IV. Off the Hook
Tsubame once said that Oboro's favorite disguise was that of the milkmaid. Jacke finds he's quite partial to it as well.
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It was a bloody shame, it was, the way that old black marketeer had become one for the crows, but that was the risk of working in the underbelly of society, and nobody in the darkmans was about to shed a tear over it. He had been one of their best, true, but the Dutiful Sisters’ contacts were numerous and vast, and Jacke knew they–like the old man–weren’t all keen to hop the twig and come to Limsa.
When Jacke told The Stray he was going out for some air and to snilch some info from the ports, she just raised an eyebrow at him. She knew his little euphemisms well by now, but Jacke didn’t pay her any mind. Every rogue had their flights of fancy, and with someone he knew to be worthy of his trust was even benar. Besides, he needed to get out of the cloister of the Sisters time and again anyhow, and no one was gonna rook him of that.
The lass he was off to meet in Wineport wasn’t part of the Order, strictly speaking, but in the past few summers she had become one of their most reliable contacts. Slender and fair and a right wallflower, that one. Jacke didn’t mind the occasional bawdy mort what could break him in half if it was her fancy, but this unassuming lass had him in her pull stronger than a siren’s song without even knowing it.
Jacke found her standing primly in the shade of one of the vineyard’s trellised walls, dressed in her usual simple cotton dress and apron and clutching the handle of a milk pail ‘twixt her fingers. Her cropped, dark hair was brushed away from her face, and her eyes were closed. She seemed deep in some kind of peaceful repose, but Jacke was light on his feet as ever and still twenty paces when she opened her eyes and looked directly at him with a small smile.
Jacke lifted his hand in greeting as he approached. “Ye all right, love? One o’ them beasties didn’t scratch ye up too badly on yer way here, did it?”
The maid lifted a hand to touch where, on the left side of her face, a long, thin scar ran down from her forehead to her jaw. She pursed her lips, but Jacke was undeterred as he sauntered over.
“But ‘ells, ye know I like a mort with scars.” He leaned one shoulder on the wall next to her, crossing his arms casually. “Just means she’s got a story or two to tell.”
“You know, Jacke,” Oboro murmured, one of his fingers tapping the handle of the empty pail he held, “for quotidian meetings such as this, we don’t have to employ quite such convoluted methods.”
“Aye,” said Jacke, grinning, “but where’s the fun in that? Ye make a right rum doxy, love, an’ besides, I hear it’s yer favorite spot o’ mummery to play the milkmaid.”
Oboro’s pale cheeks blossomed pink. Jacke’s grin broadened. That little detail may have been let slip by someone in their merry band after a few too many cups of sake during their trip to the Far East, and even now it flustered Oboro to hear it said.
“Jacke, please,” Oboro demurred, as if he really were playing the part of a blushing young maiden with her first love. Jacke knew that, while it served the act well, it was in truth anything but. Aye, they weren’t used to a Limsan’s kind of forwardness in the Far East, and Jacke hoped Oboro never quite acclimated to that particular difference.
“Please what, love? Playin’ the doxy is the only way ye’ll let me off the hook for a kiss in the lightmans, anyhow.”
Oboro tilted his head at that, a small smile returning to his lips. “Wouldn’t you like the information?” His cheeks were still dusted pink, but he had recovered enough to now be teasing in earnest, the bene lad.
“Aye, the information,” Jacke said distractedly, his eyes straying from olive eyes fit for a temptress to an equally tempting mouth. “Ye can whisper it to me, quick-like.”
Jacke leaned in and Oboro leaned up. Oboro’s breath was gentle along Jacke’s ear and nape as he murmured about some unusual dealings passing along the Agelyss River. When Oboro finished and drew back, it wasn’t far, and Jacke was more than happy to take him up on the subtle invitation he’d come to know well.
Jacke settled a hand on Oboro’s hip as he languidly found his way past his lips. Whether playing the mort or not, he found Oboro was a rather reserved sort, favoring Jacke taking the initiative in these sorts of things. That was all right by Jacke, especially once he discovered that in the darkmans, Oboro’s ardor was not at all tempered for his coyness.
And even now, with his endearing, oft-stumbling enthusiasm tucked away from the lightmans, Oboro still sought to subtly give as good as he got. He pressed closer into their kiss, his tongue teasingly swiping Jacke’s. Jacke nipped his bottom lip in return with a chuckle, and between them he could feel Oboro’s fingers wrap even more tightly around the pail’s handle as a shiver trembled through him.
Jacke could drink in those lips until the morrow, so it was with some reluctance that he finally parted from him. Oboro, as usual, opened his eyes second; slowly, as if lost in a pleasant dream. Jacke would never tell a soul, but it always made him preen a bit that a colt what tasted sweeter than any wine in this famous vineyard could be so swept away because of him. Oboro had made him enough of a bloody, lovestruck sot as it was, and some truths–like the precise knowledge of the planes and curves of the man beneath his hands–were too precious to share.
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