’s forehead creases.  “Even your own kin?”

“No, that’s different.”  Rhaenys corrects him.  “My family is close to me.  My ladies are close to me, so I obviously did not mind when we slept in the same bed, our legs tangled together like branches or held their hands as we danced or played games.   And you and I will become close too, I hope.”  She adds, shyly.

Edmure nods.  “Thank you Rhaenys, for telling me this. I will keep that in mind.”  Rhaenys’ smiles at the use of her name.

He grins.  “Speaking of kisses has made me want to kiss you still, however.   So – may I kiss you?” He asks tentatively. His voice makes Rhaenys remember their wedding night, and how he asked her the same thing in the dark.  Their first coupling was well- it was nice, she supposes.  She does not have anything to score it by.  Still afterwards, she had slipped a hand between her legs, for there was nothing in scripture that forbade such things.  

But a kiss is different.  She nods, and Edmure gingerly brushes a curl from her face. “I hope we have a girl with hair like yours.”

His kiss is long and sweet; as sweet as the smell of rain after a month’s drought.

III.

The Sixth Month of The Year 298

“Rhaenys?”

Edmure’s worried face is illuminated in the candlelight, as he sits down on the bed beside her.  Rhaenys is clutching her knees, her eyes downcast.

They have not yet reached Riverrun, thanks to the river lords who insisted on guesting them for a few days.   Stars have risen in the sky for the third time here at Stone Hedge.   No doubt the Brackens insisted on the third night to beat the Blackwood’s two.  “By the time you do reach Riverrun, you’ll need a new wardrobe.”  Desmera Redwyne had predicted, giggling.

There had been no giggling when Desmera had gone to fetch Edmure after Rhaenys had bolted up in bed, tears streaming down her face.

“Desmera need not have woken you.”  Rhaenys mumbled.

“I’m not sorry she did.”  Edmure counters.   “My lady, you are trembling.”

Rhaenys fiddled with the end of her braid.  “It was a bad dream, that’s all.”

For a heartbeat, silence rested between them.  Then, Edmure spoke.  “When I was a boy, my sister Catelyn once told me that you always feel better after talking about a bad dream.”

Well, what has she got to lose then?  He will not leave her.  “It’s a dream I’ve had before.”  She confesses softly.  “I’ve had it on and off since I was twelve or thirteen.  In it, I’m trying to get away.  But I can never far enough.  They-They never change how they kill me.  With a knife.”

Edmure sucks in his breath.  “Rhaenys-,”

Rhaenys bites her lip.   “And the strange thing is, I’m never the age that I am.  In it, I wasn’t eight-and-ten.  Instead, I’m a little girl.  I might be four, I think.”   Tears well in her eyes.  “Tell me, what chance does a girl of four have against a man who wants to kill her?”

“Very little, I would judge.” Edmure softly replies.  “I’m sorry.  Maybe I shouldn’t have pressed you to tell me.”

“No.” Rhaenys corrects him.  “Don’t be sorry.  I-I do feel a little better now, as you predicted.”  It is not a lie.   She has never spoken about the dream to anyone else, before.  

It feels freeing.

She turns and wraps her arms around Edmure, kissing him.  This kiss feels different somehow.  It is not as though she hasn’t been vulnerable with Lord Edmure before.  She gave her maidenhood to him.  She will feel a little vulnerable in Riverrun she thinks, until she can gain the respect of Edmure’s household.

But this kiss – it is a comfort.  Of course, Rhaenys has been comforted before.  But the solace of a mother or brother is different from that of a husband.  This- the feeling of his lips against hers- is like being told a secret.  But it’s not a secret designed to hurt.  It’s not one where the longer it is kept hidden from the open, the worse the fallout is.  

Instead, it is like being given something small, fragile.  That is a precious thing, Rhaenys concludes.  It is a precious thing to be given such trust.

IV.

The Eighth Month of the Year 298

“I’ve had a thought,”  Edmure says, as Rhaenys massages his aching shoulders; courtesy of his sparring session.

Rhaenys had enjoyed watching that, very much.

“Oh?”  Rhaenys smirks.  Removing her hands from his shoulders, she cocks her head at him.  “Is that unusual for you, my lord?”

To her husband’s credit, he only grins at her.  Other men like Stannis Baratheon or Tywin Lannister were not so kind to such silly little japes.  

“I was thinking that perhaps we could write to some of our vassals’ families and ask for some girls.  For you, I mean.  I know you’ve brought some from Kingslanding.  But the Riverlands can’t be their home forever, while you- I think it would be good for you.  Not that I don’t think you’re not doing well in your duties so far.”  He adds quickly.

Rhaenys smiles warmly.  “That is a wonderful idea.  We should ask Maester Vyman for his counsel on who to choose.  Three seems a good number, I feel. In time, perhaps we can ask for some wards.  Companions for any younger sons or daughters we may have."

Edmure answers her with a kiss to the neck.   Rhaenys gasps. He has never kissed her there before.   Always on the lips or cheek.

She loves it.

“I hope we have a girl with hair like yours, my lady.”

Somehow, she knows that it will not be a wasteful thing to hope in this marriage.

[onassisrun]

Oct 17: Stolen Moments/ Outsider POV

This is set during the “Duchess of Mandalore” S2E14 episode, right after Golec is killed and Satine is attacked by a Death Watch assassin.

 Humbling is the gap between the idealization of something and reality.

