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jheti
II: Libertie
He did not slow down. The streets leaned together, reeking of filth. Buildings ground against each other, drooping in the heat, raining plaster and sand when the wind hit them. Baraka hairpinned down an alley, turning so smartly that her head whipped to the side, forced against his chest. These were side-ways she'd never taken, slums she'd never crawled through. Capital was the largest city in Outworld, but she hadn't spent much time there, not since she was old enough to escape to duty posts far away. She understood mainly farming towns and garrisons. The scale and intensity of this new squalor was astonishing.
It rankled that Baraka knew the city--that he was invited more often. As a common officer, he drew more of the Emperor's interest than she did. She was heiress presumptive, his younger daughter by some eight minutes, and his best assassin, celebrity in that accursed arena.
Nothing she did mattered to Shao Kahn. She hadn't even seen him in over a century. She'd almost found her footing in the interim--Jeelintar was no Lei Chen, but it was hers, and as loyal and effective as she could make it. The Shokanni were practically wizards with all manner of stuff that came out of the ground, not just glinty Edenian baubly junk, but water. Spark trained that up clean; her Nomads were dedicated and capable, if entirely uninventive. They'd all gotten a laugh out of selling water back to Capital for a ransom.
She'd assumed her summons were to correct that. She'd prepared with her lone scribe for a month, browbeating the poor girl just past the edge of a nervous breakdown to secure all the right paperwork. All those blasted files. Officials in the city thrived on such things. They could literally afford to wait for them. Mileena had run for more than a week, accursed forms in tow, certain that her only welcome would be the hangman's rope.
No one said anything whatever about them. She got some odd looks from the rabble--she looked and smelled like one of them, but ordered them about. Two silver thi shut up most of them right quick. Madwomen and clerks were standard fixtures in Capital. Perhaps she was slumming.
They had, of course, never heard of Mileena. Or they'd heard and forgotten. The guards at the gate were no better. Wasn't that the princess' sister? Hadn't she died years ago in a training accident? Wait, wait, Kahn got tired of her ugly face and sent her packing.
She killed all but the squad leader. He let her through. She did not stop for anything or anyone else, and kneeled prone on the floor before the great Emperor. She pressed her face to the blessedly cold flagstones and looked humble. Passing out might be taken as an insult, but supporting herself with the floor could be taken for the proper awe and fear.
No, this was not about her work at all. This was about the princess. Kitana needed a babysitter. Her father had, naturally, thought Mileena best for the job. She'd done so well with Jeelintar.
Just like that, he took it away. All of it. She'd worked so hard. She could hear him smiling as he gave the formal edict.
She left deep fingerprints in the floor and focused on coming up with as many words for "illustrious" as she could. Flattery and bile had always tasted the same to her, anyway.
Now she was a nursemaid. Now she was a citizen of Capital, now, now that he fancied her sister needed to be spied upon. He called for Mileena, and she came, and in doing so met this Baraka, this Wasteland monster who seemed to think she would lay slack in his arms and roll over, smitten.
"Let go." She was startled by the venom in her own voice. None of this was his fault.
He almost dropped her. "You're not hurt," he said. Inquiries lost their question marks in a Major's mouth.
"It's faster," she said. He didn't take it as mockery. Perhaps if she'd sounded less desperate.
"In a minute." In a little less than half that she was on her feet again.
It was tough to tell if this...crevice...was indoors or outdoors, a rough-hewn tangle of beams barely wide enough to let them past all the falling-in plaster.
"Poor cover," she said, not caring, breathing deep. "We'll be seen."
"We only do it when you're bored," he said then. She'd never bothered, in Jeelintar, to learn more than a few Wasteland facial expressions; his was blank. That could be lust or murder or nothing, or all three. "Or pissed off, or hungry."
"Refuse me, then." She could play this game; there was nothing courtly to it. She hooked her arms around his waist, sank down against him. This stupid uniform was wonderfully small in the right places. "Tell me no."
He drew a blade and snipped her belt off instead. She was the one with enough patience for drawstring knots. As soon as his were undone, she was on him, scrambling to get his trousers down far enough.
He peeled her loose and held her a bit closer than arm's length, backing her into the wall.
She squalled in outrage. "Will you just--!" Her words were mostly noise, a long tangle of harsh aspirants with some spit at the bottom.
"Get a grip."
Her fingers scraped and clawed uselessly against his. "I'm trying!"
Baraka smirked. "Patience."
And then his face was against hers, scraping. She pushed back, snipped with teeth at whatever she could reach. He growled when she caught his lip and pulled. He hissed and bled and pressed his tongue into her mouth when she relented. He always took more than he gave. She should have cut him for it. She couldn't think that far ahead. Somewhere, there was the sound of linen tearing. He was hers, taste and scent and pressure, and she was never going to give him up. Not for anything. Her vision went red, gold, screaming violet from lack of air; she stole his breath, breathed his curses and pulled back at last.
"Expensive," he managed, the end of whatever sentence she'd swallowed.
His shirt had two large, ragged chunks missing, each about the size of a closed fist. She blushed and forced her fingers open.
"Haven't heard? I'm royal nanny. Bought and paid for, I." She smiled. "Buying you a new one."
He made a low, hungry sound and reached for her. The wall bit into her back as she twined one leg around his, lifting her hips. She thumped her head against the stones in her haste; spangles burst across her vision as their tongues met again. His arm was strong and hot beside her neck, pressing in, holding them both up. She could have supported her own weight, but that would mean letting go--besides, there wasn't room. It was all perfectly justified, she thought. She could always make it up to him later.
Then his other hand had her, and she had him with both hands--back, backside, front, inside--and she thought about nothing else for several minutes.
See? I can so write het.
Bit mystified as to what they'll do for an encore. *Shrug.*
He did not slow down. The streets leaned together, reeking of filth. Buildings ground against each other, drooping in the heat, raining plaster and sand when the wind hit them. Baraka hairpinned down an alley, turning so smartly that her head whipped to the side, forced against his chest. These were side-ways she'd never taken, slums she'd never crawled through. Capital was the largest city in Outworld, but she hadn't spent much time there, not since she was old enough to escape to duty posts far away. She understood mainly farming towns and garrisons. The scale and intensity of this new squalor was astonishing.
It rankled that Baraka knew the city--that he was invited more often. As a common officer, he drew more of the Emperor's interest than she did. She was heiress presumptive, his younger daughter by some eight minutes, and his best assassin, celebrity in that accursed arena.
Nothing she did mattered to Shao Kahn. She hadn't even seen him in over a century. She'd almost found her footing in the interim--Jeelintar was no Lei Chen, but it was hers, and as loyal and effective as she could make it. The Shokanni were practically wizards with all manner of stuff that came out of the ground, not just glinty Edenian baubly junk, but water. Spark trained that up clean; her Nomads were dedicated and capable, if entirely uninventive. They'd all gotten a laugh out of selling water back to Capital for a ransom.
She'd assumed her summons were to correct that. She'd prepared with her lone scribe for a month, browbeating the poor girl just past the edge of a nervous breakdown to secure all the right paperwork. All those blasted files. Officials in the city thrived on such things. They could literally afford to wait for them. Mileena had run for more than a week, accursed forms in tow, certain that her only welcome would be the hangman's rope.
No one said anything whatever about them. She got some odd looks from the rabble--she looked and smelled like one of them, but ordered them about. Two silver thi shut up most of them right quick. Madwomen and clerks were standard fixtures in Capital. Perhaps she was slumming.
They had, of course, never heard of Mileena. Or they'd heard and forgotten. The guards at the gate were no better. Wasn't that the princess' sister? Hadn't she died years ago in a training accident? Wait, wait, Kahn got tired of her ugly face and sent her packing.
She killed all but the squad leader. He let her through. She did not stop for anything or anyone else, and kneeled prone on the floor before the great Emperor. She pressed her face to the blessedly cold flagstones and looked humble. Passing out might be taken as an insult, but supporting herself with the floor could be taken for the proper awe and fear.
No, this was not about her work at all. This was about the princess. Kitana needed a babysitter. Her father had, naturally, thought Mileena best for the job. She'd done so well with Jeelintar.
Just like that, he took it away. All of it. She'd worked so hard. She could hear him smiling as he gave the formal edict.
She left deep fingerprints in the floor and focused on coming up with as many words for "illustrious" as she could. Flattery and bile had always tasted the same to her, anyway.
Now she was a nursemaid. Now she was a citizen of Capital, now, now that he fancied her sister needed to be spied upon. He called for Mileena, and she came, and in doing so met this Baraka, this Wasteland monster who seemed to think she would lay slack in his arms and roll over, smitten.
"Let go." She was startled by the venom in her own voice. None of this was his fault.
He almost dropped her. "You're not hurt," he said. Inquiries lost their question marks in a Major's mouth.
"It's faster," she said. He didn't take it as mockery. Perhaps if she'd sounded less desperate.
"In a minute." In a little less than half that she was on her feet again.
It was tough to tell if this...crevice...was indoors or outdoors, a rough-hewn tangle of beams barely wide enough to let them past all the falling-in plaster.
"Poor cover," she said, not caring, breathing deep. "We'll be seen."
"We only do it when you're bored," he said then. She'd never bothered, in Jeelintar, to learn more than a few Wasteland facial expressions; his was blank. That could be lust or murder or nothing, or all three. "Or pissed off, or hungry."
"Refuse me, then." She could play this game; there was nothing courtly to it. She hooked her arms around his waist, sank down against him. This stupid uniform was wonderfully small in the right places. "Tell me no."
He drew a blade and snipped her belt off instead. She was the one with enough patience for drawstring knots. As soon as his were undone, she was on him, scrambling to get his trousers down far enough.
He peeled her loose and held her a bit closer than arm's length, backing her into the wall.
She squalled in outrage. "Will you just--!" Her words were mostly noise, a long tangle of harsh aspirants with some spit at the bottom.
"Get a grip."
Her fingers scraped and clawed uselessly against his. "I'm trying!"
Baraka smirked. "Patience."
And then his face was against hers, scraping. She pushed back, snipped with teeth at whatever she could reach. He growled when she caught his lip and pulled. He hissed and bled and pressed his tongue into her mouth when she relented. He always took more than he gave. She should have cut him for it. She couldn't think that far ahead. Somewhere, there was the sound of linen tearing. He was hers, taste and scent and pressure, and she was never going to give him up. Not for anything. Her vision went red, gold, screaming violet from lack of air; she stole his breath, breathed his curses and pulled back at last.
"Expensive," he managed, the end of whatever sentence she'd swallowed.
His shirt had two large, ragged chunks missing, each about the size of a closed fist. She blushed and forced her fingers open.
"Haven't heard? I'm royal nanny. Bought and paid for, I." She smiled. "Buying you a new one."
He made a low, hungry sound and reached for her. The wall bit into her back as she twined one leg around his, lifting her hips. She thumped her head against the stones in her haste; spangles burst across her vision as their tongues met again. His arm was strong and hot beside her neck, pressing in, holding them both up. She could have supported her own weight, but that would mean letting go--besides, there wasn't room. It was all perfectly justified, she thought. She could always make it up to him later.
Then his other hand had her, and she had him with both hands--back, backside, front, inside--and she thought about nothing else for several minutes.
See? I can so write het.
Bit mystified as to what they'll do for an encore. *Shrug.*