The more the years went by, the less General Kenobi retained the ability to fully enjoy a given moment in time, despite his best intentions. His attention was wholly sucked in by the magnitude and number of his demanding responsibilities, which continuously overlapped. His was a life of a multitasker, of a leadership servant figure who could not afford the luxury of showing anything other than unwavering, punctual solidity. As a result, he had very little time and energy left to himself.

The extra days he had spent with the Duchess Satine had been – despite the ever-present danger – an unexpected delight which filled him with the sort of youthful anticipation that lights the fuse of every man’s life.

Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, these days had also flown by, allowing him no more than mere crumbs of time to process what was happening to and around him and Satine. Events just happened in a frenzy succession, slipping through his fingers like waterfall droplets, making it strenuous to take all in at once, let alone make plans. All the doors he had dared leave open in a corner of his mind were soon bound to be forcibly shut, as the Duchess’ inevitable departure loomed closer.

There was a problem, though. Or a lifesaver, depending on the point of view: the Duchess was – quite characteristically – in danger of meeting an early demise. Between Death Watch, the Republic’s threats and traitors, Jerec’s tragic conundrum and Satine’s impromptu flight across the alleys of Coruscant, there had been no shortage of thrill and cutthroat action in the past few days.

At last, after Obi-Wan beat up the Death Watch assassin in the dark alley – perhaps with a bit more vehemence than would befit a steady Jedi – and after Satine confirmed Jerec’s recording had survived the blast intact, they found themselves rushing along the narrow streets to discreetly reach the Senate Building before it was too late for Mandalore’s neutrality.

Satine’s velvety red cape swung about as she advanced with confident strides, tantalizing the General. His admiration of her was not a mystery, as he had made little effort to curb it in front of her, though never detaching his remarks from a strictly courteous, chivalric style. She, on the other hand, had tried to rein in more of her feelings, as a defense mechanism, but was as burning red inside as her outfit was outside, truthfully.

They advanced without looking back, silently in tune with their circumstances and with each other, like two ballet dancers carrying out a frenzied choreography, aware that the show must go on at all costs.

After a while, the Senate Building appeared in their field of vision. As they got closer and closer, Obi-Wan, who was still hot from the fight, grabbed Satine’s arm, stopping her. She questioningly looked at him from under her hood and was almost taken aback by the transparency in his eyes. That was a part of him that never ceased to amaze her: the extent to which he was capable of communicating with his own two magnetic eyes.

“Satine” he started “are you sure…”

“Yes, Obi-Wan. I feel there’s no other choice but to hand myself in. And you do… too”

She returned his gaze with mirrored intensity and he could do nothing but avert his eyes this time, not wanting to face the possibility that her encounter with the guards could go in any way wrong, given the determination of certain political forces to take her out. In the last couple of days alone, Satine had averted one deadly accident and a resourceful sniper. The woman could never rest.

“I will be fine” she reassured, more to lift him up than to convince herself. “Most importantly, Mandalore will” she added with conviction, in a passionate, almost desperate way.

He studied her. Her unsullied, faithful, at times even naïve yet so conscious idealism radiated pure energy in the Force, drawing him to her without ifs and without buts.

Obi-Wan bit his lip and spoke painfully:

“What’s a knight to do, if not make a Duchess’ wishes come true?”

Before inhibition that comes with realization had a chance to kick in, Obi-Wan pushed himself against her, pressing her against a wall, kissing her with his soft, hungry lips. Satine immediately spread her hands on his face, keeping it close to hers as she grinded her hips against his in an unanticipated, instinctual, savagely libidinous way, admitting to herself and to the Jedi how aroused she was, the combined result of the escalation that had taken place in the last days. The kiss deepened as they grew more desperate, shedding all the layers of suppression they had subjected themselves to over the years, giving free way to a fountain of gushing hormones. Satine couldn’t get enough of his taste in her mouth. A choked sound escaped her throat when she felt him brush against her hip with something as hard as armor. A suffused moan equally escaped his when his hands traveled to her red-fabric-clad ribcage, casually discovering that she wore no brassiere underneath. Being in a dark corner of a street prevented them from going any further, something that would have most likely occurred, on those barely in-control premises, had they been somewhere more private. They kissed like that for a long time. They kissed so much, eating each other up, that their lips felt puffy and sore afterwards, in a good way.

Eventually, when they parted, Satine rested her face against Obi-Wan’s neck for a long moment, inhaling the familiar scent, sinking in the feeling of a restored alliance that had just been further consolidated.

They nodded at each other before going on with their plan.

As Satine handed herself in, Obi-Wan felt a knot form in his stomach, despite his training, despite her knowing smirk, despite the fun they were still incredibly having out of this crazy situation. He rushed into the Senate building, a ball of energy of so many colorful shades.

--

Padmé was tense due to having to report to Palpatine and to a raging Senate for a matter of invasion and neutrality on very short notice, but still, she couldn’t help remarking something surprising about her Jedi friend. Maybe it was the way Obi-Wan had sprawled himself on her pod, half self-assuredly, half dreamily; maybe it was the fact that he had let his guard down in a chamber full of politicians – which he never did, as predictable as he was in his upright composure. Or the spring in his step as he had showed up alone, gingerly handing the recording over to her; or the poetic, subdued way he exhaled when he pronounced the name “Satine” as if he were referring to the secret location of a precious gemstone. Or maybe it was his flushed appearance and glistening eyes. Padme was positive her friend had been positively touched by a magic creature of some sort, by now. She smirked, anticipating their reunion with Anakin – and the soon to be liberated Duchess – that very evening.